Interrupted

Bang bang bang.

The door rattled behind them.

Emily flinched, a gasp catching in her throat—but his arm tightened around her midsection instantly, firm and immovable. He hadn’t touched her that way yet—not there—but her jeans were already unbuttoned. She didn’t remember when. Somewhere between the grind of his hips and the pressure of his body, he’d undone them.

And now—swift, practiced—his fingers hooked into her waistband and yanked.

The denim slid down her thighs in one rough motion, catching on her knees before dropping around her ankles. She jerked instinctively, trying to pull away, but the closet gave her no space. His chest pressed into her back harder now. She was exposed from the waist down, panties damp and visible in the dim light spilling under the door.

Then—before she could grab her shirt—his hand found the hem of her tanktop.

“No—” she breathed.

He yanked it up, fast, over her breasts, over her shoulders. The cotton clung for a second at her neckline, and then it was off entirely—ripped up and over, the fabric tugged away and discarded somewhere behind them.

Now she was nearly naked.

Pressed against the drywall in nothing but her panties and socks. Her breasts bare, nipples peaked from cold and fear. Her jeans tangled around her ankles, body caught between panic and paralysis.

The door handle jiggled again.

A voice slurred just outside: “Closet’s jammed again?”

He leaned in fast, breath hot against her cheek.

She could feel the bulge in his jeans pressing against her ass. Could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. Could feel—more than anything—that she was utterly exposed now. **** in a way that couldn’t be hidden.

His mouth brushed her ear as his hand covered her mouth.

“You’re gonna stay real quiet,” he whispered, dark and low. “Unless you want everyone to see you like this.”

And before she could answer, before she could think—his hand slid into her panties and between her thighs.

Emily trembled.

The voices faded slightly—either walking off, distracted, or waiting to try again.

The handle jiggled once more… then stopped.

The sound of footsteps retreating.

Silence.

His hand didn’t move. Neither did hers.

Her heart was galloping.

Finally, after a full minute—long enough that the air grew still and stale again—he removed his palm slowly. Wet with her breath. Shaking slightly.

“You’re good,” he murmured. “Did real good.”

His fingers—still in her panties—twitched again, a warning.

He hadn’t pulled them out.