Yes

Emily stood frozen for a breath, her pulse pounding in her ears.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask why. She already knew.

Her fingers reached for the hem of her shirt. Slowly.

He said nothing. Just stood there—watching her. Consuming her.

She hesitated at the hem, cotton stretched over her hips. Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t stop. She pulled the shirt up, inch by inch, the cool air brushing over her belly, then the underside of her breasts.

Her nipples caught slightly on the fabric as it passed. The motion teased them into full stiffness—tight buds poking out into the air as she pulled the shirt over her head and let it drop to the floor.

Her arms stayed crossed under her breasts for a moment, instinctively covering herself.

He didn’t move. But his eyes… they darkened.

She dropped her arms.

Her breasts were full, sensitive, still faintly flushed from the drive. She hadn’t realized how heavy they’d become until now—how the ache of being unbound added to her shame, her arousal. Her nipples stood hard and flushed pink, begging for attention.

She reached behind her and unzipped her skirt. The sound was barely audible, but it cut the silence like a blade.

The soft fabric slithered down her hips.

She let it fall to the floor, stepping out carefully, bare feet against cool tile. She was left in just her panties—thin, pale blue, already damp between her thighs. The fabric clung.

He stared.

Her skin prickled with goosebumps. The hum between her legs was insistent now, louder than guilt. Louder than fear.

Still, he didn’t move.

“You're halfway,” he said quietly.

She swallowed.

Her thumbs hooked the waistband.

She paused.