He keeps going

His fingers didn’t retreat.

They flexed. Then pushed forward.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just steady. Deliberate.

They slid beneath her waistband, knuckles dragging over the warmth of her skin, until the curve of her lower belly pressed against his palm.

Emily inhaled sharply.

This time she spoke—“Stop—”—but it came out too quiet, too late, her breath catching on the word even as it passed her lips. She couldn’t summon the sharp edge. Couldn’t find the **** in her voice. Her arms were still folded tight, frozen across her chest like armor that didn’t work.

He heard her. She knew he did.

But he didn’t stop.

His mouth was right by her ear now. His lips didn’t touch her, but the heat of his breath made her skin prickle.

“I don’t think you want me to,” he murmured.

And his hand moved again.

Fingers dipped lower, mapping skin with a softness that somehow felt worse than a grab. He was slow, purposeful, exploring her body like it belonged to him already. Her jeans were snug—he had to wedge his knuckles deeper to slip lower—and that tightness stretched across her hips, making every movement unmistakable. He wasn’t fumbling anymore. He was feeling her. Knowing her.

Emily’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

The air was too thick. The closet walls too close. His body behind hers had sealed her in completely, one arm still braced against the shelving for balance, the other invading inch by inch.

She could feel him now—hard against her ass, through his jeans. There was no ignoring it.

And no mistaking it.

He was turned on. Fully. Completely. Her frozen posture, her soft warning—none of it had stopped him. If anything, they’d encouraged him.

His voice was a whisper now, damp against her ear. “You’re not telling me to stop.”

“I said—”

“You said it, yeah. But then you just stood here.”

His palm pressed flat now, flush against her skin. His thumb dragged up toward her navel. His other fingers curled inward—

“Please don’t,” she whispered. Barely.

But his hand was already moving again. Lower. Pressing. Squeezing softly.

Emily shut her eyes.

The bass outside rattled the drywall. A crash of laughter, someone shouting from down the hall. All of it so loud. And none of it reached in here.

He breathed deep through his nose.

Then his hips shifted forward, barely a grind, but enough to feel the weight of him behind her fully.

Oh god.

His voice rasped, thick and soaked in hunger. “You feel fucking amazing.”

She tried to move then—to twist, to sidestep—but there was nowhere to go. The shelf dug into her right hip. His body blocked her left. The back wall was inches from her nose. And his hand… his hand was already past her waistband now, dipping beneath the edge of her panties, skin to skin.

She flinched.

That did it.

His other hand dropped from the shelving, wrapping around her waist now, anchoring her in place. Still not rough. Still not violent. But stronger now. Sure.

He didn’t need to fight her.

She wasn’t fighting.

She was just… frozen.

Paralyzed.

And now he had her.

His fingers slipped between her thighs, and everything after that was heat and pressure and her breath hissing through clenched teeth—

—and no one heard a thing.