Trying To Resist

Marie’s pulse was racing so fast she thought she might actually pass out.

The bartender’s hand settled on her hip — firm, possessive. His other hand slid slowly between her thighs.

“No.”

The word barely left her lips. No one could’ve heard it.

She hadn’t meant it for anyone else.

Marie sucked in a sharp breath.

One finger brushed against her hidden area. Then another. He spread the wetness he found there like confirmation of her surrender.

Her eyes fell shut.

Part of her desperately wanted this to be unreal.

But it was happening.

Here.

In public.

With witnesses all around them.

Part of her hated it.

Another part — the larger part — stopped trying to resist him at all.

What remained of her rational mind watched in stunned disbelief as her body didn’t merely accept what was happening.

It responded to it.

Hungrily.

The bartender noticed immediately. His touch grew more confident, more practiced, like he already knew exactly how women reacted once they stopped fighting themselves.

His fingers found their way effortlessly through the heat between her legs.

Her body had betrayed her long before her mouth ever could.

A sound escaped her throat — louder than she intended.

Too loud.

The wet heat between her thighs made the idea of resistance feel almost absurd now.

And humiliation crashed over her at the exact same moment.

Because by now everyone in the rooftop bar had to know what was happening.

And worse:

They had to know she liked it.

“Steve…”

His name slipped out between shaky breaths.

And Marie honestly didn’t know whether she wanted him to stop this—

—or whether she wished he was the one touching her instead.