Run in with Eric

Emily power-walked down the hallway, blouse clinging to her like it was painted on, water still dripping faintly from the hem. Her nipples chafed with every step, stiff from cold, fully visible under the wet cotton. She kept her head high, pace quick. If she moved fast enough, maybe no one would—

She rounded the corner near the elevators and smacked right into someone.

Papers hit the floor.

So did her breath.

“Whoa—Emily, hey—” came the voice, steadying her by the arms. Strong hands, familiar scent. “I—shit, I didn’t see you—”

She looked up.

Eric.

Of course it was him.

His gaze dropped, froze, then snapped back up to her face, jaw tightening like he’d just touched a live wire.

Her blouse had gone completely transparent. The soaked fabric outlined every curve of her breasts in wet, clinging detail. Her nipples were stiff, dark and clearly visible, their color bleeding through the cotton like ink on tissue paper.

She felt the heat explode across her face. “Shit, sorry—I, um—” She stepped back, trying to cross her arms without making it worse.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Eric said quickly, already crouching to gather his papers. “Are you—Jesus, are you soaked?”

“Taco truck accident,” she mumbled, breathless. “Long story.”

He stood again, scanning her face, still very obviously trying not to look down again. “You can’t go anywhere like that.”

“I don’t have a choice. I’m already late—”

“Come with me.”

He didn’t ask. He just turned, opened the door to his office, and gestured her inside.

She followed without thinking, too rattled to argue, her wet shirt plastering itself tighter with every movement. Her skin was flushed, her chest tingling from nerves and cold and… something else she wasn’t naming right now.

Eric moved to a cabinet in the corner and opened a drawer. “I’ve got backup gym stuff. Shirt should fit—it’s from the company retreat. Sorry if it smells like laundry detergent and regret.”

She half-laughed, half-shivered. “I’ll take it.”

He turned around with the folded T-shirt in hand—then blinked as she was already unbuttoning her blouse.

Emily hadn’t paused to think. She was too used to changing in front of mirrors, in pumping rooms, in hospital gowns. She peeled the shirt off quickly, nipples stiff in the air, her full breasts soft and shining with leftover moisture.

She realized too late that Eric had gone dead silent.

Her head snapped up.

He was frozen. Eyes locked on her chest. Mouth slightly open.

Her shirt hung from her fingers. The clean one was still in his hand.

“I—I didn’t mean—” she started.

Eric blinked fast, then held the T-shirt out like a peace offering. “No, it’s—I should’ve—yeah. Here.”

She grabbed it, slipped it on—soft, oversized, warm from being stored under other clothes. It hung low over her hips, loose enough to hide everything. Her skin still burned underneath it.

She buttoned the top of her blouse over her bag and shoved everything in. Then looked at him.

“Thanks,” she said.

And before she could stop herself, she leaned up, kissed him on the cheek—quick, warm, impulsive.

Except her lips landed just wrong.

The corner of his mouth.

They both froze.

“I—I should go,” she muttered, cheeks flaming.

“Yeah,” Eric said, voice lower and husky. “You… should.”

She turned and fled before she could say anything else, heart racing, thighs warm, nipples still tingling under the soft cotton of the borrowed shirt.