She does

His hand closed over her breast—warm, firm, maddeningly slow.

Emily shut her eyes.

She didn’t want to see his expression. Didn’t want to watch the satisfaction on his face, the gloating. Didn’t want to give him the pleasure of knowing what this was doing to her. Not just the embarrassment. Not just the compromise.

But the feeling.

That was the real danger.

Because the moment her eyes closed, her world narrowed to sensation. The silence in the room. Her own breath, shallow. The cool air against her skin. And Martin’s hand—cupping her breast like it belonged to him.

He didn’t grope. He didn’t squeeze like some frat boy with no idea what he was touching.

No—he cradled it. Heavy in his palm, warm against his fingers. His thumb brushed slowly over her nipple, soft, so soft, and she jerked slightly at the contact. A pulse of heat bloomed low in her belly, involuntary and instant. Her thighs pressed together.

God, it had been so long.

Fourteen months. Pregnancy, recovery, exhaustion. Breastfeeding and hormones and sleep deprivation. Jason had all but stopped touching her halfway through the third trimester. He still kissed her forehead. Still said “love you” out of habit.

But not this.

No one had touched her like this in over a year.

And her body—traitorous, restless, awake again—was screaming in response.

Martin circled his thumb again, slower this time, brushing it across her nipple until it tightened even more, achingly stiff. Her lips parted on a breath she couldn’t control.

He heard it.

“You like that,” he murmured. Not a question.

Her eyes stayed shut. Her hands clenched at her sides.

He leaned in. Close. Closer than he had any right to. His lips brushed her ear.

“You need this, don’t you?”

His other hand rose—traced the slope of her waist, the soft curve of her postpartum belly, then slid back up to cup her other breast. Both hands now, full and encompassing, massaging gently as if he were working tension from her shoulders. But he was working something else loose. Something buried deep and hot and dangerous.

Martin wasn’t handsome. He stood maybe six feet tall, just above her even in heels, with the kind of thickening middle that came from years of half-finished gym memberships and full lunches at his desk. His dress shirt clung a little too tightly over his belly now, bunched at the waist where his belt sat a notch deeper than it should’ve. Mid-40s, easily. His hair was slicked back with too much product, and it didn’t even try to hide the growing bald spot that shone when he stepped beneath the overhead light.

None of it made him threatening.

But here, like this—hands on her, mouth close, control absolute—he didn’t need charm.

She gasped when he pinched—just lightly—then rolled one nipple between his fingers. Her knees nearly buckled.

It felt good. Too good.

She hated that.

She hated how much.

But she didn’t stop him.