Yes

"Yes."

The soft whispered word was loud in Emily's head.

His lips brushed hers.

Barely a touch at first—soft, uncertain, breath warm against her cheek. Hesitant… but hungry.

And she gave in.

There was no space for thinking. No time for second-guessing. The chant outside the closet had faded into a blur behind the pounding in her ears. She leaned in and kissed him—sloppy, hot, needy—her lips parting as if they’d been waiting for this.

Not him. Not a stranger.

But this moment. This heat. This need.

She moaned the second their mouths met fully, her tongue sliding against his. His kiss was rougher than she expected—urgent, fast, like he was starving. Like he was afraid it would be taken away.

Her hands found his shoulders, then slid up around his neck, fingers knotting in the sweaty hair at the base of his scalp. He pressed closer—so close their hips met, the thin stretch of denim between them suddenly unbearable.

Then his hands moved.

Up her sides. Under her shirt.

The warmth of his palms on her skin made her shudder.

She felt it the moment he found her tits—cupping them firmly, filling both hands, his thumbs dragging slowly over her nipples. She moaned into his mouth again, louder this time, hips twitching forward. Her nipples stiffened at the touch, painfully sensitive, her breasts so full they ached.

He felt that too.

His thumbs circled and circled—then brushed harder, flicked.

This time the moan wasn't muffled by his mouth as he was sucking at her neck and it echoed inside the small closet.

Outside, the crowd must’ve heard her—because they roared.

“WOOOOOOO!”

Someone whistled. Someone banged the wall.

Inside: silence broken only by wet mouths and breath and the frantic shuffle of clothing.

He broke the kiss only long enough to yank her tanktop up—hot fingers curling into the hem and pulling fast. She raised her arms automatically. The fabric peeled off her skin and vanished behind him, leaving her bare from the waist up, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.

He groaned.

It was a sound she felt, not just heard. A deep, primal growl from his throat, pressed to hers.

Then his mouth was on her breasts.

First a kiss. Then a lick.

Then his lips closed around one nipple and sucked—wet, greedy, tongue flicking, mouth working her like he knew exactly what she needed.

Her head hit the closet wall behind her.

She gasped. Again.

Again.

And he kissed lower. Hands sliding down, palms grazing her belly, fingers fumbling at her button fly.

He popped it open without asking.

Zipped her jeans down.

His hands slid inside—hot against her hips, tugging the denim down.

She squirmed to help, legs lifting one at a time, shoes kicking weakly as the jeans bunched at her ankles. His hands were back on her—gripping her ass, squeezing her through her soaked panties.

“Fuck…” he whispered into her breast. “You’re wet.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because she was.

Her panties clung to her slit, soaked through, the heat between her thighs radiating like a pulse.

And he felt it.

His hands roamed her ass, her hips, her back, her tits again—everywhere at once. Greedy. Worshipful. Hungry.

Emily moaned again—helpless this time, thighs already trembling.

She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck and kissed him again, messier than before, lips parted, tongue deep.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t stopping now.