Definitely both.
Say something, Briana. Literally anything that isn’t juststanding here like a malfunctioning android while a devastatingly attractive man holds your hand in his private lounge.
“I should—” I start, then remember my original mission with sudden, bladder-related urgency. “Actually, could you please tell me where the bathroom is?”
“There’s actually one through that door.” He nods toward the panel I’d assaulted with the stolen badge. “Staff access only, but I think we can make an exception for you.”
I notice he hasn’t let go of my hand yet.
Neither have I.
Finally he releases me, and reaches past, close enough that I catch another hit of his cologne. He presses his own badge into the panel and the door clicks open.
“Thank you,” I breathe, already side-stepping toward salvation. “And again, I’m really sorry for disturbing you.”
“Don’t be,” he replies.
I flee into the bathroom before I can do something truly stupid like ask for his number.
The “staff bathroom” is, predictably, nicer than my entire apartment. Marble everything, lighting that makes me look like a functional human being instead of an anxiety-riddled mess, and, most important of all,privacy.
I rush to one of the stalls, because of course there are multiple stalls in the staff bathroom of a private lounge, because rich people can’t just have one toilet like normal staff bathrooms.
Did I mention that the dress is fitted? Beautifully fitted, actually, which was the whole point when I borrowed it from Sora.
But that translates directly into “architectural nightmare” when you’re trying to hike it up without wrinkling it.
I manage it eventually, through a series of increasingly undignified contortions, andfinallyget to address the urgent demands of my bladder.
Sweet relief.
Except.
When I’m cleaning up, I’m confronted with the absolutely mortifying realization that my pussy is wet.
Not just a little wet.
But embarrassingly, obviously, “what is wrong with you” levels of wet.
From a handshake. From standing too close to a stranger. From the way he looked at me like he was cataloging every single thing about my face and filing it away for later.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I mutter to the empty stall. First the bladder crisis, now this. My vagina already has opinions about a man I barely know, and those opinions are extremely enthusiastic and highly inappropriate.
I take an extra moment, and approximately half roll of toilet paper, to get myself together.
When I finally head back to the sink, I carefully smooth my dress back into place and pray that he won’t somehow be able to tell what just happened. Because of course, he’ll probably still be out there in the private lounge.
I take my time, splashing cold water on my wrists and giving myself a stern talking-to in the mirror. “He’s probably married. Or engaged. Or has a girlfriend who looks like she was genetically engineered in a lab. Also, you just met him. Also—”
Also, when I finally emerge, he’s still there.
Leaning against the far wall like he’s been waiting,his whiskey glass dangling from long fingers, his attention locked on me with an intensity that makes my panties even wetter.
Stop!
“I was starting to think you’d climbed out a window,” he says.
“No windows.” I clutch my purse to my chest like a shield, which is probably not helping my case for appearing normal and well-adjusted. “Just... well you know. We ladies need time in the bathroom. Sugar and spice and everything nice, right?”
