Chapter 2

His hand didn't pull away. Instead, it slid higher, fingers tracing the edge of my shorts where they had already ridden up almost completely.

"These are practically nothing," Mr. Bennett murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "Must be one of those ultra-realistic models."

I felt a tug at my waistband. The loose fabric gave immediately, sliding down over my hips with barely any resistance.

Cool air kissed my skin. All that separated me from complete exposure now was a thin layer of cotton.

"Unbelievable," he breathed. "The detail work on these things now… it's incredible."

His palm pressed flat against the back of my thigh, warm and slightly rough. The touch sent a jolt through me, and I had to fight every instinct not to flinch, not to make a sound.

This can't be happening. This can't be real.

But it was. His hand moved in slow, exploratory strokes, as if he were examining a piece of fine art. My face burned inside the drum, shame flooding through me in waves. And yet, underneath it all, something else stirred. Something I didn't want to name.

I squeezed my eyes shut and bit down on the inside of my cheek. Just stay quiet. Just hold still. He'll leave. He has to leave.

"Even the skin texture," he continued, his voice low and fascinated. "It's warm. Soft. Almost like…"

His fingers trailed higher, brushing against the lace edge of my underwear.

My breath hitched, but I swallowed it down, forcing myself to stay silent. The enclosed space of the drum made every sound feel amplified, every shift of fabric deafening.

Then I felt it. Something warm and wet pressed against the inside of my thigh, just above my knee. My mind went blank for a moment before the horrifying realization hit me.

His mouth!?

Oh God! Oh God! no!!!

A thousand thoughts crashed through my head at once. I should scream. I should say something, anything, to make him stop. But the words caught in my throat, tangled up with terror and humiliation and something darker that I refused to acknowledge.

If he found out now, after this, I could never face him again. Not in class. Not in the hallways. Not anywhere. The thought of walking into his classroom and meeting his eyes after he'd had his hands on me, his mouth on me—

I couldn't. I just couldn't.

"This is remarkable craftsmanship," he said, his voice thick now, distracted. His hands roamed freely, tracing the curve of my hips, the slope of my lower back. "I'll have to ask Olivia where she sources these. Maybe I could get one myself."

The casual tone of his words made everything worse. He really thought I was an object. A thing. And I was letting him believe it because the alternative was unbearable.

His thumb hooked into the waistband of my underwear.

No. No, no, no.

But I didn't move. I didn't speak. I just stayed frozen, my heart slamming against my ribs as he slowly pulled the fabric down.

The air in the drum felt suffocating now. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. All I could do was feel—the exposure, the vulnerability, the terrible heat pooling low in my stomach despite everything.

"God," he whispered, and there was something almost reverent in his voice now. "This is…"

His hands cupped me, fingers spreading across bare skin, and I trembled. I couldn't help it. My body betrayed me, shaking under his touch.

"It even responds," he said, wonder threading through his words. "The technology these days…"

I wanted to die. I wanted to sink into the machine and disappear forever.

His breath was hot against me now, closer than before, and I felt his fingers trace a slow, deliberate line along the most sensitive part of me. A gasp nearly escaped my throat, but I choked it back, biting down so hard I tasted copper.

This was wrong. This was SO wrong.

But my body didn't seem to care. Every nerve ending was alight, hypersensitive, responding to his touch in ways I'd never felt before. Not even with Jake, my ex, during those fumbling attempts in the back of his car that never went anywhere.

This was different. This was...

"Wait," Mr. Bennett said suddenly, his voice shifting. "These legs… they remind me of someone."

My blood turned to ice.

"Hailey Brooks," he murmured, almost to himself. "She has legs like this. Beautiful legs."

The words hit me like a freight train. He'd noticed me. At school. He'd been looking at me.

I didn't know whether to feel flattered or horrified. Maybe both. My thoughts spun in chaotic circles, shame and something dangerously close to excitement warring inside me.

His hands continued their exploration, bolder now, and I felt myself coming apart at the seams. Every touch sent sparks through me, and I hated how good it felt, hated how my body arched into his hands without my permission.

Then I heard the sound of a zipper.

My heart stopped.

A moment later, something hard and burning hot pressed against me, right at my most intimate area.