The longer he looked, the dirtier she felt. Like he was peeling her layer by layer without touching her—stripping away the armor of fabric, decency, and personal space until her skin itched with exposure.
"That's a lovely sweater," he said, voice honey-slick and twice as toxic. His eyes lingered on her chest. "The color really brings out your eyes. You're becoming such a beautiful young woman, Emma.
"Have I mentioned that before?"
If he had, she'd done herself the kindness of forgetting. She pressed harder against the door, wishing she could just melt into the wood grain and slide out into the hallway like spilled water.
"Now then…" Trent pushed away from the desk with deliberate slowness, each movement rehearsed to the millimeter. "Why don't you come sit in this chair so we can have a proper conversation?"
