"Let's have sex."
The words hung in the air between us, and I could only stare at her with my mouth hanging open. This couldn't be real. This had to be some fever dream brought on by the infection, or maybe I'd hit my head harder than I thought during our escape.
But then Emily stood up. She shrugged off her navy blazer, letting it fall carelessly to the floor of the supply closet. The simple act seemed to transform her—gone was the crying, vulnerable girl from moments before, replaced by someone determined to take control of what might be her final hour.
Her white school shirt was damp with perspiration, clinging to her skin in a way that made my breath catch. I could see the outline of her pink bra through the thin fabric, and I had to remind myself to breathe. She reached up and loosened her tie, pulling it over her head and tossing it aside without ceremony.
I swallowed hard, the sound audible in the cramped space.
This was really happening. Emily Johnson—the Emily Johnson—was standing in front of me, preparing to...
"Do you want to or not?" She asked again. There was a flush in her cheeks, but her eyes held mine with determination.
"I—I mean, yeah..." I managed to nod, my voice cracking slightly.
"Then let's hurry up," she said, her fingers already working at the buttons of her shirt. "We might not have much time left."
The reminder of our situation sent a chill through me, but I couldn't look away as she methodically undid each button. I fumbled with my own blazer, shrugging it off and letting it join hers on the floor. My hands trembled as I reached for the buttons of my shirt, but I paused, transfixed by the sight before me.
Emily had finished with her shirt and was pulling it off, revealing her torso clad only in that pink bra I'd glimpsed through the fabric. She tossed the shirt aside without a second glance, and I felt my breath leave my lungs entirely.
She was absolutely breathtaking.
I'd seen her in the hallways, in class, at school events, but nothing had prepared me for this. Her body was perfectly proportioned—slim but with gentle curves in all the right places. She clearly took care of herself, probably spent hours at the gym or doing whatever it was that popular girls did to maintain their figures. Her skin was smooth and pale, with just a hint of tan lines from what must have been a recent vacation.
When my gaze fell to her cleavage, visible above the lace edge of her bra, I felt the world tilt slightly. My head spun, whether from the infection starting to take hold or simply from the overwhelming reality of the situation.
Emily must have noticed my hesitation—or maybe she was just tired of waiting. She stepped closer. Without a word, she reached out and gently moved my hands away from my shirt, her fingers replacing mine on the buttons.
The proximity was intoxicating. She was close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, could smell her perfume—something floral and expensive—mixed with the scent of her sweat from our desperate flight through the school. It should have been unpleasant, but instead it created an intoxicating combination that made my head spin even more.
She was nearly a head shorter than me, which meant that as she worked on my buttons, her breasts were just inches from my chest. I could see the rise and fall of her breathing, could feel her exhale against my collarbone. My hands hung uselessly at my sides, unsure of where to go or what to do.
When she finished with the last button, she looked up at me, her green eyes meeting mine.
"Remove it," she said softly.
I shrugged out of my shirt, letting it fall to join the growing pile of clothing on the floor. The cool air of the supply closet hit my bare chest, raising goosebumps along my arms.
Before I could say anything, before I could even process what was happening, Emily rose up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to mine.
My eyes flew wide open in shock. I'd imagined what it might be like to kiss Emily Johnson countless times, usually late at night when I couldn't sleep, but nothing in my imagination had prepared me for the reality.
Her lips were impossibly soft, warm and slightly damp. They moved against mine with gentleness. I could taste her lip gloss—something fruity, maybe strawberry—and feel the slight tremor in her breathing.
Her hands came up to rest on my chest, her palms warm against my skin. The touch sent electricity through my entire body, and I felt my knees begin to wobble. Without thinking, I took a step backward, my shoulders hitting the supply closet door.
Emily didn't break the kiss. Instead, she followed me, pressing closer as we sank down together, her body fitting against mine as we slid to the floor. The cold door was a shock against my back, but I barely noticed it over the sensation of Emily's lips moving against mine, more insistent now.
This was utterly amazing. Better than any fantasy I'd ever had, more intense than anything I'd ever experienced. My mind was growing foggy—whether from the infection, the situation, or simply from the overwhelming sensory experience of kissing Emily Johnson, I couldn't tell.
I could smell her warm breath, feel the softness of her hair as it fell around us like a curtain, blocking out the harsh fluorescent light of the supply closet. For a moment, I almost forgot where we were, forgot about the bites on our arms, forgot about the chaos outside.
Emily shifted her position, settling on her knees beside me as we continued to kiss. The cold ground beneath us was forgotten, the cramped space of the supply closet irrelevant. All that mattered was the warmth of her body pressed against mine, the gentle rhythm of her breathing, the way her lips moved against mine with increasing confidence.
I reached out hesitantly, my hands finding her waist where her skirt sat. The fabric was soft beneath my fingers, but I found myself hesitating to go further, to touch her bare skin. This was all so new, so overwhelming. Part of me couldn't believe this was really happening.
The kiss remained largely one-sided, with Emily taking the lead. She was the one exploring, tasting, setting the pace. I felt clumsy and inexperienced in comparison, unsure of what to do with my hands or how to respond to her gentle movements.
Fuck it, I thought suddenly. Man up, Ryan. This might be the only chance you ever get.
I slid my hands up from her waist to her back, my palms spreading across the warm expanse of her bare skin. She was so soft, so perfectly smooth except for the thin line of her bra strap. Emily shivered slightly at my touch, a small intake of breath that made me freeze for a moment, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she continued her slow kiss, encouraging me with the gentle pressure of her lips.
Emboldened, I began to kiss her back properly, no longer content to be passive. My lips moved against hers with growing confidence, learning her rhythm, discovering what made her breath catch. It was awkward at first—I was clearly inexperienced compared to her—but she was patient, guiding me with subtle movements and soft sounds of approval.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing heavily, our faces flushed and warm. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears, and I felt dizzy from the intensity of it all. Just that simple act of kissing had left me feeling drained, as if I'd run a marathon.
But I wanted more. The taste of her lips, the feeling of her skin against mine—it was addictive. Before she could say anything, I leaned in and kissed her again, taking her by surprise this time. She made a small sound of surprise that quickly melted into approval.
This time, I didn't stop at her lips. I let my mouth trail down to her chin, pressing gentle kisses along her jawline.
"Mmm..." Emily let out a quiet, breathless sound that sent fire racing through my veins. The soft moan was like nothing I'd ever heard, intimate and vulnerable in a way that made my pulse quicken even more.
Encouraged by her reaction, I moved lower, pressing kisses along the column of her throat. Emily's hands came up to rest on my shoulders, then slid to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair. The gentle pressure of her touch told me she wanted me to continue, to explore whatever this was between us.
I traced a path of kisses down her neck, marveling at how soft her skin was, how she smelled like flowers and vanilla despite everything we'd been through. When I reached the delicate curve where her neck met her shoulder, she shivered again, her grip on my hair tightening slightly.
Growing bolder, I let my lips travel lower, following the graceful line of her collarbone. Emily's breathing grew more uneven, and I could feel her pulse racing beneath my lips. The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming—here was this beautiful, popular girl who had barely known my name this morning, and now she was in my arms, responding to my touch.
When I reached the soft swell of her cleavage, I let my lips linger. Warm skin brushed mine, and I kissed the center of her chest, breathing her in—skin sweet with perfume and adrenaline, the faint edge of sweat beneath silk. But the lace of her bra teased against my mouth.
I looked up. In the dim glow of the supply closet, her face was flushed. Her lips were parted, breath coming soft and shallow. She looked at me like I was something she'd finally decided to touch.
Then—without a word—she stood.
The sudden absence of her warmth sent a shock up my arms. Her back had been under my hands, and now it wasn't. What? No, no. It couldn't be over. Not now, not after she'd let me get that close, let me taste her like that.
But she didn't leave. She didn't speak.
She kicked off one shoe, then the other, the quiet thumps barely audible over the roar of my heartbeat. Her hands slid under her skirt, fingers grazing her thighs, and I froze as I realized—she wasn't stopping. She was preparing.
She pulled her black tights down slowly, starting with her right leg. The elastic caught on her knee, then released. Her skin emerged, pale and smooth and soft-looking even in the low light, like fine cream poured over glass. She leaned her weight to one side to work it off her ankle, toes curling slightly. Then came the left—inch by inch, her bare skin unveiled itself like a forbidden portrait uncovered in secret.
I swallowed, hard. I'd never known legs could do that to a man. I'd seen beauty before, seen fantasy walk past in heels, but this—Emily Johnson undressing three feet from me in a fucking supply closet—this was some cruel fever dream made of silk and satin and wet heat.
Her toes were painted soft pink. I stared. Couldn't help it. Even her feet were beautiful—dainty, but strong-looking, nails perfect, arches high and elegant. She'd always seemed so unreachable, high-heeled and perfect in staff meetings—but now she was barefoot, half-undressed, in this cramped forgotten space with me, and still untouchable even as she exposed herself.
"How long are you going to stare at my feet?" She asked.
I blinked. "Ah. Sorry." My voice cracked a little. I dragged my eyes up from her toes, face burning. She looked amused, like she'd regained control of the moment with just a single phrase. And maybe she had.
There she was again—Emily Johnson. Then she lifted her arms, slowly, and brushed her hair all to one side, baring the curve of her neck and the top of her spine. She turned slightly, one hand reached behind her back.
Her fingers sought the clasp of her bra.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
She undid it with a flick.
The bra loosened, straps falling an inch from her shoulders. She let it slide down her arms, not hurried. The lace caught for a moment at her elbows—then it fell.