At first, I thought it was a mistake, but when he lingered, I realized it was not. Stiffly, I turned my neck, eyeing him, but he kept his focus on the projection.
What is he doing?
I remained silent, not knowing what to do, tensing when his hand stroked up and down, gently.
I cleared my throat, adjusting in my seat, not drawing too much attention but enough to show I was fully aware of what he was doing. But my action only made it worse for me. His hand slipped beneath my skirt.
I tried my best to focus, but it felt like I was having a war with myself. His hand was big and cold, feeling like ice had been dropped right on my thigh.
I should have stopped him, but I didn't. I had no idea why I kept my hands rooted at my sides. I had all the power to slap his hand away and tell him to go fuck himself, but here I was yielding to whatever the heck was going on.
