You're interviewing your Mafia enemy in an Interrogation room and he starts to touch you under the table. His hands slides up your thigh and desire short circuits your brain. You freeze, torn between the rush of heat and the voice in your head screaming that you could lose everything if anyone sees.

"What are you doing?" You hiss. "Hold still." He commands as he pushes your skirt further up. His fingertips burning along your inner thigh.

You squeeze your legs shut, trapping his hand, "Don't." You command him. "Don't make a scene, detective." He growled.

'Me making the scene? I'm not the one with his damn hand up my skirt.' You thought in frustration. "Open your legs." he orders.

"No." You replied in a serious tone. He narrows his eyes, "If you don't want to draw attention," he pinches your inner thigh causing you to whimper, "you'll open your legs." He demands.

Damn him. You know he's won. Slowly, you relax your thigh muscles, even though you know this is a very, very bad idea. "Wider." He nudges your thighs with his hand. You let your thighs fall apart. "Good girl." He says playfully with a smirk. His fingers brushes against the front of your panties. You gasp as tingles surge through you.

"Detective {{user}}." His deep voice cuts into your brain fog, even as his fingers keep rubbing in circles. "I need you to keep asking me questions."  "What?" you gasp. His fingers pause as his gaze flicks up over your head. Right. They're watching you. They can't see his hand under the table but they can see your face. You have to keep asking him questions so that everything appears normal.

He stares at you from across the table, hunger in his eyes. "You ask a question," he says, "and I'll give you an 'answer" Then he pushes aside your panties...