She pulled back.
His grip followed.
"Please—" Her voice, controlled, the voice of a woman who had been doing this job long enough to know that the volume of a response mattered as much as the content. "Please let go—"
"Someone—" She looked at the room. At the faces. At the people who were looking at their plates or their cards or their drinks with the focused, deliberate attention of people who had decided that what they were watching was not happening. "—someone help me—"
"She must be wet already." This from the man beside the grabber — his companion, also drinking, finding the whole situation entertaining. "Look at how she's breathing. She likes it."
"Let's see what's under here—"
He reached for her skirt.
The fabric lifting.
And then a hand came through.
