In the restroom, Nora Hart came to her senses.
She found herself sitting on Andrew Locke's lap, and the brief pleasure left her in a fog of uncertainty.
Did she just...?
Then why was Andrew Locke, this beast of a man, still dressed to the nines?
His clothes were intact, without any sense of post-coital dishevelment?
Nora Hart heard the rustling of paper tearing and instantly understood: "You used your hand?"
Andrew Locke was wiping his fingertips with toilet paper from the stall.
He hummed nonchalantly.
Nora Hart's anger flared up suddenly, feeling utterly humiliated...
How many men wanted to grovel at her feet? How many men longed to worship her?
Yet Andrew Locke had deigned to gratify her with just his fingertips, Nora felt her dignity hit rock bottom.
In the stall, Nora Hart raised her hand and a crisp slap landed on Andrew Locke's face: "If you can't do it, don't touch me, asshole."