The hard line of him nestles between my thighs.
I grind back against him, aching, needy, and he responds with a dark laugh that curls through me like smoke.
"You think you know what this is," he says, voice low, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"But you haven't even begun to beg."
His hand slides between my legs, and I open for him without thought, without hesitation, every inch of me humming, raw and exposed, strung tight with the need to be ruined.
I want him to break me open.
I want to feel the echo of this night tomorrow, in every step, in every breath, in the way I touch my own throat and remember how his hand fit there.
He drags his fingers along the seam of me, slow and maddening, and I press back, shameless, desperate, already so close to shattering I can barely stay quiet.
He leans over me, his chest flush to my spine, his breath thick against the back of my neck as his hand cups the curve of my ass and squeezes, not to soothe but to warn, and when I whimper, when my hips rock back in wordless appeal, he exhales a sound that is almost amused.
His hand leaves mefor a breathless second, only to return with a sharp, measured slap, the sting immediate and radiant, a bloom of pain edged with something far more dangerous.
"Again," he murmurs, and it is not a question.
The second strike lands harder, his palm flat and punishing, and I gasp, not because I want it to stop but because I want it to go on, because there is something deeply, devastatingly beautiful in the way he holds me down and makes me feel everything.
He doesn't rush.
Each spank lands with precision, with intention, alternating sides so I cannot brace, cannot guess, only receive, the sound of flesh on flesh ringing out in the stillness of the library until my thighs are slick with need and my throat aches from holding in the sounds he drags out of me.
I grip the table's edge, my knuckles white, my body alive with sensation.
Heat radiates through me, deep and carnal, the sharp bite of pain braided into the low, molten ache of arousal that coils in my belly and blooms through my limbs.
His fingers trace the line of my spine as if taking inventory of what belongs to him now, then dip lower, teasing me again, but never quite enough.
"You like this," he says, his voice rasped and near, the words dragging over the raw skin of my shoulder like velvet over bruises.
"The pain. The waiting. You like knowing I could do anything I want with you."
I nod, breath shallow, throat dry, and he rewards me by slipping his fingers between my thighs and dragging them through the mess I've made, groaning low in his chest as he feels how wet I am for him.
"Say it," he growls.
"Say you want me to take you like this."
My voice cracks on the way out, but I give him what he wants.
"I want you to ruin me."
His control shatters at that.
I feel it in the way his body shifts behind me, in the clatter of his belt as he undoes it with one hand and drags his jeans down with the other.
He does not whisper anymore.
He groans, long and unguarded, as the head of his cock nudges against me, slick and hard and unrelenting.
He slides it along my folds, slow and torturous, coating himself in the heat of me but still holding back, still denying, even as I push back against him like a woman starved.
When he finally sinks in, it is not careful.
