His hand, which has been resting on the arm of my chair, moves. It slides onto my thigh, a slow, deliberate journey upward, pushing the fabric of my skirt with it. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. The carrel is too small. His presence is too large. My mind is screaming, a frantic, high-pitched alarm, but my body is paralyzed.
His fingers trace the lace edge of my panties, a feather-light touch that makes my hips twitch in a silent, involuntary reaction. He sees it, of course he sees it. He sees everything.
“See?” he murmurs against my ear. “She’s already so eager for me.”
My entire body clenches. I want to push him away. I want to scream but I’m trapped in the web of his words, of his touch. The library, my fortress has become my prison, and he is the warden.
He shifts, blocking the view from the aisle, creating a private, intimate cage of our own making. His other hand comes up to gently grasp my chin, turning my face toward him, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes are burning with a dark, possessive fire.
“Stay still,” he commands, his voice a low growl. “Don’t make a sound.”
His fingers slip beneath the lace, a slow, deliberate intrusion. The contact is electric, a direct current to the bundle of nerves at my core. A gasp escapes my lips, a sharp, broken sound of pleasure and panic.
He tuts softly, a sound of mild disappointment. “I said, no sound.” His thumb on my chin tightens, a gentle but absolute reminder of my place. His other fingers begin to move in a slow, maddeningly expert rhythm. He is not clumsy, he is not rushing. He is exploring, learning the landscape of my body, cataloging my reactions with a terrifying, clinical precision. West is conducting an experiment, and I am the subject.
My mind is a frantic, screaming mess, but my body is a traitor. My hips rock up against his hand, a silent, desperate plea for more. My hands, which had been clenched into fists on the desk uncurl, my fingers digging into the polished wood.
“You’re so wet for me,” he whispers, his voice a rough, triumphant rumble. “All this fighting, all this resistance… and your body knows the truth. It’s been waiting for me.”
I shake my head, a slight, desperate movement. A final, futile act of denial.
“Yes,” he insists, his fingers stroking a particularly sensitive spot that makes my vision blur. “Tell me you don’t want this, Kinsley. Tell me you want me to stop. Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
The offer hangs in the air between us, a cruel, impossible choice. My throat is tight, the wordstoplodged behind my tongue like a heavy, immovable stone. I can’t say it. I can’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg for it to end, and I can’t bring myself to beg for it to continue. My silence is my only defense, and it is a confession.
He chuckles, a low, dark sound of victory. “That’s what I thought.”
He shifts again, adjusting his position, and then a second finger joins the first. The fullness, the stretch is overwhelming. He curls them inside me, finding a spot that makes my back arch off the chair, a choked, strangled gasp escaping my lips. I’m trying to be quiet, I’m trying so hard, but the sounds are beingtorn from my throat. Uncontrollable, primal responses to his possession.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my temple. “You’re going to draw attention. We wouldn’t want that, would we? Everyone would see the great Kinsley Fischer falling apart in a library carrel, my fingers deep inside her tight little pussy.”
The crude, possessive words are a violation, a brand. They should disgust me. Instead, they send a fresh wave of liquid heat pooling in my core, making my inner walls clench around his fingers. I am so ashamed of my body’s betrayal.
His thumb finds my clit, a slow, deliberate circle that makes my vision blur. The pleasure is sharp, exquisite, a razor’s edge between agony and ecstasy. He is a masterful, ruthless musician and my body is the instrument, playing a symphony of surrender against my will.
“You’re so tight, Kinsley. So fucking tight for me,” he growls, his voice rough with desire. “I can’t wait to feel this wrapped around my cock again. To feel you clench around me like this when I’m buried so deep inside you and you can’t remember your own name.”
My hips are moving now, rocking against his hand in a frantic, desperate rhythm. Seeking more of that intoxicating pleasure, seeking the release I am both terrified of and desperate for. I am no longer Kinsley Fischer, brilliant student, in control. I am just a creature of need, completely and utterly at his mercy.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a low growl. I force my eyes open, my vision blurry with tears of shame and overwhelming sensation. His eyes are burning, holding me captive. He wants to see my surrender. He wants to watch me break. “Don't you dare look away. I want to see your face when you come for me, right here, where anyone could walk by. I want to see you completely lose control. I want to see you finally admit who you belong to.”
His words are a final, brutal assault, breaking down the last of my defenses. He increases the pressure, his fingers pistoning in and out of me in a relentless, punishing rhythm while his thumb works my clit with devastating precision. The pressure inside me builds to an impossible degree, a coiled spring wound so tight it’s about to snap.
My mind goes blank, the frantic screaming silenced by a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The world narrows to the sensations of his touch, the possessive fire in his eyes, and the overwhelming, all-consuming need for release.
“Who owns this pussy? Say it.” The words are a guttural command against my ear, a final, brutal brand.
I can’t speak. I can only shake my head, a desperate, silent denial. My hips buck against his hand, a frantic, traitorous movement that betrays the words I cannot say.
His other hand tightens its grip on my jaw as a warning, a promise of pain. “Say it, Kinsley. Say my name.”
The pressure inside me is at its breaking point, a white-hot explosion building behind my eyes. I can’t hold it back. I can’t fight it anymore. My body is no longer my own. It is an instrument, and he is the master.
“West,” I gasp, the name a torn, ragged sob. “You. It's you.”
The confession, the surrender, is the key. The coil inside me snaps, and my world shatters.
A choked, strangled scream is torn from my throat in a raw, primal sound of total surrender. My back arches off the chair, my body convulsing in the grip of a pleasure so intense it borders on pain. My inner walls clench around his fingers, a frantic, rhythmic pulsing. I am no longer in control of my own limbs, my own sounds. I am a vessel, overflowing with the force of my surrender. The library, the books, my reputation—they all dissolve into a meaningless haze. There is only this. Only him.
