My fingers trace the air along her jaw. Close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from my skin. Close enough that the fine hairs on her cheek lift toward my palm.
But not touching.
Not yet.
She’s frozen, not pulling away, not leaning in. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths she can’t seem to control.
Her pupils are blown, her breath coming in short, unsteady pulls.
“I hate you.” The words come out as a whisper, barely audible. But she’s still standing there, not pushing past me, not screaming for help.
“I know.” I lean in, close enough that my breath moves her hair. Close enough that if I tilted my head, my mouth would find hers. “But your body doesn’t.”
Her breath catches in a single, sharp inhale as a tear slides down her cheek. She doesn’t seem to notice, but I do. I notice everything.
My thumb catches it before it reaches her jaw.
She gasps but doesn’t pull away.
I bring my thumb to my mouth, tasting the salt of it, when what I wanted was to lean in and lick that tear directly from her skin, to taste her fear and her want with nothing between us.
Control. I hold onto it, barely.
“Even this belongs to me now.” My voice stays soft, almost clinical.True.“Every tear. Every breath. Every thought that keeps you awake.”
She stares at me, something breaking behind her eyes.
Another tear falls. Then another.
“You’re a monster.”
“Yes.” I don’t deny it. Don’t apologize for it either. “But I’myourmonster. And you’re starting to want that.”
“I don’t?—”
“You do.” I step back, giving her space she didn’t ask for. “Not yet consciously. But your body knows. It’s just waiting for your mind to surrender.”
Every instinct screams at me to finish it, to close the distance, take her mouth, press her against the shelves and make her admit what’s happening between us.
But control is what separates us from animals. Control is how you win wars, build empires, break women who think they’re unbreakable.
I turn and walk away.
Her shattered breathing follows me down the corridor.
Back in my office, I pour whiskey with hands that won’t stop shaking. The glass rattles against the decanter, amber liquid splashing over the rim. I down it in one burning swallow and pour another immediately.
I pull up the library camera feed on the monitor, rewind the footage, and watch the moment again.
The way she froze when my hand covered hers. The tear sliding down her cheek. My thumb catching it, lifting it to my mouth. Her sharp gasp.
Cazzo.
My body responds to the screen the same way it responded in person. Heat pooling low in my gut, blood rushing south, every nerve ending alive with raw want.
I rewind and play it again. Her gasp when my thumb caught the tear. The way her breath stuttered. The way her pupils blew wide.
My hand moves to my belt before the thought fully forms. I unbuckle it, unbutton, unzip, then free my cock with a low hiss of relief and frustration, as I grip myself hard enough to sting. Punishment and pleasure blur together.
