"Where did you get this?" She picks it up carefully, reverently. "The library copy has been checked out for weeks."
"I have my sources." I smirk at her, and she stares at me as if I’ve just poured out a pile of gold in front of her.
"Romeo." Her expression is one of shock. "This is a first edition. This is—this must have cost a fortune."
I shrug. "It's relevant to our research."
Her eyes widen. "It's a collector's item."
"Then I'll add it to my collection after we're done with it."
She's still holding the book, running her fingers over the cover, and I want to tell her the truth. I bought it because she mentioned it in passing during our last work session. I spent two days tracking down a copy because I wanted to see that look on her face—that mixture of excitement and reverenceshe gets when she's holding something connected to what she’s passionate about.
I want to tell her that watching her touch the book that way makes me ache for her to touch me, look at me, the same way. That I would buy her every rare book on Minoan civilization if it meant she'd look at me the way she's looking at that volume right now.
But I don't say any of that. Instead, I open my laptop.
"Should we start with the religious iconography section? I found some interesting parallels between the snake goddess figurines and household shrine practices in other Bronze Age cultures."
Her face lights up. "Yes. Yes, I want to hear this."
And just like that, we're working. She sits next to me—not across from me this time, but next to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body. Close enough that when she leans over to look at something on my screen, her hair brushes my shoulder, and I smell that almond scent of her expensive shampoo and a hint of her jasmine perfume.
I have to concentrate very hard on not reacting outwardly. Beneath the table, I can fucking feel my heartbeat in my cock. I’ve never been so hard while reading an academic text before.
We work for an hour, and it's the most intellectually stimulating conversation I've had in years. Maybe ever. She challenges every point I make, but not dismissively—she offers counterarguments, forces me to defend my interpretations. And when I make a point she agrees with, she builds on it, takes it further, shows me connections I hadn't seen.
I’m constantly amazed at her brilliance. And I'm so fucking gone for her, it's not even funny.
"What about this?" She pulls up an image on her laptop—a fresco fragment from Knossos showing a procession of figures carrying ritual objects. I lean closer to look at the image, andmy shoulder brushes hers. The contact is electric, and I feel her tense slightly.
But she doesn't move away.
"You're right," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the fact that every nerve in my body is screaming at me to touch her. "Those are architectural markers. They're defining the boundaries between sacred spaces and the mundane."
"Exactly." She's excited now, gesturing at the screen. "And if you look at the archaeological plans of the palace, those marked spaces correspond to areas where they found concentrations of ritual objects.”
"You should write your dissertation on this," I say, knowing I should put some space between us, but I don’t. "This interpretation—it's original. It's important."
"You think so?"
I nod. "I know so."
We're still too close. I can see the shades of green in her eyes. I can see the slight flush on her cheeks, the way her lips are parted slightly, the pulse beating in her throat.
I want to kiss her so badly it's a physical ache.
I want to slide my hand into her hair, tilt her head back, claim her mouth. I want to hear the sound she'd make—that small gasp of surprise and pleasure. I want to taste her, possess her, make her forget that anyone else exists.
I want to push her back against the table, pin her wrists above her head, make her say my name. I want to mark every inch of her skin, leave evidence of my possession in places only I will see. I want to fuck her until she can't remember Thaddeus Whitmore's name, until the only word she knows is mine.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
The word echoes in my head like a heartbeat.
But I don't move. Because underneath the dark, possessive hunger, there's something else—something that makes me wantto protect her, even from myself. Something that makes me want to earn her, not just take her.
She's not a possession to be claimed. She's?—
