one
. . .
Butch
I spother the moment I step into the bookstore. Little thing perched on a ladder like she belongs in a fairy tale, not this dusty shop in Hickory Ridge. Stretching for a book on the top shelf, her skirt riding up just enough to show the pale skin above her knee. My cock twitches hard against my zipper. Fuck. One look and I'm already halfway gone.
The bell above the door announces me before I'm ready. She turns, startled, nearly toppling off that rickety ladder. My body moves before my brain can catch up. Three long strides and I'm there, my hands around her waist, steadying her.
Jesus Christ.My fingers nearly circle her completely.
"Oh!" She gasps, those wide doe eyes meeting mine. "I—thank you. I didn't hear you come in."
Her voice hits me like a shot of whiskey. Soft. Sweet. Makes my fucking chest ache.
I set her down. My hands don't want to let go. They stay on her waist a beat too long. "You're gonna kill yourself on that thing."
Pink floods her cheeks. She looks down, tucking a strand of wavy hair behind her ear. "I'm Julia Carter. You must be from Hale Security?"
I grunt in response. Words aren't my strong suit on a good day. Today, with her scent filling my head—books and something flowery and fuck, is that vanilla?—I'm lucky I can remember my own name.
"Butch," I finally manage. "Here for the install."
My eyes track her as she steps back, putting distance between us. Smart girl. But it won't be enough. The second my hands touched her waist, something primal clicked into place. Mine. The thought is so clear, so fucking certain, it's like it was engraved in my bones.
"Yes, of course," she says, gesturing around the small shop. "Pages & Petals isn't much, but it's mine, and after the break-in at the bakery next door last week..."
I tune out her words, not the voice. That voice could talk me through the gates of hell. She's tiny—barely comes up to my chest. Curves in all the right places beneath that cardigan and flowing skirt. Innocent. Untouched. I can tell just by looking. And fuck if that doesn't make me harder than I've been in years.
"I'll need to check all entry points," I say, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Windows. Doors. Back entrance."
She nods, leading me through the shop. Shelves packed with books create a maze of narrow aisles. Close quarters. Every time she passes me, her scent hits me again. Every time she looks up at me with those wide eyes, my cock strains against denim.
"It's just me here," she explains, unlocking a door that leads to a small office and storage area. "I opened six months ago. It's been quiet until the break-in next door."
Just her. Alone. In this shop with its shitty locks and ground-floor windows facing an alley. My jaw tightens until I hear my teeth grind.
"You work here alone every day?"
She nods, oblivious to the danger. To how easily someone could?—
My fists clench at my sides. Not while I'm breathing. Not fucking happening.
"Need a full system," I growl. "Motion sensors. Camera at each door. Silent alarm direct to police."
"Oh, I don't think I can afford?—"
"You can't afford not to."
Her eyes widen at my tone. Too harsh. Too demanding. I don't give a shit. This little bookworm with her innocent eyes and soft curves isn't getting hurt on my watch.
"Let me show you the back door," she says quietly.
I follow her, watching the sway of her hips, the way she runs her fingertips along book spines as she passes. Each touch gentle, reverent. Christ. I imagine those same delicate fingers tracing the tattoos on my arms, the scars on my back.
The back door is a joke. One good kick would take it down. The lock isn't worth the metal it's made from.
"This gets replaced today," I tell her, not asking. "I'll call my supplier."
