"I've never been accused of being normal."
He moves a step closer.
"You wore the robe," he says. "And only the robe." He reaches out slowly, giving me time to step back, but I don't. "Yes, I got your message. Was that meant to provoke me?"
"Yes," I confess.
"So, you're naked underneath?"
"I was told I'd be dining alone. No need to dress up for myself."
"Seems like that was a mistake," he murmurs.
My pulse jumps.
His fingers find the silk tie against my waist. One slow tug and the knot unravels. The robe falls open, and the cool air meets my bare skin. I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with nudity and everything to do with the way he looks at me. Not quickly, not hungrily, but slowly.
I wore nothing beneath the robe. He told me to wear lingerie. I gave him this.
His gaze drops to my breasts, now framed by parted silk. He doesn't rush, just looks.
When his eyes finally lift to mine, my breath catches. Heat floods through me.
The robe slips further down my shoulders, the panels parting completely. The book slips from my fingers, forgotten, falling to the stone terrace with a soft thud.
I'm bare before him, but I refuse to cover myself. Refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
He steps closer, close enough that the heat of his body radiates against me, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath, the faint musk of his cologne. A shiver runs through me despite the warm night air.
"You disobeyed me," he murmurs.
I lift my chin, refusing to shrink beneath his gaze. "You don't own me," I whisper, breathless.
The corner of his mouth curves.
Before I can retort, his hand fists in the fabric. One violent jerk, and the silk tears away from my body, the sound of ripping fabric obscene in the quiet night. The robe falls in a puddle at my feet.
His breath comes harder now, his chest rising and falling faster.
"Fuck," he mutters, more to himself than to me. His hand doesn't hesitate. It goes straight between my thighs, cupping me roughly, possessively.
"Tell me to stop." His voice is quiet. Controlled. Lethal.
My lips part. The word sits on my tongue, but it refuses to fall. My throat tightens around the silence, and I hate how much my body betrays me. How the air between us feels charged. How I want him to touch me and ruin me.
His fingers slide through my folds with brutal precision, finding me embarrassingly wet.
"You're dripping, librarian." His voice is a dark rasp. "All this defiance, and you're soaked for me."
A gasp tears from my throat, my hips jerking forward involuntarily. His other arm bands around my waist like iron, yanking me back against his chest, holding me still.
"Stubborn little thing," he murmurs against my ear, his fingers finding my clit and circling with punishing pressure. "You think defiance makes you strong? Or is it just an excuse to let me do this?"
I moan, my head falling back against his shoulder, my body arching into his touch despite myself. My nipples tighten, aching.
Without warning, he plunges two thick fingers inside me—no gentleness, no hesitation. I cry out, the sound sharp and broken, my body tensing at the sudden intrusion. My inner walls clench around him.
"Too much?" he growls against my neck, but he doesn't stop, doesn't slow. His fingers curl inside me, finding that devastating spot, and I whimper, caught between the edge of pain and pleasure.
