He keeps one hand flat on the table in front of me, something to hold, something solid, while the other manages the situation with the quiet efficiency of a man who is very good at not being heard.
I stare at the gap in the shelves. The economics girl is three rows away now. She checks a cubicle—moves on.
Saint’s mouth is at the side of my neck, barely touching, his breath warm and controlled while mine is the opposite, shallow and effortful. I swallow before it can become sound, my knuckles white against the table edge.
He finds the rhythm that makes my vision blur at the edges, and he holds it like a man who has learned exactly what he is doing and has decided thoroughness is the only acceptable standard. My free hand comes up and grips his forearm where it brackets me on the table, and he lets me. He always lets me hold on. His skin is smooth and hard. Muscular in a way that screams raw power.
She is moving parallel to us now, her eyes scanning.
Saint presses his mouth to my ear. “Stay quiet,” he says. His voice is completely even.
The words should scare me. They do. But the fear moves wrong. It doesn’t send me away from him. It folds me tighteraround the moment, around the table edge beneath my palms, around the impossible heat of him at my back.
The girl’s footsteps pause two rows over.
Saint stills. Completely. For one terrible second, he does nothing. He only breathes against my neck, slow and controlled, while my body keeps waiting for him. Wanting him. Hating that waiting feels worse than anything he has already done.
His mouth brushes the shell of my ear. “If you want me to stop, say it now.”
My fingers tighten around his forearm. The footsteps move closer. I should say yes. I should tell him to stop. Instead, I turn my face just enough for my lips to brush his jaw and whisper, “Don’t.”
His hand flexes once against the table. The sound he makes is almost too quiet to hear. Almost.
His breathing is controlled.
He is managing himself with the same discipline he brings to everything, using it now to take me apart in a library while the girl who has been looking for him is ten feet away and does not know it. The territorial precision of what he is communicating without words tips me over the edge in a long, silent wave that moves through my entire body. I press my teeth together, grip his arm, and stare at the gap in the shelves with my eyes wide open. He pulls my jeans over my ass, panties with it. He slides two fingers to see if I’m wet.
Tiny shudders rack my body as his fingers slide over my cunt. Testing. Teasing.
“I’m going to fuck you, Amy. Hard, deep, and fast.”
God help me I nod at his words.
“Spread your legs.”
I do as he asks without question.
She turns the corner at the end of the row.
Saint presses his mouth to my hair.
He doesn’t move for a long moment, just stays exactly where he is, his forearm solid under my grip, his breath evening out against the back of my head in the way it does when he’s bringing himself back from somewhere.
He pulls my pants down farther and slides his finger over my wet pussy from front to back deeper this time.
A shiver runs through my body as he slides my soaked panties lower.
He tests how wet I am like he is measuring how much I want him.
It’s obvious that I’m dying for him to slide inside me.
Then he steps back.
He adjusts.
The tip of his dick is soft. Testing how much I can take. Once he is sure, he grips my hip with one hand and takes me in one go.
My feet lift off the floor at the raw power of his thrust.
