Chapter 21
BELLE
Idon’t think I’ve ever been more wrong about a man in my life.
When he said we were leaving the gala early, I assumed logistics. A quieter lounge or maybe a late dinner somewhere sleek, expensive, and intimidating.
I did not expect this.
The bookstore felt like a secret. Warm golden light spilled over rows of shelves, catching on embossed titles and soft matte covers. It was intimate without being small. Romantic without trying too hard. It felt like a place someone built because they love stories.
I turned slowly, taking it in.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said softly.
“I wanted to,” he replied.
And the simplicity of that answer nearly undid me.
The table was set between shelves labeled Enemies to Lovers and Second Chance Romance. There were candles flickering gently between us, their light catching the gold of my dress and making it glow.
I felt like I was glowing. And it wasn’t just the dress.
I sat, still a little stunned, and watched him. He looked at home in a tuxedo, but there was something softer about him here. He seemed to have less armor and more intention.
I shook my head, smiling helplessly.
“This is . . . perfect.”
“I'm glad you think so.”
The food was simple and thoughtful, nothing overly ornate. Just beautifully plated, warm, and intentional. We ate slowly, talking between bites. The conversation flowed between us as easily as it always did.
At one point, I realized I’d been talking for several minutes straight, animated, hands moving, describing the exact moment in a derby bout when everything clicks, and the world narrows to motion and momentum.
He was watching me like I was the headline act.
“You must miss Derby after this injury,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” I breathe. “I do.”
He nodded once, as if filing that away.
After dinner, I think the night is winding down. Then he stood and gestured toward the shelves. “Choose.”
I blinked at him.
“Choose what?”
“As many as you wish.”
The words didn’t compute at first.
“Books?” I asked stupidly.
“Yes.”
“As in . . . buy a book?”
“As in buy books. Plural.”
“Raphael. You don’t have to—”
“I’m aware.”
The phrase again. Always steady. Always certain.
“I want to,” he says.
And suddenly my throat felt tight. No one had ever looked at me and thought, What would make her happiest? No one had ever built an evening around the simple fact that I love stories.
I stepped toward the shelves slowly, almost reverently. My fingers trailed over spines—bright paperbacks, moody hardcovers, familiar authors, and new ones I’d been meaning to try.
“You can’t be serious,” I murmur.
“I am entirely serious.”
I picked one up. Then another. Then another. Each time I glanced back at him, as if expecting him to set a limit.
He didn’t. He stood there in his tuxedo, hands slowly filling with books, watching me like this was the most fascinating thing he’d seen all night.
I realized, suddenly, that I was grinning. I felt light. When I turned back to him with an armful of books, he studied me with quiet satisfaction.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” he observed.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I hesitated, then added one more to the stack.
“For good measure.”
He nodded solemnly. “An excellent strategy.”
I laughed softly, overwhelmed and delighted, and a little in disbelief.
“I can’t believe you did this,” I said again.
He stepped closer, just enough that the air shifted between us.
“I told you,” he said quietly. “I listen.”
I clutched the books to my chest and looked up at him.
The gala. The fortune teller. The investors. The tuxedo. None of it mattered right now. All that mattered was this small room full of stories. And the man who chose to create one just for me.
The drive home felt quieter. The kind of quiet that comes after something meaningful has happened, and neither person wants to disturb it by talking too soon.
The city lights blurred past the windows, gold streaking against black glass. I rested my hand over the stack of books in my lap like they might disappear if I didn’t anchor them there.
He carried them for me when we pulled into the drive.
Of course he did.
The house looked different tonight. It appeared softer somehow. The windows glowed warmly against the dark river beyond.
Inside, I kicked off my heels with a relieved sigh.
“That,” I murmured, flexing my toes, “was worth the blisters.”
He glanced down at my feet with a small crease between his brows. “You didn’t mention discomfort.”
“Because it was worth it.”
He studied me for a moment like that answer meant something more than it should.
Then he said, casually, “There is one more thing.”
I blinked at him.
“You already did too much.”
He gathered the books in one arm and gestured toward the staircase.
“Come.”
I stared at the stairs and hesitated ever so slightly.
He moved closer, offering his hand like he had earlier tonight.
“Trust me.”
I swallowed down the lump in my throat and took his hand.
He walked slowly beside me as we climbed, mindful of my knee without making a show of it. The hallway upstairs was dimly lit, sconces casting soft pools of light along the walls. The air felt stiller up here.
He didn’t stop at the guest rooms. He led me all the way down the hall to a door at the back. The library, the room I’d been told not to touch except to dust since I got here.
He opened it. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, overlooking the river. Even in the dark, the water glimmered faintly beneath the moonlight. Sheer curtains framed the glass, soft and gauzy, moving slightly with the night air.
But it’s the shelves that stole my breath.
Dark wood shelves rose from floor to ceiling along three walls, filled with carefully arranged volumes.
Hardcovers and paperbacks, leather-bound classics and modern releases.
Even a rolling ladder tucked neatly along the side to complete the dream library aesthetics.
But that was nothing new. Those had always been here, but there was something new.
A plush reading chair now sat near the windows, with a small table and a brass lamp beside it. A thick rug softened the floor. Next to it was an entirely empty bookshelf.
I stepped inside slowly.
“What’s this?” I whispered.
“I wanted to give you your own space for all the books you like to read.”
I turned in a slow circle, taking it in. This was more than a room full of books. He had created a space for me in his house, as if I wasn’t just staying here for six months. Like maybe, just maybe, he saw this as permanent, too.
“You want my books here,” I said softly.
“Yes.”
I walked to the empty shelves slowly, brushing my fingers along the smooth wood. I imagined my paperbacks lined there. From my dog-eared favorites to the ones I’d read three times and still cried over, all here in this beautiful room instead of a box shoved under the bed in my van.
“You built space for me,” I murmured.
He stepped closer behind me, not touching, just there.
My chest ached in a way that somehow felt both fragile and strong at the same time.
I turned to face him. The man who ordered me a golden dress.
Who sat through a fortune teller. Who bought me as many books as I could carry.
Who now stood in front of a library and offered me a space of my own, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You do not need to say anything.”
But I did, because this wasn’t about books. It was about belonging.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I might have found it.
He took me to his room. While I was still confused about some things, I was certain of this. Tonight I needed Raphael. I needed to feel him and be with him in every way possible. And the look on his face told me he might need the same thing.
His eyes connected with mine as he laid his jacket over the back of a chair and slowly started to unbutton his shirt.
I began to try to find the zipper of my dress behind my back, but he gave a little shake of his head. After he peeled out of his shirt, he crossed over to me and swept my hair off my shoulders before pressing a kiss there and slowly unzipping my dress.
Holy shit. I had never been with a man like him before.
He was so debonair and handsome, and I’m .
. . me. And I don’t mean anything bad by that, just that I’m kind of a hot mess with a loud mouth.
That doesn’t usually go with debonair, but as my dress dropped to the floor, the only thought in my mind was that we went well together.
He lowered me to the bed before he lay next to me. Even with him just in his pants and me in my bra and panties, it still felt like too much. Any barrier between us right now was too much.
Then he kissed me. I had never been kissed like this in my entire life. Kissing him felt as essential as breathing at this point.
His hands roamed my body, and before I knew it, he was out of his pants, and I was out of the remainder of my clothes, and we were still kissing. His large hands cupped my breast and squeezed, and my core turned molten.
He slid that hand lower and reached my pussy. He let one finger trace along it, and I was squirming for more. I needed so much more from him.
I reached down and wrapped my hand around his thick cock. It was much thicker than anything I was used to, but I liked a challenge.
“What are you smiling at, Ma Belle?”
“I just can’t wait to feel you inside of me.”
At that admission, he slipped a finger inside of me. I closed my eyes and moaned as he began to pump.
“Are you ready for me? Do you want to take my cock?”
“Yes, Sir.”
What did I just say? Did I really just call him sir?
But the way he bit my nipple and plunged a second finger inside of me tells me he liked it.
“But first, I’m going to make you come with my mouth.”
“Raph, please,” I moaned, trying to pull him in, ready to feel him inside of me.