Rachel
The library is quiet, warm, and smells like old paper and cedar polish. I’ve been wandering through it all morning, running my fingertips over the spines of books I’ll probably never read, pretending not to feel like I’m waiting. But I am. I just don’t know what for.
When the door creaks open and Nikolai steps inside with a laptop in his hand and that dark, unreadable look on his face, my heart thumps like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
“You brought me work?” I ask, arching a brow.
He shuts the door behind him, locking it. “I thought it might help. You said you didn’t like sitting idle.”
I reach for the laptop, but he doesn’t give it to me right away. His eyes search mine, lingering like he’s still deciding if I’m real or not. If I’m really still here. With him.
When he finally hands it over, I open it, a spreadsheet flickering to life in front of my eyes. Accounting stuff, invoices, tidy columns that oddly make my fingers twitch to dive in. “This is real. Useful.” I look up, the swell of gratitude catching me off guard. “You trust me.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth. “Of course I trust you.”
And something in me cracks open.
It’s not the job. Not really. It’s being seen. Not just as a pretty distraction or a problem to be managed. He sees me, and he trusts me, and it makes me want to give something back.
I set the laptop on a side table and stand slowly. His brow furrows, just a little, like he’s unsure what I’m doing. I reach for the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one.
“Rachel.”
“Let me,” I whisper, sliding his shirt down his shoulders, feeling the bumps of healed scars and old wounds. “You gave me something real. I want to thank you.” I nudge him, encouraging him to switch places with me, then push him firmly into the chair.
His eyes darken instantly. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I interrupt softly, dropping to my knees.
The leather chair creaks as he adjusts himself, his legs parted, eyes locked on mine.
I undo his belt, the zipper, free him from the tightness of his jeans.
He’s already hard, thick and pulsing, and when I wrap my hand around the base and look up at him, something deep and dangerous flashes across his face.
“You’re going to kill me,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “So fucking sweet, on your knees, looking like that.”
I run my tongue along the underside of him, slow and deliberate. He shudders. I take him into my mouth, inch by inch, until he hits the back of my throat and I gag, until he groans and his fingers tangle in my hair, not forcing, just anchoring. Like he needs to hold on.
I hollow my cheeks, sliding up and down, finding a rhythm that makes his jaw tighten and his breath come sharp and fast. I wonder if I should stop, ask if I’m doing it right, but when his head falls back I take that as confirmation I should keep going, even if it’s hard to breathe around his thickness.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You thank me like this, and I’ll never stop giving you things.”
When I moan around him, he jerks. The way he twitches on my tongue tells me something has changed, but I don’t know what.
“I need you to stop,” he says as he pulls me up by the arms and lifts me as if I weigh nothing. I straddle him, pushing my legs between his hips and the plush arms of the chair, clutching his shoulders.
“Was I doing it wrong?” I ask, confused but aroused as all out fuck and hating that I’m wearing any clothes at all. Everything feels like a barrier to our pleasure that I’m all too eager to chase.
“Not even a little bit.” His voice is strained, like he is using every ounce of effort to control himself.
“You think I’m done?” he growls, pulling roughly at my clothes with one hand while holding onto me with the other. Between us we manage to lower my leggings enough for him to drag his cock through my folds. “You think I’m going to let your sweet mouth be the end of this?”
I gasp as he thrusts into me, all of him, deep and thick and claiming. I cry out, fingers clawing at his shoulders. He threads his arms, one at a time beneath my legs, which now clamp either side of his shoulders as he holds onto my waist and give him easier access past my leggings.
“I want you dripping,” he says against my throat. “So fucking full of my cum you feel me for days. You understand?” He holds me tight as he leans forward and stands, carrying me like I’m weightless until I feel my back hit a book case, the shelves digging into me.
“Yes,” I gasp, lifting my legs to rest over his shoulders.
He fucks me hard, brutal, his hips slamming into mine as the bookshelf rattles behind us. Books fall with soft thuds, forgotten. All I can feel is him, his heat, the way he fills me so perfectly it borders on pain.
“You’re mine,” he says, every thrust a promise. “I’ll breed you if that’s what it takes. I’ll fuck you so full of me there won’t be a part of you untouched by who you belong to.”
I come with a scream, shattering around him, my body locking tight.
He follows with a deep, guttural sound, burying himself to the hilt and spilling into me in long, hot pulses.
We cling to each other in an awkward shape of tangled limbs, breathing hard, sweat slicking our skin.
And when he looks at me, there’s a kind of reverence in his eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper, breathless.
His smile is slow, dangerous, and beautiful. “No, little rabbit. Thank you.”