4. FOUR
FOUR
Emily
Alex avoided me for most of the following day.
He did it badly.
Every time I left the archive, something appeared on my desk.
Coffee at nine fifteen. Lunch at twelve thirty.
A replacement pencil sharpener at two because the old one had started chewing the wood instead of sharpening it.
At three, the overhead lamp in the conservation room was replaced with a newer model powerful enough to expose crimes invisible to the human eye.
Alex never entered the room while I was inside it. He simply remained close enough that I could hear him moving through the library beyond the glass wall.
It might have been easier if he had pretended the kiss had been a mistake. I knew how to handle regret. Regret required distance, dignity, and the strategic removal of oneself before anyone began discussing friendship.
Alex didn't appear regretful. He appeared to be restraining himself from crossing the room and finishing what we had started, and that was harder to ignore.
By six, I had cataloged twenty-eight entries from Danny and Teller's register, prepared the alternative display list for Gerald Price, and reread the same paragraph of an acquisition record until the words lost meaning. I put down my pencil.
Alex stood on the upper gallery of his library, one hand on the iron railing. He had removed his jacket at some point during the afternoon and loosened his tie. From a distance, he looked calm. I knew better now.
"You can come down," I called.
He didn't move. "You're working."
"I was working. Now I'm watching a billionaire pretend he came upstairs to inspect the ceiling."
His gaze found mine from across the floor.
"What do you want?"
"A conversation would be useful."
"About?"
"The weather. Nineteenth-century binding methods. The fact that you kissed me against my desk and have communicated through office supplies ever since."
Alex descended the stairs. His face remained composed, but he moved with purpose, each step making the library feel smaller around us. He stopped on the other side of the conservation-room doorway.
"I didn't know what you wanted today."
"You could have asked."
"I'm asking now." He said, gruffly.
I leaned back against the worktable. “I wanted you to stop acting like speaking to me might bring the entire floor down.”
"That wasn't the concern."
“What was?”
His gaze moved over my face, then lower, slow enough that heat spread beneath my blouse. Alex never flirted lightly. He watched the way a man did when he was already deciding where to put his hands. When his eyes returned to mine, the composure in his expression no longer hid much.
“That I would touch you,” he said.
A quiet pull moved through my stomach.
“You’ve managed not to before.”
“Before, I didn’t know what you tasted like.”
I had expected restraint. The honesty was far more dangerous. I folded my arms, needing somewhere to put them.
“So your solution was to hide upstairs?”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
“You were one dark cloak away from pacing the battlements.”
His mouth shifted. “Was that a Beauty and the Beast reference?”
“You keep a private library with an iron gallery and avoid every social event. You’ve made the comparison unavoidable.”
“I’m not a beast.”
"No, you may be the hottest man I've ever seen in real life."
Alex stepped into the conservation room.
He had never crossed that threshold while I was handling open materials — he always remained behind the glass or waited until I covered the work.
Tonight, everything had been put away, and nothing remained between us except several feet of clean floor and the kiss neither of us had stopped thinking about.
"I didn't regret last night," I said.
Alex came closer. I kept my eyes on his face, although every instinct wanted to follow the open line of his collar.
"What happens now?" I asked.
He stopped in front of me. "You tell me."
"That sounds suspiciously considerate."
"You told me I should ask."
His hand lifted, but he stopped before touching me. That single moment of restraint mattered more than it should have.
"I want you," he said. "I don't want you wondering whether being on my floor means you owe me anything."
The words were quiet. Entirely serious. I placed my hand against his chest, and his heart was beating much faster than his face suggested.
"I don't owe you anything."
"I'm also not confused about why I stayed late."
Alex's fingers closed around my waist — not enough to pull me forward, enough to let me decide whether I wanted to close the distance.
I did.
His breath moved against my forehead. “Tell me clearly,” he said.
There was nothing arrogant in the request. Alex lived inside silence and assumed everyone else could interpret it.
“I want you to kiss me,” I said. “And this time I don’t want you blaming the driver when you stop.”
His hand slid behind my neck, firm. “The driver isn’t here.”
“Excellent planning.”
Alex kissed me before I could say anything else.
The first kiss had surprised both of us. This one began with the full knowledge of what waited on the other side of restraint. His mouth covered mine, warm and demanding, and I caught the loosened ends of his tie and pulled him closer. The sound he made went straight through me.
Alex’s control existed until I touched him. That discovery gave me a dangerous amount of confidence.
I pushed his jacket from his shoulders. It fell across the end of the worktable, narrowly missing my notes. He glanced at it.
He kissed me again, harder, and walked me backward out of the conservation room.
My shoulders hit the glass wall beside the door with a soft thud.
Alex braced one hand near my head and pinned the full weight of his body against mine, the hard line of his cock pressing unmistakably between my thighs.
There was nothing uncertain about what he wanted. It should have intimidated me. Instead I wrapped one leg around his hip and rolled against him, grinding deliberately, letting him feel exactly how wet I already was through the thin barrier of my skirt and underwear.
His mouth left mine and found the side of my neck, teeth scraping the sensitive place beneath my ear until my fingers fisted in his hair and a broken sound left my throat.
“Alex—”
He stopped instantly, breathing hard against my skin.
I opened my eyes. His face was inches from mine, pupils blown, jaw tight. His hand had gone completely still at my waist.
“I wasn’t asking you to stop.”
His voice came out low and rough. “Then use different words.”
A shaky laugh escaped me. “That might be the most demanding request for consent I’ve ever heard.”
“Emily.”
“I want more. I want you to stop holding back. Kiss me harder. Touch me like you’ve been thinking about it all day.”
His mouth returned to my throat with open, hungry force.
My blouse had small pearl buttons. Alex opened the first with deliberate care, then the second. By the third his patience snapped. He tore the remaining buttons free, the soft pop of thread loud in the quiet room, and pushed the fabric open.
I smiled against his jaw. “Do you need help?”
“No.”
“You’re losing a fight with my clothes.”
“I hate these fucking buttons.”
“They were perfectly innocent before you put your hands on them.”
“They’re in my way.”
I kissed him to hide the laugh, and he answered by catching both my wrists and pinning them hard against the glass above my head. The sudden restraint sent a sharp, electric rush straight between my legs. He held me there, watching my face, giving me every chance to pull free.
I didn’t.
His eyes went dark. “I’ve thought about this.”
“How much?”
“Every hour since last night. Longer than that.”
“That explains the pencil sharpener.”
His mouth curved against mine, almost a smile. “Not just today.”
The admission hit harder than his grip on my wrists.
He released one hand only long enough to shove my open blouse down my arms and off. His knuckles brushed the lace of my bra and his breath stuttered. I had chosen it that morning with him in mind, then spent the entire day pretending I hadn’t.
The look on his face made the lie worth every second.
“You planned this,” he said, voice rough.
“I considered the possibility.”
“You wore it for me.”
No question. Just fact.
“Yes.”
His eyes closed for one second. When they opened again, whatever control he’d been holding onto was gone.
Alex lifted me like I weighed nothing. I locked my arms around his shoulders as he carried me into the library.
My skirt rode up around my hips; his hand under my ass was proprietary, almost rough.
He set me on the edge of the long desk beside the closed register and stepped between my thighs without hesitation.
He kissed me like he was done with conversation.
His mouth was demanding, almost bruising, while his hands pushed my bra up and closed over my bare breasts.
He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t careful. He squeezed, thumbed my nipples until they ached, then lowered his head and took one into his mouth, sucking hard enough that my back arched off the desk.
He noticed everything. The way my breath hitched when his teeth grazed me. The way my knees fell open wider when he stepped in closer. The helpless roll of my hips when his hand shoved my skirt higher and his fingers found the soaked lace between my legs.
He didn’t tease.
Two fingers pushed the fabric aside and slid through my wetness, then pressed inside me without warning. Deep. Firm. My head fell back and a broken sound left my throat.
“Christ, you’re soaked,” he muttered against my breast. “You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”
I couldn’t answer. His thumb found my clit and started circling with ruthless precision while his fingers curled inside me, finding the exact spot that made my thighs shake.
“You really do pay attention,” I managed.
“Only to you.” The words were quiet and absolute.
My hands shoved under his shirt, palms sliding over hot skin and hard muscle. Alex went rigid. He had touched me without hesitation. Being touched was different.
I slowed. “Okay?”