THE LIBRARIAN

He glides the rolling ladder along the towering bookshelf, the quiet scrape of wood and metal mingling with the hush of the library. Stopping close to where she stands, he looks at her - eyes dark, unreadable. 

“Step up to the fifth rung,” he says, his voice a deep, velvet command.

She hesitates for only a moment before placing the sharp point of her stiletto onto the first slat. The ladder creaks beneath her as she ascends, careful, deliberate, until she reaches the required level. Her breath is measured, but her pulse betrays her. 

His gaze never wavers. “Yes. Perfect. Now part your legs.” 

A slow, prowling step brings him closer, the heat of his presence like a winged aphrodisiac. The air between them thickens. 

“Raise your arms high,” he instructs, the steadiness of his tone a stark contrast to the fluttering firing in her belly. 

She obeys, reaching up, and as she does, her dress shifts, fabric sliding over her thighs, baring the soft curve of anticipation. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face - admiration, hunger, control. 

“Good,” he murmurs. “Now hold on.” 

His hand moves with agonizing leisure, the back of his fingers ghosting over the tender skin of her inner thigh. A featherlight touch, maddening in its restraint. Her breath catches. 

The library is silent but for the pounding of her heartbeat.