His fingers were just tugging at the waistband of her tights, the elastic snapping lightly against her skin, when he froze. His entire body went rigid against hers. The raw hunger in his eyes vanished, replaced by sharp, focused alarm. "Shhh, doll, not a sound," he whispered, his voice a low, urgent vibration against her ear.
Alianna's own breath stalled in her lungs. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, panicked drum. His sudden shift was jarring, a bucket of ice water on the simmering need between her legs.
He leaned to the side, peering down the aisle they had just vacated. His voice, when he called out, was startlingly smooth and professional, the perfect polite British librarian. "Ah, apologies! This section is closed for inventory. Would you mind terribly giving us a few moments? A bit of a mess back here." He even managed a light, self-deprecating chuckle.
She felt the performance, the seamless lie, and it infuriated her. The audacity to use that smooth, public-facing voice while his hard cock was still pressed against her ass. A surge of pure, unadulterated rage washed over her. Her hand, which had been pressed flat against the bookshelf, shot back. Her fingers found the thick, straining outline of his shaft through his soft white pants and she squeezed. Hard.
He jolted against her, a sharp, stifled hiss escaping his clenched teeth. Hsssssss. His free hand slapped over hers, not to pull it away, but to press it tighter against him, grinding the rough fabric of his trousers into her palm.
"Fuck, Alianna," he gritted out, his voice dropping back to that private, gravelly register. The polite librarian was gone; the wolf was back and in pain. He kept his face turned toward the aisle, a pleasant smile undoubtedly plastered on for their unseen audience. "Is that any way to say thank you for saving your reputation, kukolka?"
"Do not call me that, you blyad," she spat back in a venomous whisper, her Russian accent thickening with her anger. She tried to pull her hand free, but his grip was iron.
"Spasibo works. 'Thank you, Andrew, for being so quick-thinking.' My dick, however, may never recover." He finally released her hand and turned his head back to her, his eyes blazing with a new kind of fire—a mixture of pain and intensified lust. The interruption had only sharpened his edge. "They're gone. Now you've done it."
Before she could form another curse, his mouth was on hers again. This kiss was different. It was a punishment and a promise. It was all teeth and possessive tongue, a raw reclaiming of the moment she'd tried to steal with her violence. His hands went to her skirt, rucking it up around her waist. The cold air of the library hit her exposed skin, making her gasp into his mouth. Mmmph!
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. His glasses were slightly askew. "You have the most perfect little ass I have ever seen. I am going to fucking worship it." He didn't wait for a reply. He spun her around to face the bookshelf, her cheek pressing against the cool, worn spines of old romance novels. One of his hands splayed across her lower back, pressing her down, arching her back and thrusting her ass out toward him. The other hand hooked into her tights and her soaked underwear, and in one ruthless, efficient motion, he ripped them down to her knees. The sound of the fabric tearing was obscenely loud in the quiet aisle. Riiiiip.
