Taming the Innocent Librarian: 2

~ ◆◆◆ Chapter 2 ◆◆◆ ~

~ Niklaus Henderson ~

“Uhm… sorry,” I said, closing the book with a deliberate snap and offering a half-smile that felt more awkward than I’d have liked. “I came in late, and this book is very mind-blowing.”

She paused mid-motion, a stack of returned novels in her arms, and then she laughed — soft at first, then brighter, a sound so clear and unguarded it felt like sunlight cutting through fog.

My chest tightened. It was beautiful. Effortless. I couldn’t help but imagine how that same laugh would change if I had her backed against the stacks, my mouth tracing the delicate line of her ear, lips brushing just enough to tickle until she giggled helplessly — then gasped when I nipped the lobe and pressed my body flush against hers, turning play into heat.

“Mind-blowing,” she repeated, setting the books down and crossing her arms beneath her breasts. The motion lifted them subtly, the cream blouse stretching just enough to outline the faint peaks of her nipples again. Her hazel eyes locked on mine, one brow arched in gentle amusement. “Really? An encyclopedia on Victorian architecture?”

“Huh…” I glanced down at the open page — detailed cross-sections of load-bearing walls and ornamental cornices. Utterly riveting, apparently. Heat crept up my neck. “Shit”.

“Oh,” I added out loud, the single syllable hanging between us like an admission. I had never been caught this off-guard by my own pretense.

She smiled then — small, warm, the corners of her eyes crinkling behind those wire-rimmed glasses. “Can I close up now?”

I rose smoothly, leaving the book on the side table, and closed the distance to the counter in a few measured steps. The air between us felt charged, like the moment before a storm.

“I could walk you home,” I offered, voice low enough that it felt private even in the empty room.

She shook her head, slinging her bag over one shoulder. “I usually take a taxi. It’s fine.”

“I could drive you.” I leaned one forearm on the wood, close enough to catch the clean floral scent of her. “It’s no trouble at all.”

She turned fully toward me, bag still in hand. Her expression shifted — curious, a touch wary, but there was a spark there too. “What do you want?”

The question hung heavy. 

If only she could have cracked open my skull and looked inside right then, she would have seen exactly what I wanted: her wrists bound above her head with soft black rope, legs spread wide on silk sheets, body arching as I drove into her slow and deep at first then harder and relentless until she was sobbing my name, cunt clenching around me in waves, dripping and ruined and utterly claimed. The best, most devastating fuck she had ever had. The kind that rewrote what pleasure meant.

But I kept it locked down, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I just think you’re beautiful. And I’d like to know you.”

Something softened in her eyes. The smile that followed was slow, genuine, positive — lighting her face in a way that made my pulse kick harder. Yeah. She liked me. Who the hell wouldn’t?

I extended my hand across the counter. “Niklaus Henderson.”

Her eyes went wide. She actually inhaled sharply, hand freezing halfway to mine. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I tilted my head, letting a faint smirk tug at my mouth. “You know the name?”

“Everyone knows the name,” she said, half-laughing in disbelief. “Youngest billionaire in Los Angeles. The quiet empire — tech, media, real estate, acquisitions that make headlines without ever showing your face. You’re… discreet. Almost mythical.”

“I prefer it that way,” I replied simply. “No cameras. No scandals. Just results.”

She stared — openly, unapologetically — taking in the sharp line of my jaw, the tailored fit of my shirt across my shoulders, the way I filled the space without trying. 

Amazement flickered into something warmer, hungrier. “I read an article about you last year. The long-form piece in Forbes on your strategy — how you spot undervalued assets and turn them around before anyone else even notices. I kept thinking… I’d love to know the man behind all that. Not the myth. The real one.”

She reached out then, her hand slipping into mine. Fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. A tiny current ran up my arm.

I want this one in my Room of Ecstasy. 

“Kris Hunter,” she said softly. “Journalist in training. I’m only here at the library for the internship — research access, archive skills, building sources. Nothing glamorous.”

A journalist. The word should have made me cautious. Instead it made me intrigued. Dangerous territory. Perfect territory.

I released her hand slowly, reached into my jacket, and pulled out one of my private cards — the matte black one, no frills, just my name and direct cell in silver foil.

“I could grant you an interview,” I told her. “Exclusive. Whatever angle you want. Off the record, on the record… your call.”

Her eyes lit up like I had just handed her a golden ticket. “Really?”

“Really.” I tapped the card once with my fingertip. “Call. Set up an appointment. I’ll be expecting it.”

She picked it up carefully, fingers brushing mine again. I watched the shiver that ran through her — subtle, but there. Her breath caught, just for a heartbeat.

I didn’t push further. I had planted the seed.

I turned, walked toward the exit, felt the weight of her gaze following me across the polished floor. The glass door hissed shut behind me. The evening air was cool against my skin, but inside I was burning.

All I could think about was her laugh still echoing in my ears, the warmth of her hand, the way she looked at that card like it was the start of something she couldn’t quite name.

And how much I wanted her to dial.