Taming the Innocent Librarian: 3

◆◆◆ Chapter 3  ◆◆◆

~ Niklaus Henderson ~

One week.

Seven fucking days of checking with my secretary every morning like some lovesick teenager waiting for a text.

“Any calls from Kris Hunter?”

“Any appointments set?”

Every time the answer was no, the disappointment settled heavier in my gut. I had never given out that private card to anyone who wasn’t already vetted, useful, or disposable. And yet here I was, obsessing over a librarian who probably hadn’t even kept it.

I had driven past the library every single workday since Friday — slowing just enough to catch a glimpse of her through the tall windows. Her at the circulation desk, hair slipping from its knot, glasses sliding down her nose as she scanned books. Her bending to shelve returns, skirt hugging her ass in a way that made my cock twitch in my slacks. 

I never went inside. Too prideful. Too controlled. I needed her to come to me. I needed proof she felt the same pull I did—the one that had kept me half-hard and restless all week.

So when my secretary’s voice crackled through the intercom at 2:47 p.m. on a quiet Monday—“Mr. Henderson, there’s a Kris Hunter here to see you. No appointment, but she has your private card”—my pulse slammed so hard I almost dropped the fountain pen I was holding.

“Send her in.”

The door opened a minute later. Kris stepped inside my office — massive, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Los Angeles.

She looked small against all of it. Innocent. Wide hazel eyes behind those glasses, cream blouse tucked into another pencil skirt, hair pinned up neatly like she dressed for battle.

“Hey.” I said, trying not to sound as excited as I was.

“Hey.” 

“Please sit”

She was sitting across from me now, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap like she was trying not to fidget. That face — soft cheeks, full lips, the faint flush already creeping up her throat was the same one I had been jerking off to in my head every night. 

I wanted to slap it while I stroked in and out of her, watch her eyes water and her mouth fall open in shock and pleasure.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Hunter,” I said, leaning back in my chair, letting my gaze drag over her slowly.

She scoffed—small, nervous, but defiant. “It took me a lot to do this.”

I tilted my head. “What does that mean?”

She exhaled, like she had been holding the words in for days. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way you looked at me that day in the library. Like… like you wanted to devour me. It scared me. A lot. I told myself to throw the card away, to forget it. But I couldn’t. I can’t hold it in anymore. So I’m here to ask… do you want to go out with me? Like, a real date?”

I smiled and leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “What exactly do you want, Ms. Hunter?”

The air between us crackled. Electric. Her pupils dilated. She swallowed hard.

“Are you… in a relationship? Married?” she asked, voice quieter now.

I laughed, already used to the question. “I don’t do relationships.”

She shifted in the chair, thighs pressing together. Nervous. Aroused. I could practically smell it. “So what do you do? Just… make love to random women to satisfy your urges?”

I didn’t answer. I just held her gaze, letting the silence stretch until she squirmed.

She gasped softly. “Are you… are you gay?”

That did it.

I stood slowly. Reached for the remote on my desk. One press and the floor-to-ceiling glass walls frosted over, turning opaque in seconds. Privacy.

I rounded the desk, stopping just in front of her chair — close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.

“First of all,” I said, voice dropping to a rough murmur, “I do not make love. I fuck.”

Her breath hitched. I saw her thighs clench again. She was already wet—I’d have bet my entire portfolio on it.

I leaned down, one hand braced on the arm of her chair, the other tipping her chin up with two fingers. “Do you want me to prove to you that I’m not gay?”

She swallowed so hard I felt the movement under my fingertips. Her lips parted. No words. Just wide eyes and shallow breathing.

I straightened before I did something reckless like kiss her right there on my desk. 

Instead I reached into my drawer, pulled out a sleek black envelope and dropped it in her lap.

“There’s a private club party tomorrow night. Exclusive. If you want to fuck, come. If you don’t…” I shrugged. “Burn the invitation. Your choice.”

I stepped back. “I’ll have my driver pick you up at eight. Dress code is black. No panties if you decide to show.”

Her fingers tightened around the envelope like it was a lifeline.

I didn’t say another word. I walked her to the door, opened it, watched her leave on unsteady legs.

The rest of the day dragged. I barely focused, hoping I hadn’t chased her off with my directness. 

…

The next night, the club was pulsing — low lights, heavy bass, bodies moving in shadows. I was in a corner booth, talking to a leggy brunette who had been trying to climb into my lap for the last ten minutes. She was laughing too loud, touching my arm, leaning in so her cleavage was practically in my face.

Then I saw her.

Kris.

She stepped through the velvet curtain at the entrance wearing a sleek black dress — short enough to show thigh, tight enough to outline every curve. No bra. The fabric clung to her nipples like a second skin. She scanned the room, spotted me with the other woman, and I saw the quick flash of jealousy tightening her mouth.

I disentangled myself from the brunette without apology and crossed the floor to Kris.

She looked up as I reached her. 

“You look stunning,” I told her, voice low enough for only her to hear.

She glanced at the retreating woman, then back at me. “You look great too.”

I stepped closer, crowding her against the wall, one hand braced above her head. “Don’t be fooled, love. I’m the devil in disguise.”

The tension between us was thick enough to choke on. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. I could see her nipples hard against the dress.

“Do you still want to do this?” I asked.

She nodded — small, certain.

I took her hand, led her through the crowd to the quieter wing — the private rooms, the ones where the real games happened. I opened a heavy door, gestured her inside first.

She stepped in.

I closed the door behind us and locked it.

Then I shrugged off my shirt — slow, deliberate. Let her see the hard planes of my chest, the cut abs, the V disappearing into my trousers.

She stared. Lips parted. Breathing shallow.

I stepped closer, voice a rough whisper. “Do to me what you want, Kris.”