Taming the Innocent Librarian: 5

◆◆◆ Chapter 5 ◆◆◆

~ Kris Hunter ~

BDSM.  

BDSM.  

BDSM.

The word kept looping in my brain like a dirty secret I couldn’t shake. I’d heard it before — whispers in college dorms, jokes on late-night TV, the occasional eye-roll in group chats — but it was never my thing. Kinky people did that. Not quiet, bookish Kris Hunter who color-coded her planner and always returned library books on time.

Until Niklaus.

That man had cracked something open inside me and now I couldn’t close it. 

The night at the club played on an endless loop every time I tried to sleep. Me straddling him, reverse cowgirl, ass slapping against his hips while I rode him like I was trying to break us both. His hands on my waist, letting me lead — but his eyes promising that if he ever took over, I’d be begging within minutes. The way he groaned low in his throat when I clenched around him. The hot flood when he finally came inside me, so deep I felt it pulse for hours afterward.

He’d let me be in charge that night. Deliberately. I understood now. If he’d flipped me onto my back, pinned my wrists above my head, and fucked me the way those dark eyes said he could — slow, ruthless, controlling every gasp, every whimper — I might not have walked out of that room the same person.

And God help me… I wanted to find out what that version of Kris felt like.

I arrived at the library thirty minutes early, pulse already racing. The erotica collection wing was tucked in the far back corner — climate-controlled, rarely visited, perfect for hiding. I didn’t hesitate. 

I pulled Fifty Shades of Grey first (cliché, yes, but I needed an entry point), then The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty by Anne Rice, Story of O, a slim volume called The New Topping Book just to balance it out, and two anthologies with titles like Bound Hearts and Surrender to Me. The stack felt heavy in my arms, like contraband.

I carried them to the my corner and hid them under the table. I sat down, and opened the first book.

And lost the entire day.

Every page soaked me. Descriptions of silk ropes biting into pale wrists, the sharp crack of a leather paddle on bare skin, the slow, deliberate drip of hot wax across trembling breasts. 

The humiliating-perfect thrill of being told to kneel, to wait, to beg. My thighs pressed together under the table. My clit throbbed with every filthy line. 

By lunchtime my panties were drenched—sticky, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore. I shifted in the chair, trying to relieve the ache, but every movement only made it worse. Nipples tight against my bra, breathing shallow, cheeks flushed. I kept reading anyway.

I imagined Niklaus’s voice reading these passages aloud while his fingers circled my clit — slow, torturous, never quite letting me tip over the edge. Imagined his belt sliding free, the soft snap of leather against my ass, the sting blooming into heat. Imagined being told to spread my legs on his desk while he watched, not touching, just commanding me to touch myself until I was crying for permission to come.

By 4:30 p.m. the library was emptying. Closing time loomed. Some patrons trickled out — briefcases, tote bags, quiet goodbyes. I sat there surrounded by open books, thighs slick, heart pounding, mind screaming the same question on repeat:

Should I quit being the good girl?

Should I text him? Call him? Show up at his door and beg him to show me what he’d been holding back?

I only live once.

Just then, a shadow fell across the table.

I looked up.

Niklaus.

Black suit jacket open, sleeves rolled to show corded forearms, eyes already dark with that predatory focus that made my stomach flip. He stood there like he belonged in the quiet stacks—like the entire library had been waiting for him to walk in.

My heart skipped, then slammed against my ribs.

“Niklaus,” I let out… half whisper, half plea.

He didn’t smile. Just leaned one hip against the edge of my table, close enough that I could smell him — cedar, smoke, clean skin, and that faint, dangerous edge of arousal. 

His gaze flicked over the spread books, lingering on the open page of Story of O where a woman was being bound and blindfolded.

“Hello Kris Hunter” he said with a smirk. That made an instant flood on my panties. 

“H.. hello…”I stuttered.

“You’ve been reading,” he said, voice low, velvet-rough. One long finger brushed the spine of Fifty Shades. “Curious now?”

Heat flooded my face. My panties were already ruined; I could feel fresh wetness seeping at his words.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He studied me — eyes tracing the flush on my cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of my chest, the way my hands trembled on the table.