Page 115 of The Sweetest Revenge

His fingertips skimmed the edge of my panties, then withdrew. I made a small sound of protest.

"What was that?" he asked, his voice deceptively casual.

I pressed my lips together, refusing to beg. This was our game, seeing who would break first. It was almost always me.

His fingers returned, hooking into the sides of the thin fabric.

But he didn't pull.

One second stretched into two. Into ten.

His eyes locked with mine, challenging. Waiting.

"Should I stop?" His expression remained serious, controlled, but the darkening of his eyes betrayed him.

My body screamed for release, for movement, for anything.

"No," I whispered, the word catching in my throat.

The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely. A victory.

"Then beg me." His voice dropped, the command gentle but unmistakable. His thumb traced small circles against my hip, so close to where I needed him, yet deliberately avoiding it. "Beg me to take off your panties. Beg me to fuck you right here, surrounded by all these books, where anyone could potentially walk by."

"Please," I whimpered, hating and loving how he reduced me to this state. "Please take off my panties."

I raised my hips slowly, a silent offering.

His eyes never left mine as he worked the fabric down. Every millimeter of retreat exposed another nerve ending to the cool library air.

First, past my hips, where he paused. The pad of his index finger traced the indentation the elastic had left on my skin. I bit my lip to keep from whimpering.

Down my thighs, where goosebumps rippled in the wake of his touch.

Past my knees, which trembled not from cold but from restraint, from the effort of not grabbing him, pulling him, demanding more.

His movements were methodical. Worshipful. Torturous.

The lights seemed too bright, too revealing. Yet I couldn't look away from his face, from the raw hunger barely contained behind his careful motions.

When the panties reached my ankles, he removed them with excruciating slowness, maintaining eye contact as he folded them neatly and placed them in his pocket.

He stepped back just enough that we no longer touched.

The absence of contact left my skin burning.

"Now," he said. His gaze traveled over my body with such intensity that it felt as tangible as hands. A physical weight. A promise.

My mouth went dry.

"Beg," he whispered.

The library's silence pressed against us, a third presence in our forbidden corner.

The words caught in my throat, not from embarrassment but from the raw need behind them. From knowing once I said them, there would be no going back.

"Please—" My voice broke. I swallowed and tried again. "Please fuck me."

His expression remained unmoved, waiting for more.

---