You Broke Me

The sound of my fingers tapping against the counter echoes in the empty library, the only sign of life in the stillness. The afternoon drags on, minutes stretching endlessly, and I stifle a yawn.

I really shouldn’t have stayed up so late reading.

The story was too good to put down. A thrilling romance, intense and unpredictable. If only I knew what that felt like.

I could barely talk to a stranger without fumbling over my words, let alone throw myself into something reckless.

I exhale slowly, pushing the thought aside. It’s not like I expect anything thrilling to happen here, in this dusty little library, where the most excitement I get is when someone forgets to return a book on time.

I straighten, pushing back from the desk, my fingers absently smoothing my blouse where it tucks neatly into my skirt. My fingers drift lower, tugging at the hem, feeling the fabric brush just below my knees.

I stretch my arms, rolling my stiff shoulders.

Coffee. I need coffee.

No one will miss me for a few minutes. They never do.

I grab a notepad and quickly scribble:

Back in a moment.

Peeling off a piece of tape, I stick the note to the glass door, making sure it won’t slip. Then, I reach for my purse.

The moment I step outside, a crisp breeze brushes against my skin, lifting a few loose strands from my messy bun. The sun is warm but not overbearing, casting soft shadows across the pavement.

Just a quick coffee. Then back to the quiet.

Coffee in hand, I make my way back to the library, my thoughts still tangled in the story I left unfinished last night.

I barely register the ground beneath me, my gaze fixed downward, lost in my own mind.

And then—solid warmth. A sharp inhale. A jolt that sends my coffee sloshing over the rim, heat spilling across my hand.

My breath catches as I look up.

Black t-shirt, black jeans, leather jacket. His dark hair is short but effortlessly messy, like he just ran his fingers through it without thinking.

The hint of ink peeks from beneath his collar, and for a split second, I forget how to move, how to breathe.

Then, panic kicks in.

“Oh God—I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, already reaching forward to wipe the stain off his shirt.

Why am I touching him? Stop touching him!

But then I feel it.

His gaze on me—hypnotic, piercing straight through me. A slow current running under my skin, pooling low in my stomach.

Before I can react, his hand closes around mine, stopping me mid-motion.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice deep, composed—but with an undertone that makes my stomach flip.

And then—his fingers reach for my face.

A single touch across my cheek, featherlight.

“You had a little coffee here.”

I stop breathing.

I force myself to speak, my voice barely holding steady.

“I—I have to get back to the library.”

He nods, completely unaffected.

“Alright.”

A pause.

Then, effortlessly— “Looks like you need a new coffee.”

“What?”

“Well,” he gestures toward the half-spilled cup still clutched in my hand, “looks like that one’s ruined. I’ll take care of that.”

“I—” I falter, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

“That’s not necessary.”

“I know,” he says, but the way he looks at me tells me he’s already decided.

“I’ll bring it to you. Library, right?”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns and walks away.

I stand there, pulse hammering, my fingers still curled around the warmth of my cup. But the heat I feel... isn’t from the coffee.

The library is quiet. Too quiet.

I glance at the clock. An hour has passed since I returned, and with it, the last remnants of my ruined coffee have gone cold. My shift is nearly over, but time isn’t what I’m paying attention to.

I’m thinking about him.

His voice. His eyes. God, his eyes—magnetic, intense, yet somehow gentle at the same time. My palm presses against my cheek, chasing the ghost of his touch.

I need to pull myself together.

My eyes flick to the clock again. Too late.

I let out a sharp breath and shake my head.

Ridiculous. What am I even thinking?

A man like him couldn’t possibly be interested in someone like me. I’m just a librarian in a modest blouse and an uninspired skirt. I’m not the kind of woman who catches the attention of men like that.

Sophia, stop thinking about him. He’s not coming.

A shadow moves behind the frosted glass of the library doors.

My breath hitches.

The handle turns. The door swings open.

It’s him.

I shoot up from behind the counter, my chair scraping against the floor. My pulse stumbles.

He moves toward me, his presence shifting the air itself, commanding attention without a single word. In his hand, he carries a coffee cup, and my gaze lifts to his before I even realize it.

I blink. Once. Twice.

My stomach clenches. My pulse stutters.

Oh my God.

He’s here.

My fingers twitch at my sides. I force myself to keep my voice even.

“You really didn’t have to,” I say. “It’s already late.”

He steps closer, close enough that I feel the air charged between us.

“No, I didn’t.”

His lips curve slightly, a knowing smirk.

“But I wanted to.”

He tilts his head, gaze locked onto mine, unwavering.

“Miss…?”

I swallow, my voice coming out softer than I intended.

“Sophia.”

His smirk deepens.

“Mmm. So classy,” he murmurs, his voice a slow drag over the syllables, like he’s tasting the word.

“You look like someone who plays by the rules.”

A slight pause.

“That’s cute.”

Heat rushes to my face before I can stop it, betraying me instantly. I feel it creeping up my neck, burning my cheeks, and I know he sees it.

He doesn’t comment, but the way his smirk shifts—just slightly—tells me everything.

Then, smoothly, he hands me the coffee.

He holds it out, but doesn’t let go immediately.His fingers brush against mine and suddenly my grip on reality feels unsteady.

I try to focus on the cup, on the warmth bleeding through the cardboard, but all I can feel is him.

“I’m Rowan.”

“Now, since I’m here… how about a recommendation?”

I blink.

“A recommendation?”

“A book.”

“Anything in particular?”

“For someone who never reads.”

A small laugh escapes me, barely enough to break the tension tightening around my ribs. I shouldn’t be this affected by him.

But damn—I’m burning.

“Well, what do you usually like?”

“You tell me,” he says, watching me intently. “What do you like?”

The words slip through the air, edged with provocation.

My fingers tighten around the cup, and I force myself to look away, staring down at the surface of the desk. I can’t let him see how much he’s getting to me.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything.

And then—

His fingers find my hand.

“Your hands are shaking.”

My breath catches. Before I can pull away, he lifts my hand, turns it slightly, and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to my knuckles.

I freeze.

A sharp inhale lodges in my throat, my entire body locked in place.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, softer. Too intimate.

“You don’t have to be nervous around me.”

But I am. God, I am.

My pulse is a mess, my hands won’t stay still, and every breath feels too shallow, too fast.

Heat pools in my stomach, crawling beneath my skin, and I don’t know if I want to pull away or sink deeper into this dangerous, intoxicating moment.

“Will you show me something?” he asks, and his voice is so calm, so certain, that I barely realize I’m nodding.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Come with me.”

His lips curl slightly at the edges. He leans in just enough to make my pulse falter.

His voice dips, and there’s something wicked in his tone.

“There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing right now.”

I don’t move.

I can’t move.

His words echo in my mind, threading through every nerve in my body like a slow-burning fuse.

There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.

I know he meant the books.

He meant books, Sophia!

Did he?

My breath stutters, my fingers clenching around the cup just to keep from visibly trembling. I need to move. I need to do something. I lower the cup onto the counter, my movements stiff, uncertain.

Turning sharply, I walk toward the shelves.

Where am I going?

I don’t know.

My steps feel uneven, like I’ve forgotten how to move properly.

I scan the rows of books, but the words blur, the titles meaningless. My heart is pounding too loudly, my thoughts an incoherent mess.

What am I even looking for?

Footsteps.

Slow. Steady. Measured.

He’s following me.

I swallow, forcing my gaze forward.

Focus. Just pick something.

I step into one of the aisles, trailing my fingers along the book spines as if I know what I’m looking for. Buying myself time. I need a second—just one second—to steady myself.

But then I feel him standing behind me.

He’s close. Too close.

And then—

His hand moves slowly beside me, pressing against the bookshelf. Closing me in.

I freeze.

I can’t turn around. I can’t breathe.

“Did you find something for me?”

His voice is low, just above a whisper.

I try to speak, but the words don’t come. My pulse is pounding, pulsing everywhere, making it impossible to think.

“Um… I’m not sure you’d like this one…”

Somehow, I manage to turn, the book still clutched between my fingers.

He doesn’t even look at it.

His eyes are on me. Only me.

“Actually,” he murmurs, his voice like dark velvet, “I’ve already found something I like.”

I can’t move.

What did he just say?

His hand lifts, settling just above my chest, fingers slipping past the open collar of my blouse, grazing my bare skin. Right over my racing heart.

“Oh, honey,” he says softly, his fingers spreading, pressing lightly against me. “Your heart beats madly.”

I’m done.

His touch lingers, warm and unhurried, then drifts lower. Slowly. Tracing the curve between my ribs, his fingertips teasing the sensitive dip beneath them before gliding down my side, over the curve of my waist, then lower. His palm smooths along my back, fingers skimming the length of my spine, featherlight at first—until they press in, firm and possessive.

“Please, stop me,” he whispers. “Because I can’t.”

I don’t say anything.

I just tremble in his hands.

His gaze holds mine—silent, unreadable, devouring—before he closes the distance.

He kisses me.

Soft at first. Testing.

But then—

He crashes into me, pinning me against the shelves, his tongue finding mine, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me closer until I can feel how hard he is against me.

The book slips from my hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

He pulls back slightly, just enough for the air to rush between us. His gaze flickers downward.

For a second, I think he’s going to pick up the book.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he slowly lowers himself, his hands grazing down my sides as he sinks to his knees before me.

I stop breathing.

His fingers find the hem of my skirt, skimming along the fabric before pushing it up, inch by inch, revealing the soft skin of my thighs.

And then—his mouth is on me.

A kiss.

Soft. Warm. Just above my knee.

Then another. Higher.

And another. Higher.

A shudder rips through me, my fingers twitching where they grip the shelf behind me.

My breath is uneven, my entire body humming with anticipation as he trails his lips up the inside of my thigh, heat rolling through me with every inch he claims.

He reaches the edge of my panties.

My head tilts back against the bookshelf, fingers digging into the wood.

Oh shit, I should stop this.

I should.

But—

His fingers hook into the lace, tugging just enough to shift the fabric aside.

Oh my God.

His breath is a whisper of heat against my bare skin, sending a shudder so deep I feel it in my bones.

And then—

His tongue slowly drags against me. Tasting. Savoring.

A moan slips from my lips before I can stop it.

Shit. I’m already so wet.

He hums.

As if he’s pleased. As if he can taste the effect he has on me.

His hands tighten against my thighs, parting them wider, keeping me still. I feel his fingers dig in, the roughness making me even dizzier.

And then—he flicks his tongue.

My whole body jolts.

A soft, helpless cry spills out, my fingers flying to his hair, twisting into the strands.

His tongue moves in slow, deep strokes, teasing, circling—pulling pleasure from me with every deliberate motion.

My legs tremble.

His breath is hot against me, his lips relentless, his tongue devouring me like I’m something he’s been starving for.

I whimper, my hips shifting involuntarily, seeking more, needing more.

He tightens his grip on me, keeping me where he wants me.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs against me, his voice thick with hunger.

Just when I think I will break, he stops.

I barely have time to catch my breath before he rises—slow, predatory.

His hands slide up my thighs as he stands, fingers skimming over my hips, my waist, up, up—

And then—

He’s lifting my blouse.

I gasp as his hands slip beneath the fabric, palms warm against my bare skin, exploring.

His warm mouth is at my ear now.

“Tell me something, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his fingers trailing higher, thumbs brushing just below my breasts.

His voice—low, lethal, unbearably smooth—snakes around me, sinking into my skin.

“Isn’t your shift over?”

I blink, snapping back to reality just enough to register his words.

My shift—the library.

I tear my gaze away from him and glance down at my wristwatch.

Oh, shit.

I was supposed to close five minutes ago.

A rush of panic jolts through me, breaking through the thick haze of heat and lust.

I shift against him, trying to move.

“I—I need to close up,” I murmur, stepping toward the door.

But I don’t make it far.

His hands find me again.

Before I can take another step, he spins me back, pressing me gently against the shelves.

And then he moves.

A slow, calculated roll of his hips against mine.

Hard. Thick. Pressed right against me.

I gasp, my fingers curling into his jacket, every rational thought shattering as heat pools low in my stomach again.

“I hope,” he breathes, grinding against me once more, “you don’t have any plans tonight.”

I try to answer—but the words won’t come.

My mouth opens, something between a stutter and a breathless plea caught in my throat.

“I—I should—”

“Shhh.”

His lips graze the shell of my ear, his voice like liquid heat.

“Come with me.”

And I—

I don’t think.

I don’t breathe.

I just follow.