The silence in the library was not empty; it was heavy, pressing against Lauren's eardrums like deep water. The only sound was the soft, frantic rhythm of her own breathing and the distant, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere in the looming dark.
She sat on the edge of the mahogany desk, her legs dangling, the expensive black lace of the panties cutting slightly into her hips. To her right lay the heavy wooden hairbrush—the threat. In front of her sat Grey Knight—the judge, the jury, and the executioner.
His eyes were locked on hers. The silver rings around his pupils caught the low light, glowing with a predatory intensity. He was perfectly still, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back in his leather chair with the ease of a man watching a play he had written himself.
"I'm waiting, Lauren," he said softly.
The sound of her name on his tongue was a physical caress, but the command beneath it was iron.
Lauren swallowed hard. Her hand hovered between her thighs. Her rational mind—the part of her that had passed the bar exam, the part that argued with judges and outmaneuvered prosecutors—was screaming. This is insanity. This is malpractice. This is a trap.
But her body was traitorous. Her body was filled with a dark, electric need that terrified her. The fear of the hairbrush was there, sharp and humiliating, but it was tangled inextricably with a desperate need to please him. To see that cold, analytical mask crack.
She closed her eyes for a second, inhaling the scent of the room—old paper, expensive scotch, and the faint, metallic tang of the coming storm outside. Then, she looked at him.
"Watch me," she whispered.
She pressed her hand against herself.
The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. She was already so sensitive, her nerves fried by the tension and the earlier video. The rough lace of the panties provided a friction that made her gasp. She circled her thumb over her clitoris, her eyes locked on Grey's face.
Grey didn't blink. He watched her hand move. His gaze was clinical yet ravenous, tracking the movement of her fingers as if he were memorizing a code.
"Don't hide," he ordered, his voice low and rough. "Spread your legs wider. Let me see everything."
Lauren obeyed. She hooked her other leg around the corner of the desk, opening herself completely to him. She felt exposed, a specimen on a slide, but the vulnerability only spiked her arousal. She increased the pressure, thrusting her thumb in, her hips beginning to rock unconsciously against her hand. She added the second finger, and a third one and a fourth one, breath sharp and ragged.
"That's it," Grey murmured. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Tell me what you feel."
"I feel…" Lauren's breath hitched as she found a rhythm, thrusting faster, her fingers digging dip. "I feel like everyone is watching."
"No one is watching but me," Grey corrected. "And I am the only one who matters. Forget the world outside this room. It doesn't exist. There is only the desk. The lace. My eyes. You."
His words wove a net around her mind. Brainwashing, a tiny voice whispered, but it was drowned out by the blood rushing in her ears. He was rewriting her reality in real-time.
"Faster," he commanded.
Lauren sped up. Her head fell back, her hair spilling over her shoulders. The friction was becoming too much, a sharp, sweet ache building in her belly. She slipped the last finger beneath the lace, touching her wet heat directly.
Grey made a low noise in his throat—a growl of approval that vibrated through the air and settled straight between her legs.
"You're beautiful when you unravel," he said. "Look at you. The uptight lawyer is gone. You're just a woman now. Just mine."
Mine. The word struck her harder than a physical punch. It shouldn't have felt good. It should have felt like a prison sentence. But in the dark, amber-lit library, it felt like safety. It felt like purpose.
She was close. The tension was winding tighter, a coil ready to snap. She bit her lip, stifling a moan.
"Don't you dare be quiet," Grey warned, his eyes narrowing. "I want to hear you. Scream for me, Lauren. Show me you're not faking."
He reached out and tapped the wooden handle of the hairbrush with one finger. Tap. Tap.
The sound sent a jolt of adrenaline through her.
Lauren let go. She abandoned her shame on the polished wood of the desk. She moved her hand frantically, her hips bucking to meet her fingers. A cry tore from her throat, raw and unpracticed.
"Grey," she gasped. "Grey, please."
"Take it," he demanded, his voice rough. "Come for me."
The climax hit her like a wave crashing against rocks. It was violent and blinding. She arched her back, her toes curling, a scream ripping from her chest that echoed off the high ceilings, her nude lipsticked-stained lips spread apart. Her vision blurred, filled with spots of light, and for a few seconds, she didn't know who she was or where she was. She only knew him.
She slumped forward, bracing her hands on her knees, gasping for air. Her chest heaved against the corset-like bra.
Silence returned to the room, but it was different now. It was charged.
Grey stood up.
He stood by the desk with the grace of a panther. He didn't rush. He stopped between her spread legs, his thighs brushing against her knees. He reached out and tilted her chin up.
Lauren looked at him through a haze of tears and endorphins. He looked triumphant.
"Good girl," he whispered.
The praise was intoxicating. It washed away the guilt instantly.
"You didn't use the brush," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"No," Grey smiled, a slow curving of his lips that was both terrifying and dazzling. "You earned the reward."
He didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees in front of her.
Lauren's eyes widened. "Grey, you don't—"
He didn't listen. He gripped her hips with large, strong hands, anchoring her in place. He hooked his fingers into the lace of her panties and pulled the crotch aside.
When his mouth touched her, Lauren cried out again, her hands flying to his hair. He was relentless. There was nothing tentative about him. He tasted her with an intensity that bordered on worship and gluttony. He used his tongue with devastating precision, licking and swirling, thrusting and fucking, finding the exact spot she had just overstimulated and tormenting it until she was sobbing his name.