BHE | Chapter 2: The Library at Midnight

Two nights later, the mansion lay under a suffocating silence. The staff had long since retired, and the only light came from the pale moon filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the grand library.

Beatriz did not knock.

She slipped through the heavy mahogany doors, wearing nothing but a sheer lace robe. Paulo was waiting in the shadows of the “History” section, leaning against a ladder.

“You’re late,” he whispered, his voice a low vibration in the dark.

“I had to wait for the guard to finish his rounds,” she murmured, stepping into his space. She loved the contrast. The cold dignity of her family’s history pressed in from every side, while her body burned for the man that same history would never acknowledge.

Paulo did not waste time with words. He gripped her waist and lifted her onto the sturdy library table, scattering a few loose papers.

“I thought you said I was just a gardener,” he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive line of her jaw. “Why invite a peasant into a room like this?”

“Because,” Beatriz gasped as his hands slid beneath the lace, finding the heat of her thighs, “in this room, we make our own rules.”

He looked up at her, his eyes darkened. “Tonight, I’m not tending your roses, Beatriz. His voice dipped lower. “I’m tending to you.”

He drew the robe from her shoulders, letting it fall away. Bathed in moonlight, she looked carved from marble, but the way she arched into his touch was pure fire. He claimed her mouth in a kiss that tasted of restraint finally breaking, his hands moving with a urgency that suggested two days apart had been years too long.

The silence of the library shattered. Boots struck hardwood. Silk slid against polished wood. The ancient table creaked beneath them.

He did not merely touch her. He claimed her.

Paulo gripped her thighs, forced them wide, and pulled her to the very edge of the heavy table. The wood was cold against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body.

“You want wild, Beatriz?” he hissed against her throat, his teeth grazing her skin until she whimpered. “You want to see what happens when I stop being polite?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Paulo reached for his belt, the metallic click of the buckle sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room. He didn’t strip; he simply freed his aching hardness, which was already throbbing with a violent need.

Beatriz reached for him, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, but he caught her wrists. With one hand, he pinned both of her arms above her head against the cold surface of the table, leaving her arched and vulnerable.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

She did.

As she met his dark, burning gaze, he drove into her with a single, powerful thrust.

“Ah! God!” Beatriz’s cry broke against his mouth as he crushed his lips to hers. It was raw and unyielding. There was no gentle buildup, no soft whispers—only the sound of skin hitting skin and the creak of the ancient table under the weight of their sin.

He moved with a brutal precision, his thrusts deep and unforgiving. He wasn’t just making love; this was possession. A reminder that no matter her name or her family’s wealth, her body answered to him.

“Nnnh… P-Paulo… more…” she gasped, her legs wrapping tightly around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back to pull him deeper. The friction was intense, a white-hot spark that threatened to consume them both.

He released her hands, but only to grip her hips, his fingers biting into her skin. Without warning, he turned her, pressing her face down against the scattered books and papers. The scent of old parchment and expensive ink filled her lungs as he took her from behind, his chest slick against her back.

Every thrust sent a jolt of electricity through her. She felt the strength in his arms, the heat of him, the sweat from his brow dripping onto her shoulder. He was relentless, a force of nature that refused to be tamed.

“Whose are you?” he demanded, his voice a ragged snarl as he reached the breaking point. He tangled his fingers in her hair, lifting her head just enough to see her face.

“Yours… I’m yours!” she cried out, her voice breaking.

The end came like an explosion. Paulo groaned, a deep, guttural sound of triumph, as he buried himself fully, his body shaking with release. Beatriz collapsed onto the table, her body trembling, her breath coming in short, helpless gasps as the waves of pleasure washed over her.

For a long moment, the only sound was the pounding of their hearts.

“If they find us like this,” Paulo whispered, his lips lingering by her ear, “they’ll ruin us both.”

Beatriz turned her head, a slow, defiant smile curving her lips. “Then let them watch.”