Chapter 6: The Library Confession
The city sprawled beneath them like a circuit board dipped in neon. Ben stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, his reflection a ghost over the glittering grid. Jaxson’s penthouse was a study in cold perfection: polished concrete, sharp-edged leather, stainless steel that held no warmth. It was the lair of a predator. And he was here. Willingly.
“You’re quieter than usual,” Jaxson’s voice came from behind, soft but carrying in the vast, open space.
Ben didn’t turn. “It’s hard to think of a good insult with a view like this. It’s distracting.”
A low chuckle. “You’ll manage.”
Ben heard the clink of glass, the pour of liquid. He finally turned. Jaxson was at a monolithic bar, holding out a tumbler with two fingers of amber whiskey. He’d changed into dark slacks and a black sweater that made his shoulders look even broader, his blue eyes even brighter. The domesticity of it was disorienting.
Ben took the glass, their fingers brushing. A static shock, or something more biological, jumped between them. He took a sip, the fire of it grounding him. “So. You brought me to your fortress. To do what? Show off your real estate?”
“To show you something else.” Jaxson nodded towards a set of double doors made of dark, matte-finish wood. “Come on.”
Curiosity, that traitorous thing, tugged at Ben. He followed. Jaxson pushed the doors open and flicked a switch.
The room was a vault of warmth in the steel cage of the penthouse. Deep mahogany shelves climbed to a coffered ceiling, illuminated by soft, recessed lighting. It smelled of old paper, leather bindings, and bergamot. Thousands of books filled the space, a labyrinth of knowledge and stories.
Ben stepped inside, his breath catching. “This is…”
“My only vice that doesn’t involve you,” Jaxson said, leaning against the doorframe, watching him.
Ben moved along the shelves, his fingers hovering over spines. First editions of Fitzgerald. A pristine copy of Moby-Dick. Ancient philosophical texts in Greek and Latin. It was a collection of profound depth and obsessive care. It was completely, utterly at odds with the man he thought he knew.
“You read all these?”
“Most. Some I keep just for the beauty of the object.” Jaxson’s voice was closer now. He had moved into the room, a silent predator among the stacks. “A thing doesn’t have to be useful to be valuable. Sometimes its existence is enough.”
Ben stopped before a slender, beautifully bound volume of John Donne’s love poems. His hand reached out, almost of its own volition.
“Go ahead,” Jaxson murmured.
Ben pulled the book from the shelf. The leather was supple, the gilding on the pages still bright. He opened it carefully. The smell of centuries rose to meet him.
He felt Jaxson’s presence solidifying behind him, a heat at his back. He didn’t move. He traced a line of poetry with his fingertip. “Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.”
A large, warm hand covered his own on the page, stilling his finger. Jaxson’s other arm came around him, bracing against the shelf by his head, caging him in. Ben’s heart hammered against his ribs.
“Tell me what you really want, Ben,” Jaxson’s voice was a low rasp against his ear. “Right now. With my hands on you in this room. No pretense. No hate.”
Ben’s mouth was dry. The confession lodged in his throat, a stone of truth he’d choked on for years. He leaned back, just an inch, into the solid wall of Jaxson’s chest. It was answer enough.
Jaxson turned him slowly, pressing him back against the shelves. The books were solid against his spine. He looked up into those piercing blue eyes, saw the storm of desire there, barely leashed. The tender care from the morning after was gone, burned away by this new, knowing intimacy.
“You,” Ben whispered, the word a victory and a surrender.
Jaxson’s lips came down on his.
It wasn’t like the desperate, angry kisses from before. This was slow. Deliberate. A tasting. Jaxson’s mouth was soft, exploring his with a devastating patience that made Ben weak. He opened for him, a soft sigh escaping as Jaxson’s tongue delved inside, tasting of whiskey and dark promise. Ben’s hands came up, gripping Jaxson’s sweater, pulling him closer. The world narrowed to the feel of lips, tongue, the faint scrape of stubble, the solid shelf at his back.
Jaxson’s hands slid down his sides, settling on his hips, pulling him flush against the hard ridge of his erection. Ben gasped into the kiss, rocking forward instinctively, friction sparking through the layers of their clothes.
“Fuck,” Jaxson breathed, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth down Ben’s throat. He sucked on the skin over his bonding gland, the sensitive spot making Ben cry out, his legs buckling. Jaxson held him up easily, one hand moving to the button of Ben’s jeans. “I want to see you come apart against my books. Mark my territory.”
The crude words sent a shock of pure heat straight to Ben’s groin. Jaxson popped the button, drew the zipper down. He shoved Ben’s jeans and underwear down to his thighs in one rough motion, his hand wrapping around Ben’s cock. He was already fully hard, dripping.
“Look at you,” Jaxson growled, stroking him slowly, his thumb smearing pre-come over the head. “So pretty. All that fire, and you get hard just from my mouth on your neck.”
Ben thrust into his fist, helpless. “Jaxson, please—”
“Please what?” Jaxson bit his earlobe. “Use your words, Omega.”
“Fuck me,” Ben panted, his head lolling back against the books. “Right here. Now.”
Jaxson released him, making Ben whimper at the loss. He unfastened his own slacks, freeing his thick, veined cock. He spat into his palm, slicking himself, then turned Ben around to face the shelves. “Hold on,” he commanded, his voice thick.
Ben gripped the solid mahogany shelves, the edges biting into his palms. He felt Jaxson’s hands on his hips, pulling him back, then the blunt, insistent pressure of his cockhead against his entrance. He was still loose, slick from their earlier coupling, but Jaxson was huge. The stretch was breathtaking.
Jaxson didn’t ask. He pushed forward, a slow, relentless invasion that stole the air from Ben’s lungs. Ben groaned, the sound echoing in the quiet library, as Jaxson sank deep, filling him completely, a perfect, punishing fit.
“God, you’re tight,” Jaxson gritted out, his hands tightening on Ben’s hips. “Even open for me. This cunt was made for my cock.”
He began to move, short, sharp thrusts that knocked Ben against the shelves. Books rattled. It was raw, base, an animalistic claiming in this temple of thought. Jaxson set a brutal pace, each drive punching a choked sound from Ben’s throat. The pleasure was a live wire, sizzling through his nerves, coiling tight in his gut.
One of Jaxson’s hands slid around Ben’s hip, his fingers finding his cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was too much. Ben saw stars, his vision blurring at the edges.
“You feel that?” Jaxson snarled, his breath hot on Ben’s neck. His thrusts became more frantic, less controlled. “You feel how deep I am? This is where you belong. On my cock. Taking every fucking inch.”
Ben could only nod, his forehead pressed against a leather-bound spine. He was close, teetering on the edge. Jaxson’s thumb circled the head of his cock, his other hand digging bruises into Ben’s hip.
“Come for me,” Jaxson commanded, his voice guttural. “Paint my books. Show me.”
The order, the sheer vulgarity of it, tipped Ben over. His orgasm ripped through him, violent and blinding. He cried out, his body seizing as he spilled over Jaxson’s hand and the lower shelves, stripes of white marking the dark wood.
The convulsions of Ben’s body pulled Jaxson over the edge seconds later. He drove in one last, devastating time, burying himself to the hilt with a raw shout, his release flooding Ben’s insides in hot, pumping bursts.
They stayed like that, locked together, panting. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the faint hum of the city below. The smell of sex and old paper filled the air.
Slowly, Jaxson softened, slipped out. He turned Ben around, his hands gentle now, and pulled him into his arms. Ben clung to him, shaking, his face buried in Jaxson’s sweater. He was a mess. They both were.
Jaxson held him, one hand stroking his hair. He kissed the top of his head. “Mine,” he whispered, a simple statement of fact.
Ben didn’t argue. In the wreckage of his will, in the afterglow that felt suspiciously like peace, he couldn’t. He looked over Jaxson’s shoulder at the book he’d been holding. It had fallen to the floor, splayed open.
The poem on the page seemed to glow in the soft light: “Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free.”
Jaxson followed his gaze. He bent, picked up the book, and closed it with a soft snap. He slotted it back into its gap on the shelf, a perfect fit.
“Come on,” he said, his voice rough but tender. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led Ben, half-dressed and dazed, from the library. Ben cast one last look back at the room, at the sacred space now desecrated and claimed in the most primal way. The path was gone. There was no way back to who he was before. There was only forward, into the enthrallment.