Laughing as I was dragged down the narrow corridor of shelves and pressed back against the romance novels, I gasped at the drag of my slacks down my thighs, the warm curl of his fingers, the slick swipe of his tongue.

My hand gripped convulsively at his shoulder, and I blinked at his low, steady command, momentarily uncomprehending. With a huff of breath, I reached back to brace my hands against the shelves, knocking a worn paperback to the floor in the process.

"You're not making it easy," I warned, knowing that would only encourage him.