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“I’ll tell you what I want. Do this for me, and I’ll forgive you for toying with me before.”
He chuckles. “Let me guess. A nice pair of shoes? A dress all to yourself? Money? Wesharehere, chica. None of my girls have anything here with their name on it.”
Because none of them matter to him enough to draw his favor individually.
“Take me to your library,” I say. “I know you must have one. Let me spend the day there instead.”
“Again, with your foolish assumptions. You’re squandering my patience, Lupe. You have such a pretty face to look at, too, but I think I’ll have to suffer through my work without your presence. Get out.”
I obey without comment, though it pains me to leave his book behind. I wander back into my nearby room and find it empty.
Not even ten minutes later, a shadow darkens the doorway. “Come,” Horatio commands, his expression cold.
My heart pangs. Perhaps I went too far. He’ll take me to Gatita’s cage, I’m sure.
I don’t fight, though. I let him lead me downstairs and then to a lower level. Without faltering, I hold my head high and brace myself for the inevitable.
“You are to stay here,” Horatio says, opening a large black door.
I steel myself to find Gatita’s private room, complete with mauled remains of her owner’s enemies. Instead…
My eyes go wide, and I can’t silence a gasp of surprise. He has a library, after all. It isn’t fancy or a sprawling oasis of literature like one might find in a University. Oh no. This one is entirely his, and I get the sense that no one else comes in here. There’s a sacred way he’s arranged the various tomes on many shelves. They’re packed to bursting with several excess stacks piled on the floor.
There is another desk in here, but it’s oddly devoid of anything but a few pens. I recognize the sight. Once upon a time, when I devoted myself to my studies, I kept my desk the same way. So that I could spread out with my books at a moment’s notice and dive in.
His mind is a terrifying thing to try and picture. I can visualize him grabbing his latest read and fishing a notebook from his desk. The curiosity is too great, and even while Horatio watches, I cross over to the polished surface and wrench open a drawer.
God, he has good taste in notebooks. They’re leather-bound, the kind I would have killed for back in my study days. His pens are of the same quality , and I’m opening the topmost journal before I can stop myself.
Dios mío,his handwriting. It’s ruthlessly neat, each word carefully crafted. He didn’t take the time to write personal musings or inner thoughts. These are annotations—notes on what he’s been reading, with page numbers, dates, and even the time.
“You are to stay here,” Horatio repeats, but I barely hear him. I think he even locks me in, but I’m too spellbound to care. I’m a kid in a candy store, intoxicated by the wealth of knowledge of the world and his thought process that he’s let me feast upon.
The reality is that Shakespeare makes up a small fraction of Jaguar’s literary interests. He has books on everything from weather patterns and geography to classical art. Some I suspect are merely to feed his fleeting curiosities, but a picture of his true passions quickly becomes apparent.
He loves to study people. He has several books on psychology and biology, with both subjects making up the bulk of his annotated notes. He’s delved into everything from mental disorders to the various muscles and bones that make up the human body. The next most visited topic? Philosophers. He prefers Aristotle of all people, as well as other influential figures from history.
And I’m impressed. I don’t want to be, but sometime during my perusal of the third notebook, my feelings toward him change. The wall of hostility cracks, and for a second, I know I would give anything to watch him sit in this spot and devour his latest read.
As if the desire drew him here, I hear a quiet thud from the doorway. When I look over, he’s leaning against the frame, his gaze on me.
“Horatio said you looked upon the shelves like the other women in my harem do the closets. I wanted to see for myself.” He doesn’t like to divulge that. He is a man who rarely admits his regrets, let alone to another person.
I set my current conquest aside and watch him. Although he holds himself in the same self-assured, arrogant manner I’m used to, there’s a slight difference I almost miss. He doesn’t take his eyes off me once. He’s uneasy letting me into this space.
My awe is unrestrained.
“If you had shown me this the first night, I wouldn’t have needed your cock to orgasm,” I say, utilizing his naughty language against him. “The shock alone from realizing you have a brain in your skull would have made me come. Talk dirty to me with more of your favorite quotes, and I’ll show you a real performance you won’t forget.”
He laughs, but his eyes narrow in that warning way. He has his guard up, but not entirely.
“How do you know this place is mine and not Horatio’s?”
That’s easy. I hold up the notebook. “Because you write like you talk. In code. Like you think that revealing the slightest hint of your intellect will draw undo notice. So, you are brief. Succinct. I’d love to hear you explain them to me one day.”
He advances and holds out his hand for the notebook, which I relinquish. After scanning the open page, he slams it shut.
“I let you see my books. I never said you could read them or anything else in this room.”
