Shelves

[Ar****]

She was a walking gothic lady. The gold glasses slipped over her sharp little nose, saved by an amber chain. Her waistcoat was a mossy green that made you want to touch it, d***d carefully over her crisp bustle of petticoats. Her dark hair was in a bun, coming loose at the base of her pale neck.

Her little blue cart held friends. Mòliere, Voltaire, Dickens; Shakespeare - she could quote them by heart. But there were other, darker tombs—ones intended for adults—in which her brave heart lay.

She heard his coat swish before he joined her. Dove grey, a plush velvet collar of black to match his top hat. His curling mustaches were amiable; his equally black eyes ravenous. The book in his hand closed with a thud, and she jumped.

“Those don’t go here,” he said, returning his tome. His voice was the rustle of pages she knew. He took a step towards her, tracing her lips with broad fingers. “Don’t you know better?”

They’d played this game for weeks, but he had never touched her. Today, he tipped her chin up to him, forcing their eyes to meet. The heat in her belly knew he wanted an answer.

“I was merely enquiring if you needed assistance, sir.” she said, as she had for several days. This time, the words trembled on her full mouth. “It’s my job to man the stacks.”

“Enough,” he growled.

He pulled her to him, the glasses slipping again as their lips met. She whimpered in surprise, then crumpled into his iron grasp. He pulled her white shirt open, revealing her bra, which came down. He knelt to suck her nipples; she covered her own mouth with a clenched fist.

“Sir—“ she began breathlessly, and he looked up at her. His blooming cheeks matched her own as he ducked beneath her skirt, pulling aside her panties in a sea of fabric to finger her. His tongue swirled on her clit.

She had no idea how beautiful she was, coming apart at his touch; his rakish mustache tickling. She had no idea how long he had desired her, how carefully he had hunted, had chosen the hour and day. All she knew was pleasure.

All she knew was him.

He easily hoisted her onto an empty table, her skirts flying as he entered her. His hand d***d across her mouth, the spare one at her nipples, punching, prodding.

She thrusted as he did, his pants at his ankles.

“I knew you,” he whispered, and she knew what he meant. “I knew what you wanted, you filthy slut… fucked right in broad daylight…. Oh god, you’re so tight! Yes! Yes!”

She exploded onto him, clenching as she came. He groaned in her ear. Her chest heaved as she lay there a moment. Far away, the bell rang; summoning her.

They buttoned up without a word; he even tipped his hat. She was rosy and beautiful; the golden fawn; and he was black as ink and merlot.

He would come again.