The Bookstore

He led her, through towers and stacks and shelves. Her eyes couldn't adjust to everything at once but he kept moving. Just a step ahead. Just two steps, his cologne a trail following him, urging her to follow it and connect. She did. They waltzed between the racks to the ceiling, her neck craning to see all the titles. He looked back, his eyes delighted at her delight, the tendrils of hair caressing her neck and he too wished to caress.

The thought was forbidden, the act unimaginable. But he imagined. And as she turned from her joyful perusal he saw it.

It was there.

It matched his.

The glint in her eyes matched his own, and he knew the answer was yes.

He moved faster through the shelves, the smell of paper intoxicated them, drove them faster through the maze of volumes.

He brushed past her once, close, their arms touched and he thrilled. She trembled. He glanced and watched her tongue dart out to wet her lips as he made small talk about a book he once read.

She saw him watch her tongue; she knew what power it had. She did it again. His eyes narrowed because he was older, wiser, and he knew her game immediately and caught her at it.

But he loved it.

She watched him love it as she dragged her tongue across her bottom lip slowly.

He snapped around and moved faster away from her. Still his cologne beckoned her to follow, and follow she did. He was leaving this place, this place of magic and books and shelves to the ceiling. This magic place where the volumes begged to be read, their spines begged to be touched. Pulled from the shelf and loved by someone who would value them.

She identified with them. She watched his back as he walked, the power of his legs, the flex of muscles under his shirt as he moved through the rows and winded his way to the staircase. She wondered what his fingers would feel like on her spine. She watched the barely concealed power that rippled under his clothes, and wondered what he would be like when he took her. Would he value her like he valued these books?

They made it to the door, where the smell paper and old wood mixed with the humid, moist air of the outdoors. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath and he had stopped. She slammed into his back, her breasts pushing into him and he reached behind him to steady her.

His palm wrapped around her wrist and she was branded. The electric zing shot to her bones and her knees liquefied. She liquefied elsewhere as well. She felt the rush, the pressure, the opening of the floodgates. He only had her wrist, but she knew. He would value her.

She knew when he laid his hands on her, all over her; it was going to be something.

He felt the zing, felt the jolt, and as she turned to lava between her legs, he turned to steel. He knew it would be something, and he needed to know now. Right now. Back there. Right now.

He moved forward once more, turning the corner onto a cobblestone street with cove after cove of greenery, flowers, benches, tables and chairs. Meant for people to bring their books and hide away and read and get lost in the stories. He walked to the farthest one back and spun. He wasn't going to read a story; he was going to write one.

She was ten steps behind- his stride ate up the ground compared to hers.

His eyes looked light in the waning daylight; hers turned gold.

He sat on the bench and beckoned to her. He pulled her onto his lap. As she moved he unzipped his pants and freed himself, even as she reached under her skirt and slid her panties to the side.

"Next time don't wear them. It's a waste of time."

Her insides jumped at the implication.

His fist circled his cock and he guided himself to her entrance. She dropped her weight into him and let out a small gasp.

He held her still and placed his lips on hers finally, muffling her moan as his full length and width stretched her walls while she settled fully into his lap.

A couple headed their direction but stopped. They knew. The sun knew. The stars knew. They wrote it.

As that same sun sunk below the horizon, she rocked gently, feeling every inch of him and his soul. He held her so carefully. His hands drifted up to her neck and he cradled her face as his tongue delved into her mouth, plunging again and again. She was in his possession and nothing was going to happen to her.

The time was coming. There was no frantic coupling, no exaggerated thrusts of pornographic intent. It was steady, easy rocking, and she'd never felt so completely sexy, so completely aroused. His hands dropped to her waist and he held her still. His hips jerked up into her again and again, filling his fill and saying his piece.

She fluttered around him and he groaned, and she caught it with her mouth as she came. Her legs shook as she floated back down to earth, only to be blasted with his grunt and his release.

Her head dropped to his shoulder and she smiled, thankful for the story and the way it unfolded. He kissed her head, her temple, found the corner of her mouth. She lifted her head and his eyes promised more. Oh. Much, much more.

He helped her up and off his lap. He knew he needed more, but he just needed to be able to focus. He had to take the edge off. It made it worse. She saw it in his eyes and her knees shook.

She adjusted herself and then looked down, using her skirt to wipe him off her thighs. She felt the very essence of him slick in her panties, and she had to shut her eyes. The deepest part of her core flexed, wanting more. As her eyes fluttered open, he finished tucking in his shirt and glanced at her. He saw it.

It triggered something possessive and primal in him and she saw it. She watched the color of his eyes darken and his jaw set and she knew they weren't done.

"Come on." He held his hand out.

With zero hesitation she took his hand, and they headed into the darkening night to finish writing their story.