Stud in the Stacks: A Fake Fiancee / Hot Librarian / Bachelor Auction Romantic Comedy

by Pippa Grant

  The sensation of my finger on my sensitive skin coupled with the image of myself spreading my legs makes me gasp and tremble harder.

  I’ve gotten myself off plenty of times in my lifetime, but I’ve never watched myself do it.

  “Oh, god,” I whisper.

  “Are you tight?” Knox’s voice is strained. “Wet? Do you need me to touch you?”

  I watch my eyes go hooded and dark. My hair’s wild around my head, my breast heavy in my palm, nipple hard between my thumb and finger, and when I push one finger up into my wet channel, my inner walls clench. “Oh yes,” I whisper. “So tight.”

  “I want to fucking be inside you,” he growls.

  I plunge my finger deeper, wonder how big he’d be, and buck against my hand. “Oh, god, you’re so big.”

  “So fucking big. Open for me, kitten. Let me ride inside you. Deep and hard and fast. I want to feel your pussy squeezing me.”

  I close my eyes and arch my back, the image of Knox riding inside me carrying me over the edge so hard and fast I cry out.

  “That’s it, Parker. Come for me.”

  “I’m coming. Oh, god, I’m coming.”

  I fall off that cliff, dropping back to my bed with my legs spread wide, four of my own fingers thrust as deep as they’ll go while wave after wave of my orgasm washes over me.

  “Talk to me, kitten. Tell me how good it is.”

  “So… Fucking… Good.” I’m panting as the last tremors resonate through my body. “Ohmygod.”

  “You’re gorgeous,” Knox whispers. “Fucking gorgeous when you come.”

  I don’t answer, because I’m too busy panting.

  And possibly there’s a little bit of moisture slipping out of my eyeballs.

  I’ve just had the best sex of my life with a phone. And the phone didn’t even touch me.

  “Parker?” he says.

  “Hmm?”

  “You still with me?”

  I don’t know. On the one hand, I feel this raw power seeping into my bones.

  On the other, I just shared a digital orgasm with a man I used to babysit.

  “Parker?”

  “I’m here.”

  He chuckles. “Sleepy time?”

  “Afterglow time.”

  “Are your cheeks flushed?”

  “Everything’s flushed.”

  “Hope I get the privilege of seeing that sometime soon.”

  Oh, god, me too.

  And I sincerely hope he can really be as good as his phone sex is.

  13

  Knox

  I’m flopped back on my bed, totally spent, staring dumbly at my phone.

  It’s been a long time since my instincts have been at war. Half of me wants to text Parker, find out where she lives, and pop over to see her. The other half of me is waving big, fat Slow Down signs.

  I could argue I want to see her to make sure she’s okay. That I didn’t push her too hard.

  That I’m not being a total asshole.

  I shake my head and force myself to my feet.

  Parker’s a grown woman. She made it clear she’s not interested in anything permanent, but that she is interested in exploring what I keep under my loincloth. Just because she’s on the inexperienced side doesn’t mean a roll in the sheets is going to upend her entire life.

  We have a mutually beneficial arrangement here, and there’s no need for me to worry.

  My phone buzzes. I grab it, my heart accelerating when I see Parker Parker Elliott has texted me.

  Thanks for a fun Tim. Seek you laying.

  This woman and her phone. My pleasure, I type back. Can I ask one last favor?

  Dove ends on the flavor.

  I’m almost starting to understand her autocorrect, and when I get a Ducking phone message, I picture her squinting at her phone, lips puckered, cheeks going pink, and can almost hear her growl.

  My cock stirs.

  There’s a book that makes me think of you, I text. Try it out?

  There’s no response, no hint of a response for a full minute, and I’m actually starting to sweat.

  No strings, I type quickly. Just think you’ll like it.

  After another eternity, the typing bubbles pop up. I’ll cry.

  My heart stops.

  Just gives up, right there, because I’m not in the habit of making women cry. Unless I know they like tears with their fiction, because let’s face it, there are lots of tears to be had in the romance genre, and yeah, I totally read some of them just for the tears.

  But making Parker Parker Elliott cry at the thought of reading a book?

  Nope.

  No way.

  A new message pops up from her. Dog hymn this ducking phone. I’ll T R Y.

  I collapse back against my pillow, my breath whooshing out.

  Ducking phone is right.

  I shoot her a quick message asking her to email me—not taking chances of her ducking phone autocorrecting her email address. As soon as her message comes through, I pull up my favorite online bookstore and place a quick ebook order to be delivered to her, then text her that it’s on its way.

  She texts me back a quick Ranks, and spoon me your boob info, which I take to mean Thanks, and send me your blog info, and my world is suddenly right again.

  Parker Elliott.

  I don’t get it.

  Not the part where my cock is asking for round two—I get that. She’s hot, she’s funny, she’s real, and my hand is a poor substitute for her sweet heat.

  What I don’t get is why no other man in the world has ever put the effort into making her feel special.

  Who the fuck cares if she’s not a classic beauty. Who is? She’s gorgeous in her own way, and I want to kick the shit out of the dimwits who ever made her feel less than worthy.

  It’s like—it’s like that dick in the Times today.

  Putting down romance because they’re not his type of beauty. Because love is something to be sniffed at. Because he’s too good to appreciate something outside his comfort zone.

  Fuck him and his insecurity. Fuck all of them and their pathetic attempts to diminish a strong woman to build themselves up.

  And thank you, Parker.

  You’ve just inspired Mr. Romance to get to work.

  14

  Knox (on his blog, in his official capacity of Mr. Romance)

  Dear Mr. Condescending Asshat at New York’s (supposedly) Finest Newspaper,

  It’s true what they say. You can give a man an education, a good job, and an important title, but you can’t take away his ignorance.

  And you, Mr. Asshat, are clearly a very ignorant man.

  I hate to break this to you, but your mother had sex. (This also presumably (but not definitively) means your father had sex.) If she hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here. Also, as my research indicates that you, too, claim children of your own, I know you, too, have had sex in your lifetime. (Notice me not making assumptions here about the frequency, duration, or quality of said sex.) Your neighbors have sex. Your mail delivery person has sex. Your coworkers have sex.

  I have sex.

  What you, and I, and your neighbors and mail delivery person and coworkers, do not do, is ride around on motorboats in custom designer suits and sunglasses, shooting at the bad guys and saving the girl from a raging lunatic nutcase hellbent on blowing up the world. We don’t overdose on coffee at the local precinct and spend sleepless nights racing to find serial killers or puzzle out the world’s unsolved mysteries. We don’t get bitten by mutant spiders in experimental labs and end up with superpowers that lead to us swinging from the tallest buildings in the city to save citizens in distress. (Side note: I’m a librarian by day. You’re damn right I did my research, and yes, I know about your comic book collection.)

  My point: Why do you dismiss romance novels as flighty women’s fantasies that give women unrealistic ideas, when the average adult—female and male—is far more likely to engage in a relationship (spoiler alert: WITH SEX! And hopefully
mutual respect and appreciation of each other) than they are to be James Bond, Sam Spade, or Spider-Man?

  Research shows that people who read fiction regularly are more empathic. Based on your condescending, judgmental, and completely inaccurate assessment of romance novels, I’d venture to say you probably don’t read enough. At least, nothing that would make you a better person.

  Your mother’s probably regretting having sex right now.

  Every time you and the asshats of your ilk pen a piece disparaging romance novels—which, spoiler alert again, are really about humanity’s hope and struggles and triumphs, which you apparently missed for getting hung up on the sex—you distract the good people who read and defend them from volunteering, donating to good causes, and raising the next generation of men and women who won’t be asshats.

  Which suggests your goal isn’t the furtherance of a better society, but rather to cling to a world in which you are right above all else, even though you’re clearly wrong. And ignorant. And trying to hide the fact that you have a small penis. (Yes, Mr. Asshat, I did very thorough research.)

  I’m not writing this to defend romance novels. Romance novels need no defense, because they stand on their own against every insecure word you fling at them.

  No, I’m writing this to tell you you’re a dick. Somebody has to, and most romance lovers I know are too good to say it to your face. They’re far better people than you’ll ever be.

  In case you skipped to the end, let me repeat: You, Mr. Asshat, are a shoddy journalist, a prime example of what’s wrong with our society, and above all, you are a dick.

  And you can suck mine.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Romance

  15

  Knox

  Tuesday at lunchtime, the West Park Branch Library is hopping. Toddler story time is over, which means the adult section on the third floor is currently overrun with frazzled mothers in need of some solid escapism and their adorable, wound-up, hungry children who don’t care if Mommy gets her own book before they head off for hot dogs or tofu nuggets or whatever it is that kids eat for lunch these days.

  Manning the adult services desk and recommending books is only a fraction of what I do. I can research the shit out of weird questions that come in from our patrons. I’m our designated bouncer when lowlifes come in to use our computers to look at porn. Programs and community outreach take up over half my time. But this hour after toddler story time, and the hour after baby play group on Fridays, when I’m in the thick of recommending romance novels to these women, are usually my favorite parts of the week.

  Even when there are pint-sized pirates in Pull-ups threatening to climb the stacks and mutiny unless they’re given their grapes and Goldfish soon. Because these patrons know and love the same books I do, and usually, that’s a high like no other.

  It’s not quite doing it for me today though.

  Easy to blame the distraction of my exploding Mr. Romance email inbox, except every time I get another interview request, virtual high five, or the occasional ass-chewing from someone offended by the word dick in my post from Sunday, I find myself wanting to forward it to Parker.

  Possibly because as soon as I launched the blog, she texted me Holy duck, you’re about to do the ho Virginia. You’re going to need a pubic retaliations and meerkat staff.

  I don’t have a clue what that do the ho Virginia part was about, and the truth is, I like my blog small, manageable, and for fun, but you can see why she’s hard to forget.

  Even when I’m in the middle of my favorite part of the week.

  “I’m a little bored with paranormals, but I don’t want something contemporary. Nothing too real,” one of my regulars is telling me at the high counter that serves as our desk.

  I thumb a Manda Collins novel off the shelf of the rolling cart I stocked this morning to prepare for the onslaught. “Try this. Regency romance with some mystery and intrigue.”

  She eyes the soft-toned cover with the smiling young model in period dress, then gives me the dubious eyeball.

  “Trust me.” She doesn’t smile back, even though I’ve never let her down and I know she’ll be hooked as soon as she tries it, so I go back to my shelf and produce a Bec McMaster romance. It’s possible I’m off my game today. “And a steampunk for backup.”

  “Steampunk?”

  “Like historical paranormal with technology. Big bads. Cool gadgets. But you have to promise to read both.”

  Now, she beams at me.

  The next woman in line lunges across the counter and squishes me in an awkward hug. “I just wanted to say thanks for what you did on your blog,” she gushes. “The world needs more men like you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She’s in my age range, but the big rock on her left hand tells me she’s not trying to cop a feel. Which is also a danger when you’re known as Mr. Romance. More so than dancing in a loincloth at a bachelor auction had been, if you can believe it. I pat her shoulder, hands above the danger zone and in clear sight of anyone watching or snapping photos with their phone, because my regional manager is a romance-hating prick who’s been looking for an excuse to fire me for months.

  Buy his grown daughter a book at the bookstore and take her out to coffee, and suddenly you’re enemy number one.

  The next patron steps up. She’s also a regular, pulling two little rugrats behind her while clutching a stack of kids’ books to her chest with her other hand. “I can’t find the next Lucky Harbor romance. I need the next Lucky Harbor romance.”

  I peel a Jill Shalvis off the shelf. Saw it come back in yesterday, and I know from experience that this particular mother doesn’t get our online reservation system. “This one?”

  “Ohmygod, can you come home and give my husband lessons? He can’t even read my mind about picking his socks up off the floor.”

  “Does he have to wear socks?”

  She straightens. “You know what? You’re right. If he wants clean socks, he can either hit the hamper or he can clean them his own damn self. God, you’re good.”

  Nah, I’ve just read a few thousand romance novels.

  None of which have prepared me adequately for the walking contradiction that is Parker Parker Elliott.

  I help the mom restack her books so they don’t slide out of her arms while her adorable blond daughter picks her nose and her rambunctious son strains against the chest harness disguised as a teddy bear backpack that he’s strapped into.

  Children’s leashes. I’ve helped enough women search the stacks for hiding rugrats to appreciate the utter brilliance.

  The chaos fades as the women and their little grumpapotamuses straggle off the floor, leaving a more manageable crowd in the adult section. I flag down my partner-in-crime, a friendly single mother of two who’s helping an elderly gentleman search for a particular book on the history of World War I, and offer to pick up her usual from the corner deli.

  I make my way downstairs and almost miss Gertie, my branch manager and immediate supervisor, giving me the shut the fuck up and get in here if you don’t want to die glare from the doorway leading to our small office area. She and I go way back, and she’s always been more like a second mom than a boss. The fact that I’m reading profanity into her body language can’t be a good sign, because to the best of my knowledge, Gertie’s never even used the word fart. She prefers to call it tooting.

  Also, she likes to remind me from time to time that she, too, used to change my diapers.

  Her boss, however, who’s standing wide-legged in my cubicle, his face mildly reminiscent of a pickled beet that needs to sneeze, has probably never touched a diaper in his life. As I mentioned, he’s never been my biggest fan.

  The feeling is mutual. I don’t have much trust in people who mock romance novels. Especially when he’s a librarian whose family members love to read them.

  “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t fire you right now.” Marty Dorky—yes, that’s really his name—slaps a piece of paper on my util
itarian cubicle desk, his finger bending backwards from the motion of jabbing it.

  I’d say that piece of paper must’ve fucked up pretty badly, except I have a strong suspicion I know what’s on it.

  Yep, that’s my blog.

  “What I do on my personal time has no reflection on this library,” I tell Marty. “Besides, it’s all accurate.”

  “Knox,” Gertie hisses.

  “Your revolving string of loose women may not reflect on my library, but this does.” Marty steps into my face. “I’ve tolerated that filthy blog of yours—”

  “Watch yourself,” I growl.

  “—long enough. Our patrons know who Mr. Romance is. We’re not here to call journalists names and insult newspapers. We’re here to help the public.”

  “I am helping the public. I’m helping the public stand up to the ridiculous notion that fiction written and read primarily by women is somehow less worthy than any other fiction or literature.”

  “You cannot call venerated journalists dicks on a library blog.”

  “Venerated journalism and egotistical dickism have never been mutually exclusive. He is a dick. And that’s not a library blog.”

  “Knox, shut up.” Gertie shoves between us and pushes us apart. She points at me. “Apologize and redact the name-calling.”

  Like hell. That piece isn’t for me. It’s for my readers. It’s for my patrons.

  It’s for Parker. “No.”

  Marty’s got a vein throbbing so high on his forehead it’s disappearing into his receding hairline. “Too late. The editorial director at the Times book section wants a one-on-one with you.”

  Holy fuck.

  Sarah MacLean and Lauren Layne write eloquent responses to idiotic reporting on the romance genre, and the Times wants the guy who calls their reporter a dick. Go figure.

  Also?

  If the Times is reaching out to my boss for an interview instead of me through my blog, he’s right. I’m wading up one of those proverbial shit creeks that sometimes flow through Manhattan.