I stand straighter, inhaling deeply. “Okay.”
“I’ll take you out for ice cream or tea or whatever after this, but I don’t want it as a strike against our date count.”
My brows pinch. “Why not?”
“Because this is where you work, so it shouldn’t count.” I don’t know that I agree with his reasoning, and I think he’s only trying to finagle another date out of me, but I’m also thinking I might not mind more than three outings with him.
For the remainder of the readings, I stand by Nathan. Our bodies press close, and I’m thankful the low bookshelf blocks our bodies. He leans his elbows on the bookcase, his hands clasped together. Then he shifts on his feet, dragging his arm sideways to brush against mine. His knuckles trail along my forearm. My eyes dart to him but I don’t move. My legs tremble. My body hums.
His hand swipes across my backside, slipping to my opposite hip, and I clamp my lips, holding in the gasp desperate to escape at such a bold move. Instead, I grip the top edge of the wooden shelf and slip my foot around his. I shift so his leg wedges between both of mine.
“What are you doing?” he hisses near my ear, but he doesn’t prevent the slow torture of our bodies coming together. He draws his knee upward, forcing my thighs apart and my core pulses in iambic pentameter.
Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.
I want to write poetry over his skin.
The hand at my hip remains, while the other rests on the top of the low bookcase, next to mine. His thumb stretches out and strokes at my pinky. I’m concentrating so hard on the tender touch, I almost miss his body shifting, drawing flush behind me. The seam of his front presses into my lower back. I stand straighter and lean against him. My back melts at his chest and his breath tickles along my neck.
The wolf inhales my scent and I close my eyes.
“You smell good enough to eat,” he whispers, and I lick my lips. I’m the one who wants a taste of him. My palms flatten on the bookcase and his fingers crawl forward to entwine with mine. The movement brings him tighter against my body from behind. My backside presses against him.
“Don’t tease, Goddess, or I’ll bend you over this wood.”
More puns? My breath hitches. Do I want him to do that to me? I’ve never … but I might. With the pulse between my thighs ratcheting up a beat, I begin to wonder what it would be like to be taken against this shelf.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
How I want you to fill me,
I do, I do, I do.
I lean forward but his body follows, pinning me against the bookcase. His fingers release my hand and skim up my arm before dropping behind the stacks to clutch the material of my dress. The fabric rises along my outer thigh.
He wouldn’t …
“What are you doing?” I hiss, my eyes forward, my mind unable to concentrate on Hazel Cumberstone, Mabel’s twin sister, reading a poem. His palm flattens on my outer thigh over my tights and massages downward.
“I like this dress,” he whispers. “It’s a little easier to access than the rest.” I’m wearing a deep purple one which comes to my knees. It’s the same one I had on the night I kissed him in the library the first time. It is shorter than most of the dresses or skirts in my wardrobe, and I always feel a bit risqué when I wear it. I feel especially risqué with his hand rubbing my outer thigh and my dress riding higher and higher to my hip.
“You have thick hands,” I say, disregarding his comment about my dress. I want to tip my head back for some reason, give him access to my neck and feel his lips suck at my skin. But I don’t dare move with an audience before us.
“All the better to touch you with,” he murmurs near my ear. My knees buckle, and my flattened palms squeak with sweat against the smooth surface of the shelf. He catches me with his knee between my thighs and a sudden heat envelops me. This isn’t a hot flash. This is an inferno of desire.
“What time does this end?” He exhales at my ear, squeezing at my thigh, his fingers slipping forward, rounding my leg to the front. My core clenches, pulse accelerating. He’s going to make me embarrass myself with just the brush of his fingers.
“I have to close tonight, so nine.”
He groans and the sound ripples over my skin. His hand stills, and his forehead lowers to my shoulder. A strangled grunt resounds against my bone.
“I can’t keep this up for another hour and a half. You’ll make me lose my mind.” He straightens, releasing my dress to fall back into place and returns his hand to the top of the bookcase near mine, only this time it’s a fist for control. I slump against him, a little disappointed but also a bit relieved. I can’t have an orgasm in the midst of poetry night. That would be poetically inappropriate, right?
An hour and a half later, I feel differently. My skin tingles. My underwear is wet. I need relief like I’ve never needed anything in my life. Julianne gives me another reproachful look as Nathan remains inside the library doors when I tell her I’ll lock up.
“After hours visitors are not permitted,” she reminds me.
“I understand. He’s only waiting for me. Once I lock up, we’ll be leaving,” I promise her. She gives me a scathing look of disbelief and I’d like to think I don’t deserve it, but I do. The second the door clicks to lock, I spin and lean against the cool surface to face Nathan. His eyes roam my body in the dress he says he likes, and I feel that look like a teasing paintbrush on the canvas of my skin.
I want him to touch me. Not just over the tights on my thighs, but deep to the core—bare, raw, unfamiliar.
“I was wondering where to find poetry in the library. In case I’m interested in reading more.” He tries to keep his voice even, sounding studiously serious, but there’s a tease in his tone. The corner of his lip tweaks upward and I shake my head at the smirky dimple. Pressing off the door, I lead him to the 800s—the Literature section. My fingers comb the spines until I get to the first section of poetry.
“Are you interested in writing it or reading it?” I pause and glance at him over my shoulder. He’s followed particularly close to me as we saunter down this aisle. He removed his jacket an hour ago, settling into the readings, the critiques which followed, and the short social hour. Mabel and Hazel, forty-something twins, were hitting on him, and twinges of jealousy surged through me. I have no claim on Nathan, so I tried to keep my kitty cat claws in check. I don’t even like cats, but I like Nathan. Too much.
“Writing it,” he says, and I spin to face him. He leans against the shelves, which stand taller in this section, and holds something in his hand.
“What’s that?”
His eyes remain lowered as he unfolds a piece of paper. His hands tremble and my curiosity piques.
“I thought poetry night meant you had to write your own poem and then perform it.”
I smile before I explain. “That’s more like a coffee house poetry reading. Maybe we should consider it for the library.” We’ve started a list of new ways to attract patrons in hopes to keep the library open.
He begins to refold the paper, but I reach for his wrist. “What is this?”
“It’s silly.” He shrugs, his body shifting against the shelf so his back leans against it. My brows pinch until he cups my hand in his and brings it to his lips.
“Did you write a poem?” My eyebrow rises as he glances sideways at me and then gazes down at his booted feet. He looks like a guilty child, so I lower my voice like I would talk to Sabrina’s nephew, Harry. “Will you read it to me?”
Now, I’m trembling. Nathan wrote a poem. Could I like this man any more?
“That would be a firm no-can-do. I’m no poet, and I’m bad at reading aloud.”
“But you already wrote it. You already know the words.”
“It’s doesn’t really rhyme or anything.”
“Most poems don’t. It doesn’t have to.”
“It doesn’t make much sense.” My heart races in my chest as his fingers tighten around mine.
The paper in his other hand shakes.
“I won’t laugh.” With my free hand, I cross over my heart. Then, I promise the Goddess and Mother Earth and any other deity who wants to listen that I will not chuckle at a single word.
He wrote a poem.
I reach for his jaw and spread my fingers, loving the prickle of his chin hair against my palm. “You can do this, Nathan. I believe in you.” I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because I feel stronger when he’s near me. Maybe because I gave into him, and nothing happened to me. Nothing happened to the universe around us.
He grins and that darn dimple peeks out again. “Those eyes,” he warns, and I stare back at him. Lick-me eyes?
“I won’t look at you. I’ll just listen.” Closing my eyes, he clears his throat. His voice trembles as he begins:
* * *
Tis the time of year for changing leaves
And howling winds in the shifting air.
Wolves bay at the round moon.
Ghosts roam the circular earth,
And witches rule the dark woods.
I met one such ruler among the trees.
She whispered my name like a kiss.
I responded with one of my own,
And so I am bewitched.
Onto her lips, she adds my name to her spells
And find I’m stuck on the thought of her.
* * *
When Nathan finishes, I can’t breathe. My lids slowly open, and I stare up at him. He isn’t looking at me, but keeps his eyes focused on the trembling paper.
“It sucked, right?”
“It was perfect.” The words fall from my mouth, breathless and seductive.
His lips twist as his eyes drift to mine and then back to the parchment. “It wasn’t very good.”
“Was that about …” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Was that for me?”
Nathan Ryder wrote a poem. For me.
He nods once.
“May I keep it?” My voice shakes as I ask. If he says no, it won’t matter. I’ve memorized it in seconds and emblazed it on my heart. I’ll have it tattooed on my side and I don’t have any tattoos. He hands the paper to me and I fold it into squares like he had it. I don’t have any pockets, so I place it in the palm of my hand like a revered gift, covering it with my other hand. It is a gift.
“This is very special to me.” My voice comes out hardly more than a whisper. “You’re special to me.” I know I’m offering him yet another piece of my soul, but writing me a poem? It’s just so much.
He peers up. “Damn it, Nae. Those eyes.” His voice roughens as he speaks quietly, and he shifts his body to face me.
“What do my eyes say, Nathan?” My breathing increases and my chest rises and falls. I don’t recognize myself. He turns me on like a light switch, the hum of electrical energy buzzing through me.
He wrote me a poem.
His head is shaking in response to the question I asked, so I answer for him.
“Nathan Ryder, I very much do want to lick you.”
I don’t have time to contemplate my admission because his hands delve into my hair and his mouth covers mine. I’m pressed back into the opposite stacks as his lips devour mine. Open mouth kisses and searching tongue, Nathan acts like he could eat me up, and I’m reminded of the poem I read about the wolf and the girl who followed him.
“Mmm, your lips. You taste like honey and almonds and everything sweet,” he says against my mouth, and I melt a little more at his slow tenderness. “I want to punish you for teasing me earlier and yet take my time to savor every kiss.”
Punish me? What did I do? Instantly, I recall pressing against him, the length of him rubbing at my backside. His mouth continues his hungry attention before lowering to my neck. I tip my head like I wanted to do earlier, allowing him access to my skin. His hand slides from my hair down my front and lands on one breast. Squeezing, I arch into his touch as my fingers claw down his back.
He pulls away abruptly, maybe shocked that I’ve allowed him to touch me in such a manner. Maybe equally surprised at my response. It isn’t enough.
Sweet Goddess.
“I’ll never do anything you don’t want me to. We can take it slow, but I still want more of you.” He’s telling me something with his searing gaze, but I can’t read him. The only thing I understand is the throbbing ache at my core and the hard length of him pressed against my hip.
His hand releases my breast and I whimper as he leaves me. Another sly grin graces his lips and his hand falls to my outer thigh. Once again, my dress lifts while his eyes stay trained on mine.
“I want to touch you,” he whispers, his mouth less than an inch away. “I want to know how wet you get for me.”
My eyes close and I don’t recognize myself as I answer, “Very wet.”
Catastrophe may be written in the stars but the only thing I want printed is his fingers on me. My dress rises to my hip and his hand dips into my tights. The first brush comes over my underwear and I moan at the tenderness.
“Nae,” he exhales, finding the answer to how wet he makes me. His finger nudges the cotton to the side and the tip of a thick digit slices through my core. I flinch forward, surprised and eager for more. One stroke isn’t enough.
“Again,” I encourage.
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s going to be again and again …” His words drift as his fingers sift through slick folds, finding the sweet spot, forcing me to gasp. I rock forward with his touch, my body begging for more. I exhale his name like an enchantment and Nathan begins to speak as he rubs circles over my sensitive skin.
“She whispered my name like a kiss.” His finger enters me, and I buck forward. My arms stretch for the edge of the shelves to hold me upright. His middle finger slides in and out, the slick sound mixing with our heated breaths.
“I responded with one of my own.” His mouth crashes against mine as a second finger enters me. I grunt at the intrusion and he pulls back, concern on his face, but I don’t want him to release me.
“It feels so good,” I whisper, swallowing the emotion in my throat. My eyes close as his nose skims up my neck and his fingers continue to drag in my depths.
“And so I am bewitched,” he murmurs into my skin. His thumb flicks over the sweet spot, and my breath hitches in combination with his name.
“Onto his lips, I add my name as a spell.” I struggle to speak, imposing myself in his poem. He groans before kissing me once again. My toes curl in my boots and my belly flutters. My hands come to his biceps, digging into his cotton-covered flesh. I pull back to whisper another line.
“And find I’m stuck on the thought of him.” My voice rises an octave as my body can no longer contain the pleasure. I collapse into sweet release, slowly melting against the hard shelves at my back. My knees buckle. Nathan keeps me upright with his hand at my core until I can’t take anymore. His lips come to my forehead until I’ve settled from the stars dancing before my eyes. He withdraws from me and strangely, I find I miss the warmth.
“Sweet Goddess,” I whisper as he rights my clothing.
With a kiss to my temple, he mutters, “You’re a goddess.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dewey Decimal Classification: 612 Human Physiology
[Nathan]
She is a goddess, and I’m flattered that she let me in a little more. The raising and lowering of her chest slows as her hands coast over my pecs. I like her touching me, exploring me, and a flashback comes to my memory of her doing the same thing when we were younger. Only we were naked, and she was on top of me.
How did that wildfire girl turn into this smoldering woman? Who hurt her so badly? Was it me for not calling? Was it her parents for what they said? What happened to turn her into herself and not allow the pleasure of others? Whatever her situation, I’m honored at being the one to reignite her a little bit.
Her hands continue to rub at my chest, lowering inch by inch. Her fingertips scrape at my abdomen and my belly flinches.
&
nbsp; “Are you ticklish?”
I might be, but I won’t give her an answer. I don’t want her to stop. Her eyes watch her hands as she tugs my shirt from my jeans and ducks under the material. Hesitant fingers brush over my skin and my abs suck inward again.
“You are ticklish,” she teases, but it’s more her tenderness, her hesitancy. Her palms flatten, caressing the ridges and ripples above my waist. Does she even know how she’s torturing me? She leans forward to sip at my neck. An open mouth kiss sucks at my skin.
Sweet Goddess, as she would say. That feels nice. So nice. As if reading my thoughts, she does it again. My spine prickles from the sensation. She’s slow and focused, and it’s driving me crazy. Her fingers come to the waist of my jeans, tips curling into the denim.
“Naomi?” I lower a hand from its resting position braced on a shelf behind her head. “This isn’t necessary.” My heart races in my chest. Things are progressing so much faster than I expected, but determined eyes look up at me. Their silvery shimmer blazes while she unbuckles my belt.
“Nothing’s necessary,” she states repeating my line when she throws the phrase out to me. “Except actually, air is necessary. So is food and water. Then there’s—”
“Naomi,” I say, placing a hand on her wrist to stop her rambling.
“I’m just nervous.” She pauses, sucking in her lips. “Please, Nathan. Let me do this with you.” Damn it, there’s the girl. The one from years ago, begging sweetly for things she didn’t even know she wanted.
The unzipping of my jeans slices through the silence of the books around us. My belt clatters as my jeans spread open and then her hand dips into my boxers.
“Sweet Mother,” I hiss as her curious fingers eagerly curl around the heat of me, which is hard and firm and desperate for her. She tugs, and my forehead falls forward. “What are you doing to me?”
“Casting a spell.” She giggles but she’s not joking. I don’t care. As long as she keeps touching me like she is, she can be anyone she wants to be.
Love in Due Time Page 15
