by Rose Caraway
“Can I help you?”
Thinking back to the content of the letter, he found his tongue tied.
“Brandon?”
He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I, um, found some papers in with the article I requested.”
“Can I see them?”
He felt heat burn the tips of his ears. “Um, they’re kind of personal.”
She folded her hands and pursed her lips, but he saw the twinkle in her eyes. “As a librarian-in-training, I keep all requests and personal information about my patrons in the strictest confidence.” She held up one hand and waggled her fingers. “Come on. Hand them over.”
He gave her the whole packet: envelope, article, and letter.
She scanned everything and shrugged. “Sorry. All I can tell you is that we open the envelopes when they’re received. If it’s only a single request, we leave it in the original packaging and log it into the system. The letter was probably added here, but I can’t tell you who did it. You don’t happen to study forensics, do you? You could dust it for fingerprints.”
“Nah, I’m studying economics.”
“Cool. I’m graduating from the library school program this semester. When do you finish?”
“I’ve just started the hard-core research for my dissertation, so it will be another couple of years.”
“Good luck with that. Anything else I can help you with?” She stood up and leaned her hip on the desk as she handed the packet back to him. He caught a whiff of a light floral scent.
He smiled. “I guess not. Maybe let me know if anyone’s missing a love letter?”
“Want to leave it here?”
He probably should. He wondered why she had given it back to him. “Um, no. I’ll take care of it.”
She grinned at him. “I’m sure you will.”
Two days later he was back at the library to pick up another request. This one had apparently come in with a batch of others as the envelope this time had their university’s seal in one corner. Lauren was again manning the desk.
“How’s that love letter treating you?”
“Uh, fine. Anyone come to claim it?”
“Not yet.”
The person behind him in line, a prissed-up old lady, from the anthropology department if he remembered correctly, coughed and cleared her throat. Taking the hint, he said good-bye to Lauren. The twinkle was back in her eye as she shot him a quick smile and then composed herself to face the dragon.
He headed up a floor in the library and staked out a table. Opening the envelope, he dumped the contents of it onto the flat surface. More lavender pages fluttered out from between the sheets of the new article.
I dreamt once again last night. We had secreted ourselves in a bower filled with bouquets of lavender and braziers of a spicy scent I have few words for. I lay on the bed as you stood by the door. Unsure of how to comport myself, I offered myself to you. Instead, you became commanding. Full of yourself. Your masculinity. I wanted to submit to your every desire.
I wore a diaphanous silk dressing gown, and nothing else. Thin ties held it together in three spots down my torso. You demanded I leave the bed and come to you. As I did so, the gown billowed out beyond my body. I searched the dim recesses of the room for windows as I felt a tropical breeze caressing my skin. Between the flutter of silk, the tendrils of wind, and your hard gaze, my body dripped in readiness when I finally paused before you.
Your hand wrapped around my neck, fingers digging into my hair, which had been arranged in some kind of knot. Slowly, ever so slowly, your head bent toward mine until micrometers separated us. Our breaths mingled as you held yourself apart from me. Heartbeat bled into heartbeat and yet you tortured us both.
Words yearned to break free of my breast, but fear I’d turn you away held them locked inside. I closed my eyes, unable to meet your gaze a moment more without breaking. I felt the air stir around my face as you laughed softly.
“Worship me.”
Unable to refuse the command, I did so. My fingers grazed along your jaw as I imprinted the line of it onto my memory. I wanted, so badly, to caress your lips with mine, but instead, I slid them down your throat. At the base, I met my first barrier.
The shirt you wore was made of linen. Starched and firm, the collar scraped the tender skin below my own jaw. My fingers undid the buttons, and I spread the lapels wide to reveal the hardened muscles of your chest and the dusting of dark hair across the surface of your skin.
Have I ever told you how much I love the look of hair on a man? I only wish you hadn’t shaved. I want to feel the rasp of your beard marking me, claiming me, all over my body. Next time, won’t you?
Not once did you release your hold on my hair. You let me explore, but if I strayed from your ultimate desire—and mine, too, you must have known—you redirected me. Not even to fully remove your shirt did you let go. When I reached your pants, I undid the belt buckle and unzipped them. Inside, your cock waited for me. Eagerly. I barely brushed the cotton of your underwear and it jumped, craving my attention.
I pushed down both slacks and underwear, exposing you to me. I cupped your balls, caressing the wrinkled skin that nestled in a thatch of fur. You moaned as I wrapped my hand around your base and squeezed. I couldn’t resist anymore. I had to taste you.
First, I kissed the tip of the head, and then eased my lips open as I pushed my head down and allowed you to enter me for the first time. As my lips encased you, I paused so they rested around the rim of the head of your cock, and sucked. Your fingers tightened in my hair, but that was your only response. I longed to have you shout and writhe under me.
I started squeezing my fingers around your base in rhythm. Hummed along with it as I stroked my head up and down your shaft.
While I played with you, I played with myself. I couldn’t resist the pull your erotic magnetism had on my own body and senses. Soon, your grunts filled the air. Not shouts, but it would have to do. I watched as the muscles of your lower belly clenched and delineated themselves moments before you spurted into my mouth.
I broke away to allow the last moments of your orgasm to spray against my breasts as I worked my clit in a frenzy. As the last of your semen came, so did I.
Brandon headed for the rear study room of the fifth floor. He glanced around and saw no one around. Not even the sound of a page reshelving books could be heard. At the last moment, reality intruded and he thought to look for security cameras. None facing the room, and none in the room. That he could see anyway. He had to take the chance. His body wouldn’t last long enough for him to run the mile to his off-campus apartment.
This was as private as he was going to manage.
He closed the door behind him and backed himself into the corner so no unsuspecting coed or librarian would accidentally see him jerking off.
The visualizations from the letter fired through his brain once again. Heated his blood to boiling. He jerked down his zipper and wrenched down his boxers so he could grab his cock. He fisted himself, pumping hard until the strongest solo orgasm he could remember having wrenched through him. At the last moment, he thought to yank down his T-shirt to catch his come.
Wrecked, he slid down the wall. Knees weak and cock hanging half-erect from his open fly, he heaved in breaths, trying to recover his mind.
The only thought he could muster was that he needed to find the sender of the letters and discover whether or not they were intended for him.
A week later his phone buzzed. He picked it up from his desk and saw an automated message from the access services department in the library. Another of his requests had come in.
He piled the papers he’d been working on together and tossed them into his messenger bag, slinging it across his body. He shouted a quick good-bye to the other grad students in the communal office and ran outside to his bike.
Five minutes later, and shocked some campus cop hadn’t pulled him over for reckless biking, he locked his bike up at the library’s rack.
He hurrie
d inside and found Lauren helping some other student, or maybe a new faculty member, at the desk. No other staff member came out, so he waited his turn patiently. Even if he did want to snap at the other guy for nickel-and-diming Lauren on the ILL fees for his items.
When the ass-hat finally left, Lauren grinned at him. “Let me guess. You’re here for your article?”
Blushing, he winced and nodded. What must she think of him? How many other grad students rushed over for new research? “Yeah. I just got the notification.”
She laughed. “I haven’t even had a chance to put them in the retrieval files. Hold on a moment and I’ll get it for you.”
Disappearing into the work area, she came out with a manila envelope in her hands. He wanted to yank it out of her fingers, but clenched his hands until she scanned it in the computer and marked it as picked up.
“The fees for this one ended up being ten dollars. We’ll add that to your account, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” When she handed it to him, it took all he had to calmly remove it from her grasp and nod his thanks to her.
Forcing himself to keep to a sedate walk, he headed for the study room from last week. Only, when he got there, he found it filled with a pack of undergrads. They looked up at him, but he waved and headed back downstairs. Damn. The only place he could think of was his apartment.
He didn’t want to wait, but he’d pushed his luck last week with that stunt in the study room. What the hell had he been thinking?
As he hurried back past Lauren’s desk, she shot him a confused look. “Hot date?”
“Um, yeah. Forgot an appointment I had.”
“Have a great weekend.”
“Thanks. Um, you, too.”
He noticed her eyes sparkled as she waved him off. She was seriously cute. Maybe he should ask her out one of these days. What better than a live girl who might be interested in him to get his mind out of the rut into which these letters had thrown him? He turned around to do just that and found her involved in a heated discussion with someone who looked to be a faculty member. Later, then.
The bike ride to his apartment did little to cool his blood or ease his nerves. He fumbled with his key at the door and finally closed it behind him. Locked it.
Ripped the envelope open and pulled out the papers inside. Breathed a sigh of relief as he found lavender sheets of paper nestled within his article.
We were back in the bower. All you wore were satin sleep pants. Your chest was bare, I wanted to reach for you and cuddle close. You lit candles and circled them around the bed. I lay there, waiting for you, clad once again in the gown. This time, it was only tied with one set of ties. You had untied the top set and bared my breasts, then the bottom set and framed my pussy with the edges of the gown.
“Perfection,” you said. I feared moving would disturb the tableau for you and break the spell. I held myself as still as possible and wondered if a heart could beat through a chest wall. My breasts must have moved with every beat.
When the last candle was lit, you crawled onto the bed and lay down next to me. You traced the edge of the gown, down one side and up the other. When you brushed the sides of my breasts, I wished you would bend and suck the nipples. All you did was draw circles on my skin.
I bit my lip and tried to lock my muscles, but I could still feel twitches and knew you had to see. You didn’t say anything.
Did I please you with my stillness?
Time stretched thin with want. When I couldn’t bear it anymore, I let my breath shudder out from my lungs and reached one hand for you. You pinned it back on the bed.
“Are you a naughty girl?”
“Only for you.”
“We’ll have to do something about that.”
You flipped me over. Slapped my ass. Shock careened through me. Desire. This is what I had wanted, though I hadn’t known myself well enough to ask. When you next made contact, I arched my back to lift my ass into it. Your palm curved over the globe. Strike. Strike. Strike.
Then I felt your teeth on my neck. A nip.
“Do you require more discipline?”
Did I? Perhaps. Would it be against the rules to ask for it? Between my legs, I could feel wetness gathering at the entrance of my pussy. Would you punish me for the pleasure?
You lifted the skirt of the gown, cupped each globe and spread my ass, my legs. I heard your breathing deepen. “Maybe later.”
The rough skin of your fingers stroked down my cleft, gathering some of the wetness before circling my clit. I moaned into the pillow. Never had I wanted anything more than I wanted you inside me at that moment. You ripped one of the pillows from my grasp, lifted my hips and placed the pillow below them.
As you shifted your legs between mine, I felt the scrape of the satin of your pants. Wondered if your cock would feel the same as their rough silkiness. Rather than entering me right away, you nestled your cock along my cleft and rocked against me.
“How does it feel?”
I tried to close my legs against you, wanting— needing—more pressure, but the weight of your body against mine limited my movements. “More. Give me more.”
You chuckled against my ear, but continued rocking. I could feel a faint pulse begin in my clit. I shuddered, but it only teased me. As you did. I know you felt my reaction, but all you did was pump your body against mine. Promising, forever promising.
When the second pulse had my lower lips lapping against you, you finally relented. Pushed inside of me. I sighed in relief at the glide of your cock. This. Fulfillment.
You planted your hands just above my shoulders on the bed, and I gripped your wrist as you pumped into me. I turned my head so I could take your thumb into my mouth. I had to have you fill me in every possible way.
Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Millennia? How long were we joined as one? Time lost meaning for me. All I cared about was the feel of you inside me. Claiming me as yours.
I tried to claim you as mine in return. I clenched down with my inner muscles, trying to keep you with me for as long as possible. Did I make you mine?
Eventually, neither of us could avoid the ultimate release.
I shouted your name, Brandon.
I want you to shout mine.
Meet me tonight at 9 by the Alma Mater statue?
In the throes of his orgasm, he almost missed the import of the last portion of the letter. Him. The letters were for him. The letter writer wanted to meet him.
Should he? She could be crazy. Who wrote—by hand— anonymous love letters these days?
He looked down his body to where his cock was cupped in his hand, jizz splattered against his lower belly. Well, maybe not love letters so much as lust letters.
God.
He wanted to. He really wanted to meet her. He’d never connected to someone like this before. Anonymous or not. What would sex be like in person? Yeah, he wasn’t as inventive as she imagined him to be. But she sure as hell had an imagination. He’d be happy to play whatever role she wanted him to.
He had hours before the appointed meeting time, but his concentration for anything beyond his mysterious letter writer was shot. Finally, he managed to get himself showered and dressed. Even then, it was barely six-thirty.
Every time his phone rang, he let it go to voice mail. A few texts came in, both from friends wanting him to join them at happy hour, and from students wanting to know if he’d graded their midterm papers yet.
Flipping on the TV, he watched reruns of old football games. He knew most of the outcomes already, which made it perfect brain candy while he bided his time. When his watch finally showed eight-thirty, he booked it out of the apartment and headed for the statue.
With ten minutes to go, he spent the remaining time pacing up and down the walkways surrounding the statue. He encountered a few groups of people, but as he left them alone and steered out of their way as they approached, they passed without comment.
The bells of the school carillon chimed the hour. He glanced at his watch and
saw they were a minute ahead.
In the distance he heard more footsteps. Lighter footsteps. One person’s footsteps.
She emerged from around the building. Hair pulled behind her head with sticks of some kind poking out from around her head. Dark glasses framed her eyes. Familiarity tugged at his consciousness. She wore a hip-length leather coat, jeans and heeled boots. A scarf was tied so it framed her face along her jaw as it was tucked into the neckline of her coat. As she crossed under a lamppost, he finally made out who it was.
“Lauren?” He wanted to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn’t imagining her. Especially since he’d been on the verge of asking her out before he read the last letter.
“Hey, Brandon.” She grinned at him. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.” She winced. “Um, yeah, ignore the pun.”
He knew if it had been light out, she’d have seen the tips of his ears glow stoplight red. “Sure. So. You wrote the letters?” He seriously couldn’t believe it was really her standing in front of him despite the evidence his eyes and ears were conveying to his brain.
Her chest lifted as she drew in a deep breath. “Yes. I did. I hoped they’d get your attention, and if you didn’t like them, no harm, no foul and no damage to our professional relationship.”
“That’s kind of…”
“Unethical?”
“I was going to go for ingenious. I’ll skip the ethics discussion if you will.” He smiled at her. “Want to go for dinner? We can talk about how to spend the weekend over a nice steak.”
“You can have steak, and I’ll go for a Portobello mushroom. But, yes, I’d love to discuss how to spend the weekend with you.”
He held out his elbow and she slipped her hand through it. Feeling the press of her leg against his as they walked to a nice little on-campus bistro was only the beginning of what he was sure was going to be the weekend of his life. All thanks to a librarian who couldn’t resist naughty letters to go along with articles on indiscretions of the past.
