“I have just the place you and I can talk.” Niven rounds the corner once more, a piping cup of liquid in each hand. “Follow me, dear.”
I stalk after them. As they travel across a narrow room toward the back of the building, they pass through a hidden door and vanish beyond a false bookshelf that swings open to a restricted section—one that requires adult clearance.
Nestled just past the shelves of mature tomes, tucked discreetly behind double doors framed in mahogany and carved with gothic detail, lies a personal library—the nook—where every publication is a signed first edition.
Emory, with her coffee and Niven with her tea, settle into the gothic chairs under the only light source aside from the unlit candles—the fading sun. Knowing the torches will soon roar to life the moment the luminosity of the sun dips past the horizon, I find a place in the shadows to obscure my presence from their view, giving myself permission to be mesmerized by my dove.
“Any New Year’s resolution?” Niven asks, the rim of her cup just below her lips, as she embraces the heat emitting from its contents.
“I haven't really had the time to think of that.” Emory answers in a dismal tone, “It's been one thing after another this week.”
“How so?” I look on as Niven presses for more answers. Frustration boiling, as the urge to charge out of my hidey-hole and ask her ‘what gives her the right to pry?’ gets stronger—I digress.
Then, Emory speaks and every bit of that washes away. “Well, for starters, Yule started off with a bang.” Her giggle, although forced, was angelic. “And a crash.” She continues, “Not to mention one of my worst hospital visits to date. Then-” her words begin to trail. “Then a phone call, something about my sister and from the tone of it, it wasn't good. That’s what led me here.”
“Oh?” Niven’s forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Why would that bring you here?”
Emory stands and walks over to the reflective Palladian window, a clear view of the manor pictured before her. Delicately, she idles her fingers over the glass, as if afraid smudges will appear in their absence and ruin its elegance. “My sister’s rehab center is close to here. I figured-” Her speech was hopeful as it fades into her next statement, “Since he wanted to see us—my father that is,” she stops to quickly glance back at Niven, then returns her gaze to the foreboding architecture looming mere feet in the distance. “That maybe he would help.”
The library door tolls, interrupting her. “Excuse me, dear, duty calls.” Emory gives a brief nod. “This is where I leave you, no worries, I’ll lock the door to give you privacy.”
Niven leaves the Nook after a swift gander in my direction,then disappears through the archway, closing the double doors—locking them behind her. Emory waits for the sound of the lock to turn, giving time for Niven’s footsteps to fade away toward the storefront. Once they get to a secure distance, she turns back to the window, her reflection a somber representation of longing.
I admire her. The way her messy hair gleams in the light from the setting sun. The innocent way the glow creeps across her skin, adorning it with an orange tint. Her hands move to her lips, and mine instantaneously begin salivating, building the desire to be pressed to them again.
A chain reaction starts as butterflies fight like rabid beasts in my gut, and my ears perk up to her gentle whisper. “Who are you?”
Her voice is like a siren’s song, looking to lure me to my death. She bites her lip, and the pulsating in my slacks grows stronger. My body is frozen, bewitched by her beauty as her fingers dance from one corner of her mouth to the other—pining, longing, bleeding through her pores.
Is she talking about me?
“Where are you now?” Her fingers slide down her chin. “Are you lurking somewhere, watching me?” She traces the faint lines left by my blade. Answering my question as if, eerily, she heard me.
I shake my head. That is impossible, so I speak, as to test it, “Yes, my dove. I marked my territory, and by the gods, don’t you lookstunningin faint red lines,” I know I am whispering to myself, there is no way she can hear me at this distance. Her dainty fingers trickle further to the hem of her blouse. I stagger back from the look in her eyes. I have seen this look... Is she.... I watch on with an-tici-pation.
She raises her free hand clamping it down around her throat, and my blood boils to the surface. “Yes, there you go, little bird. Now, just a little harder.” Her fingers coil tighter as though on demand. The indents are so deep exposing her heartbeat, revealing its quickened pace. The hand that once rested against the cold glass of the window now cupping her right breast.
For.Fucks.Sake.
She has no bra on, and her nipples are already peaking, casting small shadows over the low bits of her perky, perfect breasts. “What I wouldn't do to have those perfect tits pressed against the window, while I railed you from behind, little bird.” With a low, gravelly tone, the words are out before I can stop them. She takes a sharp breath. Either she heard me... or she pinched a little too hard—At this moment I could care less. She is here, and she is divine.
I pause for a moment to see which of my thoughts would play out, that's when the hand around her neck slowly moves—making its descent. Assuming she doesn't hear me, I keep my tone low and famished, and in my mind, I fictitiously guide her pleasure. “Slowly now, little dove. Feel the heat beneath your touch.” Humming as I fight the urge to follow suit, “Close your eyes. Imagine your touch is mine.”
Her movements glide past her chest, over her solar plexus. “Stop!” Adding a feral undertone, because if she could hear me, I know she would listen. “The right is lonely, dove. Give your glorious breast a little tease before you bypass it.”
My mouth is watering like a man with a sweet tooth at a cheesecake factory. “Roll it between your fingers. Pinch and pull. Pinch. And. Pull.” My vocal cords vibrate as my tone drops another octave, “That’s my girl. My little bird,” I take a deep breath,steadying myself. “My dove!” Her hand shifts, allowing her right breast to settle into her palm.
They look so much bigger in her tiny hands.
She pinches and pulls like she is told, and I am too caught up in the moment to realize it. I can feel my chest tighten as this seductress steals my breath away, all leading up to the moment her hand plummets over her belly to the button of her jeans. She has the clasp and zipper open sooner than I can stop her.
“STOP!” Her hand freezes as her eyes shoot open. “Too fast, little bird.” My breathing is heavy, and my pants are stressing as my dick fights against the fabric.
“Who’s there?” Her voice is soft as her eyes dart in my direction. When I don’t answer, she huffs with annoyance. Then defiantly, as if to coax me out, her fingers dive beneath the fabric and begin slowly rotating. She massages her chest a little longer, pinching and flicking—my heart and cock both ready to explode.
When I think she is close to finishing, she slams her hand hard on the glass pane, her back is to me now and arching with her ecstasy. She moans, “Who are you?” The deliverance of her pleasure is more frantic, and at this point I can take it no longer. I leave my place behind the bookshelf, closing the gap between her and I in two strides.
Strategically, I place one hand over hers as it struggles to supply her release, the other encloses around her neck. Her hand stops for a moment, eyes open, and slate gray with hunger. Massaging the top of her fingers through her jeans, I assist in guiding her satisfaction, lowering my face until my cheek meets her temple.
