She tangles her fingers in my hair, pulling just enough to make me groan. I back her deeper into the stacks, toward a shadowed alcove between poetry and philosophy. She spins us with surprising strength, pressing me back against the wall now, taking control.
“You’re not the only one with dangerous ideas,” she whispers, voice rough and thick with want.
I grin, heart slamming. “Show me, librarian.”
And she does.
27
NORA
Between the Stacks
My fingers dig into his shoulders, pressing him against the cold metal bookshelf. The books around us blur into the background, their titles meaningless in this moment. All that matters is Max, his grin, the way his eyes darken with desire as he meets my gaze.
“Show me, librarian,” he challenges, his voice low and teasing. There’s a spark in his eyes, a dare I can’t resist.
And right now? I want to watch him unravel.
I step back into the shadows between two tall shelves and lean against the cool wood paneling. Slowly, I slide the dress down my body—inch by inch—until it slithers over my hips and pools at my feet. I don’t rush.
The air is cool on my skin. My breath is warm.My pulse—reckless.
I step out of the dress, slow and deliberate, and press back against the bookshelf wearing nothing but lace and confidence. One hand rises to my hair, letting it fall loose with a shake.
I know exactly what I’m doing.
Every movement is unhurried—a private performance, just for him. I trail my fingertips down my neck, grazing the curve of my shoulder, then lower, brushing the swell of my breast. I feel the softness of my skin beneath my own touch, and I savor it—knowing he’s watching, knowing I have his full attention.
My breath hitches as I circle my nipple, teasing it gently. From across the room, I hear Max’s sharp inhale. The sound sends a thrill racing through me.
I tilt my head back, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut. One hand grips the edge of the shelf to steady myself. I moan—soft, deliberate, teasing.
His eyes go wide, dark. Shock. Hunger. Awe. Like he’s witnessing something sacred. Or scandalous. Or both.
I meet his gaze—not shy, not coy. Daring.
“Is there a problem I can help you with?” I murmur, breathless but steady. “You’re staring.”
“Jesus, Nora.” His voice catches on my name, raw and reverent.
He takes a step forward.
But I hold up a hand.
“Not yet,” I say, lips curling. “I want you to watch first.”
And he does. Frozen. Reverent. His jaw tight, his hands balled at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back. His eyes follow every movement, every sigh, like I’ve cast a spell.
I move lower, fingers drifting across my stomach, tracing the dip of my navel, then further—brushing the edge of my panties. I pause there, breath shallow, already feeling the damp heat building between my thighs.
Every movement is deliberate, controlled. I know he’s watching—every second, every inch.
“Nora.” His voice breaks—desperate, like it physically aches to stay still.
My eyes snap open, locking with his. The raw need in his expression is unfiltered, almost feral.
I smile—slow and knowing—and continue.
