He’s leaning against the wall of what I call the oxytocin stimulant section, more commonly known as romance. The category name feels quite ironic, seeing as I have never personally experienced the alleged rush of oxytocin that is rumoured to accompany an orgasm.
Nonetheless, it’s the largest section, and I was feeling proud of how I had carefully curated a selection that covered a vast array of tropes and subgenres, from authors of all different backgrounds and lifestyles. But now, seeing Wyatt standing there, what is normally my comforting escape seems like a trap. He lifts the book he’s reading. It’s a popular dark romance, with elements of bondage kink.
“Not all women, but some. Books like that one represent our deep and dark fantasies. The things that are not currently socially acceptable to enjoy in public but bring pleasure in private.”
Wyatt puts the book back on the shelf and walks — no, stalks — over to me, taking the coffee cups from my hands and setting them on the shelf beside me. I inwardly wince at the idea of hot liquid next to my precious books, but there’s no time to do anything about it because he’s close to me again. Close enough that I can hear his intake of breath and smell his alluring scent again. My eyes flutter closed only to fly open when I feel the softest touch against my cheek.
“Your freckles…” he murmurs.
I turn away, but his hand cups my chin and tugs it back.
“They’re incredible, Paige.”
I’m speechless. No one has ever complimented my freckles before.
“Is that book what you secretly want?” His voice is ragged.
I drag my attention back to the conversation and away from the shocking compliment he just paid me. “No. Not me, personally.”
Wyatt nods slowly, his eyes boring into me with a fiery intensity. “What do you want, Paige?”
“I…I don’t know.” I stumble over my words, but the truth is glaringly obvious. I want him. I just don’t know what to do about it. Wyatt must sense my unease because he slowly takes a step back and picks up the forgotten coffee cups.
“Thanks for this.” He takes a sip of the one marked with a W, and looks at me in surprise. “An Americano? How did you know?”
“I didn’t. Mila did.”
He chuckles quietly. “Well, now you do know.”
“What’s your last name?” I blurt out, “I know your coffee but not your last name.”
His eyes shift down to the floor for a minute before meeting mine again. “James. Wyatt James.”
I stick my hand out before I can stop myself, and he takes it with another chuckle.
“Sorry. I don’t know why I did that,” I say lamely.
“It’s all good. Do I get to know your last name?”
“Millstone.”
Wyatt gently squeezes my hand before letting go. “Well, Paige Millstone, this has been nice. But I should probably let you get back to work.”
“Right. Work. Yes, I should.” I turn around, suddenly at a loss as to what I need to do when all I can think about is feeling Wyatt’s hand in mine again. I spy the boxes still stacked on the counter. “I should finish unpacking that.”
I hurry over and start pulling books out, alternating between wanting him to come closer and wanting him to leave.
He makes the decision for me, and a moment later I hear the bell over the door jingle.
“I’ll see you soon, Paige.”
It’s only when I hear the door close behind him that I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
That night, I cannot fall asleep. I try meditating, but lose focus too many times. A warm cup of chamomile tea does nothing. Neither does a shower. As I flip my pillow over for the third time, my legs squeeze together in an attempt to ease the strange ache that I feel. I’ve felt it before, but typically only when reading one of the historical romance novels I greatly enjoy. It’s a pleasant ache, when it isn’t keeping me up at night. But I haven’t read anything this evening.
In the past I’ve simply ignored the sensation. It has never led to anything satisfactory; both times I engaged in intercourse were rather perfunctory. Why I think this should be any different, I don’t know, but Serena’s comments when we were discussing the upcoming sex toy party come back to mind. A woman’s sexual pleasure is a thing to celebrate.
My hand trails down to the waistband of my pajama pants. I slide under the elastic, and the first touch of my finger against my clitoris has my hips lifting. That is different. I experiment with different motions, fast and slow, soft touches and more firm ones. Nothing quite feels right, and nothing seems to further the sensations beyond that initial spark. I still ache, and now my frustration is mounting. I continue, determined to figure out why my friends feel so inclined to encourage me in finding my way to sexual pleasure. After several minutes, nothing has changed. I let my head fall back on my pillow and close my eyes.
