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“Your turn,” he says.

“That’s not how I planned—”

He turns us around so my back is against the westerns. His hand stops at the hem of my skirt. He can smell exactly how much I want it, but he just waits.

What was I planning, exactly? To get him off, go back to my desk, and ache all day? That’s a stupid plan. I’ve got an orc offering to make me come, and I’m arguing with him about it.

“Yes,” I say. “God, yes. Hurry up.”

His hand goes up the inside of my thigh and cups my pussy through my tights. When he feels the wet patch, he growls softly. He pulls my tights and panties down in one sweep without tearing them. I wouldn’t have cared if he had.

“Hold the shelf,” he says.

I reach back and hold on. He slides one finger through my folds and pushes it into my pussy. It’s as thick as two of mine, and I whimper. He fucks me slowly while his thumb circles my clit. Then he’s humming, and it goes through his hand straight into me.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” I tell him, even though I don’t want him to stop.

“No,” he agrees, and adds a second finger.

The stretch makes me moan out loud. I’m so wet that his fingers make the same slick sound my hands made on him. It’s obscene, and I love it.

“Faster,” I pant. “Curl them. Right there, don’t stop.”

He goes faster. His fingers rub that perfect spot inside me on every stroke, and his thumb never leaves my clit. The hum deepens, and my knees give out.

He catches me with his other arm around my waist and holds me up against the shelf, and he doesn’t stop.

I come with a cry that carries down the whole length of the stacks. My pussy clenches around his fingers, and pleasure rips through me so hard my eyes squeeze shut. He keeps his thumb moving until I grab his wrist.

“Stop. Stop. God.”

He stops, but he doesn’t take his fingers out right away. He holds me there while I shake, and his ears come forward.

“You are loud,” he says.

“I’ve been told.”

“Good. I like you loud.”

Warmth spreads through my chest when he says it, and he slides his fingers out of me. I watch in a daze as he puts them in his mouth and licks them clean. That was so much better than my own hand.

We’re breathing heavily and smiling at each other like idiots while I pull my tights up. When I can walk, I wash my hands in the bathroom and flip the sign back to OPEN with two minutes to spare.

That afternoon, Yorrel asks me to read to him, and he wants the book with the most pages.

“That’s not how you pick a book,” I say.

“It is how I pick one. If a story is long, somebody wanted to tell all of it.”

“The longest book in this building is the dictionary. It’s two thousand pages, and it doesn’t have a story.”

“What does it have?”

“Every word in English and what it means.”

His ears come forward. “I would like that one.” Forward means he likes what’s happening. I’ve seen it enough times now to be sure.

“I’m not reading you the dictionary. Pick something with people in it.”