The question is so casual, so kind, that I’m struck by my own inexperience. That I could do this in an abandoned library, bent over the counter, with a man who is technically my boss.
“Maybe,” I say, but the word is high-pitched and uncertain to my own ears.
A long silence speaks volumes, like the books that surround us, spilling secrets for anyone who pauses to listen. Or anyone bent over a desk, a heavy hand on her lower back, legs shaking.
“Goddamn,” he whispers, and he sounds just as unsteady as me.
“Are we still going to have sex? Because if not, I think I should probably be standing for this conversation.” I’m babbling a little. Nervous. Exposed.
There’s no hurry at all in his movements. He pulls me up and sets my clothes to rights, using hands that don’t tremble and a body that doesn’t shiver every two seconds. Then he pushes me back so smoothly that I barely realize I’m sitting on the counter again. Mostly I’m sure of it because it no longer feels like I’m about to fall down.
“I don’t want…”
He studies me with infinite patience, his blond hair ruffled. Did I pull his hair when he knelt in front of me? Or is that a natural disarray that happens when he has almost-sex? His voice is calm and solid as an oak tree when he asks, “Don’t want what?”
“Don’t want you to protect me. Don’t want you to be the hero and protect my stupid virginity, which is just a social construct, by the way. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Harper.”
“It’s not something I need to be protected from, like it’s 1580 and I’m a maiden and my virtue has to be guarded by the men in my family.” And I’m so, so tired of being protected by Christopher Bardot. Protected by my father. Protected by these formidable walls I’ve built so I don’t get my heart smashed to bits.
“Harper. I’m not protecting you.”
“And it’s not like—oh. You’re not?”
He laughs, a little rueful. “I’m protecting myself if anything. How do you manage to seem so damned experience when you’re a virgin?”
I make a face. “What does that even mean, experienced? I have life experience. Having a dick inside isn’t some kind of transcendent experience. Only a man would think so.”
“Only a virgin would think it doesn’t matter.”
“Look,” I say, feeling a little manic. Because maybe I had always imagined it would be Christopher. That seems impossibly naive in the light of a broken stained-glass dome. “I wasn’t saving myself for marriage or anything dramatic like that. I just wanted it to be the right place and time. Like an abandoned library, apparently.”
“Like eight a.m. on a Friday.”
“Apparently,” I say, trying to sound worldly. “Maybe I’m a morning-sex kind of girl. I’m not usually awake in the mornings, so I never knew that about myself. See, you do learn things in libraries.”
Sutton picks up the book about Cleopatra and hands it to me. “Come on.”
“More spankings?”
“No,” he says, very severe. Very angry about the virginal spankings. “We’re going to the office, where I’m going to show you the damn blueprints.”
“Work.”
It’s a relief that he’s focusing on work instead of sex.
And a terrible disappointment.
I think out of any man in the world, Sutton Mayfair is the only one who could make me forget about Christopher Bardot. For even two seconds, forget about the man I’ve been in love with since I was fifteen years old. It’s an allure to someone who’s been trapped for so long. A shiny key dangled in front of someone who’s been behind bars.
“You have a lot of work to do if you’re going to convince the historical society to let us raze this place down.”
“You’re not razing anything,” I say, pushing off the counter and pointing a finger at his chest. “And don’t look smug. I’m still turned on, but I’m choosing to ignore that for now and focus on the fact that this library is going to be restored.”
“Libraries don’t make money,” he reminds me, his voice gentle.
I’m on the phone with Avery that afternoon, having seen enough architectural diagrams of a modern monstrosity to last me a lifetime. It would be a beautiful mall, one I’d love to shop in if it were located anywhere else in the city.