Perfect Strangers

Books—especially old books—have a smell all their own, a sweet and musky scent warmed by a hint of vanilla that floods the brain with good memories and good feelings. I stop in the entry and close my eyes, inhaling deeply.

I exhale and open my eyes, drinking in my surroundings.

The shop is crammed to the ceiling with shelves of books. Narrow passageways lead away from the entry to a nest of other rooms. A wooden staircase winds up to a second floor. Dusty chandeliers cast warm light over red velvet draperies and the occasional leather chair, their seats cracked and worn.

In a voice like you’d use in church, I say, “This is heaven.”

Standing beside me, James chuckles. “Told you. C’mon, let’s look around.”

He nods to the lovely blonde behind the register, then leads me down a passageway. Stenciled on the soffit above us an inscription reads, “Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.”

I trail my fingertips over spines as we pass shelf after shelf of books, until we turn a corner and stop in a quiet alcove. I glimpse a copy of Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov shelved next to War and Peace by Tolstoy.

“The Russian section is my favorite,” says James, coming to stand close behind me, his chest against my back. He grasps my upper arms and dips his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply the same way I did when I walked in and smelled all the delicious books.

“That’s good news. For a minute there, I thought you were leading me straight to Hemingway.”

I pluck The Brothers Karamazov off the shelf and open it, lifting the pages to my nose for a sniff. Sighing in pleasure, I look at a random line and read it aloud. “The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.”

“Indeed,” murmurs James into my ear. He slides his hand down my arm, over my hip, and between my legs.

I freeze. My heart takes off like a rocket. Through small gaps in the shelf in front of me, I see other people browsing in the front of the store.

I whisper, “James.”

His strong fingers delve into the gap between my thighs, gently rubbing. “Hmm?”

“Someone will see us.”

“Maybe.”

He sounds nonchalant. Meanwhile, I’m starting to sweat. Is this why he asked me to wear a dress?

“I’m not sure we should—”

“Read me some more.” He pinches his fingers together, making me gasp. Then he slides his hand down my thigh, slips it under the hem of my dress, and slides it back up again. He settles his warm palm between my legs. Now the only barrier between his hand and my naked flesh is my panties.

The way he cups my sex feels possessive.

“James—”

“Read,” he commands, his voice low.

I look at the pages, but the words have started to blur. With shaking hands, I flip a few pages, then focus on a line. “L-love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared to love in dreams.”

“Mmm. How eloquent. You see why I like the Russian section? It’s so romantic.” James slips his fingers under the elastic of my panties and glides them over my clitoris.

I jerk, sucking in a startled breath.

Into my ear he breathes, “Guess you like it, too. You’re already wet.”

My heart bangs so hard against my sternum it’s painful. He winds his other arm around my waist and pins me against the wall of his body, then starts to move his fingers faster, stroking me until I’m breathless and throbbing.

“Read, Olivia.”

Panting, feeling scared and desperate and insanely turned on, I stare at the book in my hands. Pages whir past as I flip forward, then back, almost dropping the book in the process. I find a page and read, my voice shaking.

“You will burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again.”

James kicks my feet apart wider, then sinks one finger deep inside me.

When I shudder and let out a soft cry, he whispers harshly into my ear, “Burn for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

His erection is a hard, insistent heat against my ass. If he bent me forward a little, he could yank aside my panties and fuck me from behind.

I’m out of my mind with the thought of it.

The possibility that he could make love to me here, in a public place, in partial view of the patrons at the front of the store or full view anyone who wandered into the alcove, has me so hot—and terrified—I can barely think.

He uses my hair as a leash to pull my head back. Then he kisses me deeply as his thumb works my clitoris and his index finger slides in and out of me, over and over.

The book falls from my hands and clatters against the floor.

He winds me tighter and tighter, coiling me up into a superheated ball of nerves. Powerful waves of heat lash me, scorching my skin and hardening my nipples to two aching points of need. I reach out blindly and brace myself against the shelf, clawing at the wall of Russians like I might start to climb.

James breaks away from my mouth. Breathing hard, in a guttural voice, he says, “I could fuck you here, sweetheart. I could take you right here. Do you want that?”

“No! Yes! Oh God…” I groan, frantic for release.

“Or I could get on my knees and push you up against the shelf and make you come with my mouth.”

My moan is soft and pleading. I’m so wet I can feel it on my thighs. Incoherent, I rock against his hand.

“Or I could put you on your knees and make you suck me off. Would you like that, sweetheart? Having me fuck your mouth with my hard cock while you play with your wet pussy, on your knees in the Russian section?”

I picture it. My cheeks hollowed, his big hands gripping my head, his erection sliding in and out between my lips as I kneel in front of the open fly of his trousers, finger fucking myself while taking the entire thick, hard length of him deep down my throat as all the shelves of books look on.

A sob breaks from my chest.

James whispers hotly, “Oh, yes, you’d love that. My sweet, dirty, beautiful girl.”

He tugs firmly on the swollen bud of my clitoris, and I come.

He swallows my gasp with a kiss, holding me tightly with that arm like an iron bar around my waist again as I convulse and shudder through a violent orgasm. He plunges his finger deep inside me once more, setting off another series of hard contractions.

James turns his face to my ear and says through gritted teeth, “I need to feel your gorgeous cunt throb like this around my dick.”

I’m lost. Lost to his voice, his taste, his filthy words. Lost to pleasure, to sensation, and to a sudden, overwhelming fear.

This isn’t me.

This woman, so reckless and overtaken by desire, isn’t anyone I recognize. She’s wild and uninhibited and doesn’t care who might see her jerking helplessly through her orgasm as a beautiful man in a beautiful suit holds her tight against his body and growls obscenities into her ear. She doesn’t care what she looks like, arching in ecstasy as he works his hand between her spread legs. She doesn’t care what anyone might think, seeing her so exposed.

The only thing she cares about is the man behind her and how he’s brought her back to aching, blistering, terrifying life.

I lean against James’s chest, throw my arms up and back around the mass of his shoulders, and tilt my head for his kiss.

Because fuck it.

I’ve already jumped off this high cliff I’ve been standing on since I met him. Might as well do it with my eyes open and my arms flung out wide.

At least I’ll be smiling when I smash into a million pieces when I hit the ground.