Page 101 of Battle of the Bookstores

It’s a soft, closed-lip kiss, but as soon as his mouth touches mine, I react, a lion pouncing on prey she’s watched for weeks. I grip the front of his cardigan and yank him closer. He lets out a surprised grunt, and his glasses slip down his nose, but he recovers quickly, lips parting and tongue meeting mine. Soon we’re kissing like we were on the beach—going from zero to sixty like some fancy sports car that’s been kept far too long in a garage.

I set his glasses aside as he works one hand into my hair, his fingers fiddling with the elastic holding my ponytail. I help him pull it out, sending my hair falling around my shoulders. Ryan groans like he’s in pain, grabbing fistfuls of my hair and tugging down to move my chin up so he can kiss my neck, tilting my head so he can move to the other side. His stubble is rough and his mouth is soft and it’s all I can do to hang on to his shoulders. When his teeth scrape my earlobe, my knees give out.

And then I’m lifted off the ground so easily I feel weightless, one of his forearms wrapped under my butt, the other hand still in my hair, fingers rasping against my scalp. He sets me on the edge of the counter, and I spread my legs so he can step between them, my skirt riding up my thighs.

My neat stacks of cash are now jumbles of bills fluttering to the floor, and I have the vague thought that we have a security camera trained right on the register, that the lights are on and it’s dark outside and anyone passing by could see us, but those feel like problems for future us to deal with. Here and now, Ryan is kissing me like he’s drowning and I’m desperate to inhale as much of him as I can before my brain catches up and reminds me that I’m the idiot who wanted tokeep things professional.

One giant hand cradles the back of my head; the other slides around to encircle my neck, thumb trailing down my throat and dipping into the front of my blouse between my breasts, sending goose bumps across my skin. When he reaches the first button, he starts fumbling with it, and I let go of his shoulders and help him.

As soon as my blouse is open, he slips his hand inside and then it’s all rough callused palms on my skin, and I’m humming with pleasure as he shoves my bra up and out of the way. I wrap my legs around him and pull him against me; his breath rushes out and he dives in for another deep kiss. He’s rock hard, and I get a flash of him buried inside me, gasping and unraveling.

“Condoms?” I say. “Do you have one?”

He kisses my mouth, hard. “In the—” Another kiss as he waves a hand in the direction of the register. “Jar.”

Of course they have a jar of condoms next to their register. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so turned on.

I reach for the jar with one hand, the other grabbing for his belt, but he shakes his head and kneels in front of me. Flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Gazing up at me like I’m the most beautiful sight he can imagine.

I’m breathless, wanting him to get going, but he’s looking at my feet, dangling in front of him. He lifts one and inspects it. “These shoes,” he murmurs. “So many fantasies about these fucking shoes.”

“My shoes…you have a shoe fetish?”

His mouth quirks. “I have a Josie Klein fetish. You, wearing nothing but these shoes. Or pressed against a bookcase with my hand up your skirt. In bed with your hair loose. In the shower. Bent over my desk. All the time. Everywhere. I can’t stop thinking about you.” He presses a kiss to my ankle, then the inside of my knee, kissing his way up my thigh, spreading my legs wider and pushing my skirt out of the way as his mouth movesup up upuntil he’s right there, heat and softness pressing through the thin fabric of my panties.

“Ryan,” I gasp. I’m acutely aware of the front window twenty yards behind me. My back is to it, and I hope to god Ryan isn’t visible, because I’m physically incapable of stopping this.

“Tell me.” The words are a vibration. “Tell me what you want.”

“This.” My hands grip his hair as I move his mouth where I want it. I’m so wet it would be embarrassing—except it’s obvious that he wants me just as badly. His fingers are digging into my thighs, sliding up to squeeze my ass. “More. Harder.Yes.”

I hold his head and grind against him and he’s right there with me, allowing me to ride his face with wanton abandon. My vision goes hazy, and for a second I think I might actually die of pleasure, and wouldn’t that be a terrible shame when I still have my panties on?

I reach for my underwear, tugging it down, and again he’sright there, hungry and hot, tongue sliding and lips sucking, pulling me closer with one hand so he can slip two fingers inside me with the other. A sharp, sweet ache spreads through my body. My eyes roll back in my head and my legs tremble and I let out a sound I’ve never heard from my mouth, wild and unrestrained.

RJ was right: all the sex I’ve had has been mediocre. There really are men who love to do this, men who can’t get enough.

“I guess it’s not a myth,” I say, gasping.

Ryan freezes. “What?”

I shake my head, pulling him closer. “Nothing, sorry…”

But he rocks back on his heels. I look down at him, catching my breath. His hands are gripping my hips, and he’s gazing up at me with desperate eyes.

“I can’t do this,” he says. His lips are shiny, wet from me. “Not now. Not like this.”

“What?” I’m perched on a counter, my skirt around my waist and my underwear down my legs, the imprint of his mouth burning through me, and he’s telling me hecan’t do this?

His expression is pure misery. “I’m sorry. I—I need to stop.”

My stomach bottoms out. I’ve never behaved like this with a man, so needy, so blatantly desperate. And he’s…stopping?

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

Slowly, he releases his grip on my hips and gets to his feet. There’s such obvious reluctance on his face, and my confusion grows—did I do something wrong? Did I come on too strong?

I reach down and pull up my underwear, then slide awkwardly off the counter, smoothing my skirt. My face is hot with shame; I can’t look him in the eye. I would have let him do anything he wanted with me…and he stopped.

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