Page 70 of Book People

Her throat moves as she swallows and her eyes darken. ‘Another night then?’

‘Yes.’ I hesitate, then add, ‘Maybe more.’

She has questions. I can see them drift like shadows through her eyes, but they’re questions I don’t have answers for, becauseI don’t know. This is new to me. Wanting someone the way I want her is new.

I let her go and step back, bracing myself and putting some distance between us. If she wants to leave, she can. I won’t stop her.

She knows what I want. The next move is hers.

And she makes it.

She closes the distance between us and reaches for me, drawing my mouth down on hers. She tastes so sweet, her lips are soft and hot, and I feel the part of myself I show the world begin to dissolve, leaving me without a facade, without a veneer.

I am hungry for her and I am desperate for the sunshine she brings with her.

I don’t hesitate. I push her up against the counter as I devour her, tasting her sunshine and sweetness, the flavour of warm summer days. I want it. I want all of it.

My hands are in her hair, holding on as I feast.

She kisses me back and I’m savage, because she’s just as desperate as I am. Just as hungry. It makes me feel like a god.

I tear off her T-shirt and touch the warm skin beneath the fabric. She gasps and arches into my hands, her fingers threading through my hair, her head going back to grant me more access to her mouth.

I am so hard I ache.

Her hands drop to the button of my trousers and that’s when I remember where we are.

In my shop. It’s closed, but the lights are on and any passer-by can see through the front window.

Fuck.

I grip her wrist and hold her hand away. ‘Let’s take this out the back.’

‘No, I can’t wait that long.’

I know how she feels.

I can’t seem to think, but there’s one spot here where no one can see, a little space in the bookshelves, where History meets Poetry.

It’s perfect.

I pull her away from the counter and down towards the back of the shop. There’s my spot. I push her against the bookshelves and she makes a soft noise.

‘Oh, yes,’ she murmurs, rough and husky. ‘Here, right here.’

Of course she loves it. This woman doesn’t need a bed. A bookshelf is fine, surrounded by art and science and history and poetry. So perfect. Sheispoetry.

‘Do you like this bra?’ I ask.

She glances down and shrugs, excitement gleaming in her eyes. ‘I could take it or leave it, to be honest.’

‘Then let’s leave it.’ I rip it apart. It’s surprisingly easy. But what’s better are her breasts, full and pale and perfectly shaped to my hand. Her nipples are pink and delicious and when I bend to take them in my mouth, they harden.

She gasps and arches against the shelves, her fingers twisting my hair.

I slide a hand down into her jeans, into her knickers, and I can feel her heat, soft and slick and so sensitive.

Fucking delicious.

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