Page 9 of Let it Crackle
I can’t concentrate. Not for a single second. The library is quiet—too quiet—and every time I glance at my laptop, heat crawls up the back of my neck and settles in my cheeks. The cursor blinks on the last paragraph I have typed for my story:
“You’re mine,” he growled into her mouth. “Say it, sweetheart.” He slammed into her from behind, relentless and rough, while his hand worked her clit with practiced, devastating precision. Her cries echoed off the walls as his other hand slid up her body, fingers tugging her nipples through the thin lace of her bra. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t patient. He was desperate and dirty, hips pounding with the kind of hunger that said he’d die if he didn’t come inside her. Her body arched, wild and aching, as he kept her right at the edge before shoving her over with a final, brutal thrust.
And all I can think is:Maddox.
Maddox, with those massive, tattooed arms and cocky smile. Maddox, who stands too close and looks at me like he knows exactly how I’d sound moaning his name. Maddox, who readthis—my most unfiltered, intimate writing—and didn’t even blink.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t make a single dumb comment.
He just looked… affected. Like my words got to him. Like hefeltsomething.
God, I wasn’t imagining it. Was I?
I mean, I did kinda create this character thinking of him. But he can never know that.
Because now? Now I can’t stop picturing him doing all the things I wrote about. Slamming me against the wall. Rubbing my clit while he pounds into me with those fireproof hands. Watching my body fall apart under his. I clench my thighs shut as the pressure builds, my body betraying me with every filthy pulse of heat.
What am I even thinking?
It would never happen. I’m still the geek girl and he’s still the hot jock. In real life people like Maddox and I don’t end up together. In my books they do, but not in reality.
And even if he’s changed, even if he’s kind now and says the sweetest things, Maddox Cole is a walking wet dream I was never meant to touch.
But damn if he didn’t just crawl under my skin and make himself at home.
Just as my fingers hover over the keys again—because apparently, I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation and I’mactuallyabout to write more—I hear it.
A throat clears at the front desk.
I jolt so hard, I nearly knock my laptop off the table.
“Hi, uh… sorry to bother you,” a voice calls out—older, polite, hopeful. “I know it’s almost closing time. I just need help finding a book for my grandson.”
I inhale through my nose. Count to three. It is closing time, actually. The lights are already dimmed in the back. Ishouldbeoff the clock and, more importantly, not in the middle of having an almost-orgasmic spiral over a man who already broke my heart.
I close the laptop—firmly this time—and school my features into my best “friendly librarian even though I’d rather scream into a pillow” expression.
“Sure,” I say, plastering on a smile as I limp my way to the desk, one crutch clicking against the tile. “Let’s see what we can find.”
But as I help the man search for some vintage fantasy series his grandson heard about ‘on TikTok or something,’ my eyes keep flicking to the door.
We find the first few books in the series, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the front door finally clicks shut and I flip the sign to “Closed”. I walk back to the desk, ready to pack my things and already dreading the ordeal of locking up behind me while balanced on my crutches.
Just as my last few items are put away, the front door opens again.
“Sorry, we already closed.” I grumble; I’m not about to wear my “Helpful Librarian” mask after hours. But it isn’t another student with a last minute assignment, it’s Maddox.
Still wearing his station shirt, sweat and damp and clinging to his chest. Soot streaks one sharp cheekbone, his hair slightly messed from the call he must’ve been on. He looks like heat and trouble and everything I’m trying not to want. My stomach does a stupid little somersault. My body keeps betraying me when he’s around.
He steps inside like he belongs here, like this dusty little library and my quiet little world somehow deservehimin it.
A brown paper bag swings from his hand, and he drops it onto the counter between us with an easy smile.
“Always come bearing gifts, your mom taught you well.”
He chuckles. That deep throaty chuckle that sends my hormones in over drive.
“Brought your favorite,” he says, a little breathless. “Figured you’d need something sweet after a long day.”
