Book People

Chapter Eighteen

You are not well. Don’t lie to me. Is it him? Is he hurting you?

H

SEBASTIAN

I stand at my counter, trying to look busy with the laptop open. It’s right on closing and I’m still thinking about Miss Jones at Mrs Bennet’s not an hour earlier. Yes, she’s firmly Miss Jones now, not Kate. I can’t call her that, I can’t cross that line. I have to hold fast to it because I don’t want Dan to be right.

And he’s not right. He’s not. Of course I’m not falling for her, that would be preposterous. Ridiculous. Marriage and that whole domestic nightmare has never been something I’ve wanted for myself, and that hasn’t changed just because a pretty ray of sunshine of a woman has come into my life.

I have my bookshop. I don’t need anything or anyone else, nor do I want it.

This restlessness that’s been eating away at me for the past few days, such that I’m unable to keep still, making me wander about my shelves like the minotaur lost in his own maze, is only sexual desire. Nothing more.

I need to get a handle on it, and the most obvious way to do that is to make a visit, as I so often promise myself I’ll do, to London. Find a woman in a bar and take her back to my hotel room. Easy. Problem solved.

Yet I can’t help but be aware that it’s not sex that’s making me restless now. It’s not Miss Jones in my bed that I can’t stop thinking about, but Miss Jones standing at the counter in Mrs Bennet’s shop looking almost . . . devastated.

And my own urge to reach out and pull her close in response.

She didn’t know any of the things Mrs Bennet had told her, I could see that, and if I’m not much mistaken, the thing that hit her the hardest was the knowledge that her mother and grandmother were at odds because of her existence.

It must have hurt. Doubly painful, too, knowing that, since Rose and Rebecca have gone, there will be no reconciliation. No way to make a connection to that past, either. A difficult thing to accept for a woman who is all about making connections with people.

I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about it.

I don’t know why it hurts me too.

The bell chimes and the door opens, and as I’m about to utter the immortal words ‘We’re closed’, Miss Jones comes in.

Instantly, I tense. I’m not sure what she’s doing here, since she told me we’d talk about the festival tomorrow.

She’s wearing a loose, white, oversized T-shirt that falls off one shoulder, exposing the pale-blue strap of her lacy bra. Her jeans are loose too and low on her hips. She wears a wide belt of distressed brown leather and gold sandals on her feet. She has hoops in her ears and her hair is just the way I like it, falling down over her shoulders and—

I catch my wayward thoughts and haul them back into line as I notice something else. She’s carrying the small cardboard box Mrs Bennet gave her and her pretty eyes are red, as if she’s been crying.

The feelings I had in the craft shop all rush in on me again. My chest tightens and I have the most absurd impulse to go to her, gather her into my arms and hold her. Ask her what’s wrong, why is she crying, and what can I do.

It’s ridiculous. I’ve never cared overmuch about other people’s feelings before, so I can’t imagine why I should care about hers. Yet . . . I do.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

Her mouth tightens. ‘I found something out. About H and C. In the box Mrs Bennet gave me.’

I tense even further. ‘What?’

She deposits the box on the counter. ‘Look.’

A pull of foreboding tugs inside me. I remember the note from H about the shadow that looked like a bruise under C’s eye and the expression on Mrs Bennet’s face. ‘He was a bad ’un . . .’

Slowly, I take the lid off the box. Some letters are arranged on top, so I take them out.

The red ink in the first one gives it away and adrenaline pours through me as I read it. Dear Rose . . . Then another. I’m sorry. Then another. I’ve been a coward.

Bloody hell. C’s missing letters. Except it’s not just C now, is it? C is Kathryn, Miss Jones’s great-grandmother.

It seems as if she was having an illicit affair with my great-grandfather.

‘Fuck,’ I murmur, as I put her last letter down. You looked so handsome . . . And I stare at Miss Jones as it begins to sink in.

‘Kathryn and Sebastian,’ I say. ‘They were having an affair.’

She nods.

‘And her husband . . .’

She nods again.

Yes. He hurt her.

Christ.

I’m still trying to process that when another thought hits me. ‘We’re not—’

‘Related?’ she finishes, clearly knowing exactly what I was going to say. ‘No. Rose was born near the end of the war, I think. A long time after H left.’

‘Thank God,’ I mutter. ‘But this is . . . incredible.’

She nods, but looks devastated.

I push the box away and try to resist the urge to step out from behind my counter and go to her, offer her comfort. I can’t do that, I can’t touch her. I need something between me and her, otherwise I don’t know what I’ll do.

‘You’re upset,’ I say, stating the fucking obvious in lieu of doing anything remotely useful. ‘Why?’

‘Why do you think?’ Miss Jones’s eyes are full of tears. ‘She loved him and she was with a husband who beat her, and she couldn’t leave. She used to own a teashop, but he made her close it just before the war started.’ The tears slide down her face. ‘She had to live with the love of her life being just across the road and she couldn’t be with him. He sent her another note, but she never returned it, so he thought . . .’

I think of the ripped-up note upstairs. The anger in it. ‘He didn’t know,’ I say quietly. ‘But he suspected.’

‘And she didn’t tell him. All those notes are ones she never sent.’

‘So, as far as he was concerned, she just . . . ghosted him.’

Miss Jones nods, her tears tugging at something inside me that feels unbearable. I don’t want to care. I don’t. Dan called me emotionally constipated and he’s right. Emotions are the key to addiction, that’s the problem, and emotions turned that key in my father and my grandfather, and probably in my great- grandfather too. Love turned them into beggars looking for something, anything, to fill the empty void inside them.

Who wants that? Not me.

‘It’s sad,’ I say coolly. ‘But it happened a long time ago.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘But Kate disappeared when Rose turned twenty-one. Her husband died and she just . . . vanished. They never found out what happened to her.’ More tears slide down her face. ‘I want to know how Rose coped. I want to know if she knew Sebastian’s son, if Kathryn knew him. I want to know so many things and, all those things, all those stories . . . They’re just gone, Sebastian. That’s why I’m crying. I’ll never know what happened to them. All their joys and their sorrows, all their little moments of happiness are gone. Because Mum and my grandmother didn’t talk to each other. Because of me.’

I understand now. I understand deeply. Lost stories are the worst, lost histories we’ll never know, because no one ever told them. I have my own history, my own story here in this bookshop and I know the stories of my family – at least I thought I did. Until now. Until we discovered a connection we never knew we had.

It’s worse for Kate, though. I have the bookshop and a sense of permanence, but Kate doesn’t. All she has is a box of letters and a sense that maybe she’s to blame for the loss of her history.

And, yes, that’s devastating.

I’m round the corner of my counter before I can think and then I’m reaching for her, drawing her into my arms. She doesn’t resist, turning her face into my chest, and weeping. Her arms creep around my waist and my hands are in her beautiful hair, stroking. Her scent winds around me, so sweet, and the warmth and softness of her body against mine is making me hard.

But she’s grieving and now is not the time for my baser self to take over, so I ignore it. Instead I hear myself murmuring nonsense to her about how it will ‘be all right’, how ‘it’s not because of you’, and whispering, ‘Please don’t cry, sweetheart.’

Sweetheart. I’ve never called anyone sweetheart in my entire life.

‘I know,’ she murmurs, her voice muffled by my shirt. ‘I’m being way too dramatic, but I can’t stop thinking about Kate. About how she must have felt, trapped in that terrible marriage. I know what it’s like being with someone who hurts you, and how awful it is. Then not being able to be with the man she loved. Hurting him . . .’ Her shoulders shake.

I go very still, bludgeoned over the head by the words ‘I know what it’s like being with someone who hurts you’ . . . What does she mean by that? Is she talking about her ex? The relationship that broke up before she came here? Did he hurt her?

My arms tighten around her as a sudden upwelling of rage fills me. I want to know everything about this ex of hers, everything. So I can strangle him with my bare hands. Then maybe go back in time and strangle the man who hurt her great-grandmother too.

It takes a conscious effort to pack my rage up into a tiny box and shove it away. Now is not the time for those kinds of questions and I don’t have the right to ask them anyway.

This is about her grief, not my anger, so instead I gather her closer and kiss the top of her head. Her hair is soft against my mouth and she smells good, and naturally this is the moment that my body decides it wants some action.

‘Kate,’ I say, because it’s getting so I’m going to have to say something and it seems ludicrous now to call her Miss Jones. ‘Please, ignore that.’

‘Ignore what?’ She sniffles and shifts her hips against mine.

The movement makes my breath catch. Audibly.

She goes still. ‘Oh,’ she murmurs. ‘That.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Yes, that.’

A sigh escapes her and she lifts her face from my chest. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are shiny, and she is honestly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says huskily. ‘I didn’t mean to end up sobbing in your shirt.’ She makes as if to pull away, and I can’t help myself, I tighten my grip.

‘I didn’t say I wanted you to leave,’ I murmur.

And I don’t, I realise. I don’t want her to leave my shop. I don’t want her to leave my arms. Not yet. I haven’t finished with her yet.

It’s physical, that’s all it is. It’s not because I care about her feelings or how good it was to hold someone, to make them feel better. It’s not because I’m falling for her.

I want her, that’s all, and one night doesn’t feel like enough, not any more.

The pulse at the base of her throat is beating hard and fast, and she’s looking up at me, searching my face. There’s a fearful kind of hope in her eyes.

One night wasn’t enough for her either.

‘What are you saying?’ she asks.

‘Kate.’ Her name is a sweet bite of sound. ‘Kathryn.’

She blushes, a tide of rose sweeping across her lovely face. ‘Be clear, Sebastian.’

‘Clear? Fine, I’ll give you clear.’ I let her go, but only so I can cup her face between my hands. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you, Miss Jones. And I’ve been thinking about you solidly ever since I walked out of your door. You’re in my head, in my dreams, and I want you naked in my bed. I want you all night and in the morning I’ll probably want you again.’

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, because I 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. She is poetry.

‘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.

I want a taste.

I sink to my knees and rip open the denim, shove her knickers down.

‘Sebastian,’ she gasps, as I put my mouth on her.

I remember the taste of her, sweet and salty, and I familiarise myself again. My God, she’s sensational. I can’t get enough. I explore her tenderly and with reverence, paying attention to every part of her.

She moves restlessly against me, gasping out my name.

I want to draw this out, but I’m desperate myself and I don’t think I can. So I tease her with my tongue, use my fingers to stroke and caress, and she cries out, shuddering between my hands as she comes.

So raw. So passionate.

My Kathryn.

She should never be Kate. Kate is pretty, but short and bitten off. You need to take your time with her name, roll it around in your mouth and really taste it. Two syllables. A sensual flavour I can draw out, indulge in.

Kath ryn .

She’s panting as I get to my feet and still shaking, and it’s a good look for her. Flushed cheeks and soft mouth, post-orgasmic pleasure glowing in her darkened eyes.

My inner Neanderthal is satisfied.

I put that look on her face. That was all me.

Without hesitation I get rid of the rest of her clothes and leave them on the floor by the shelves. She doesn’t stop me. She doesn’t protest. Just looks at me with desire in her eyes.

Yes. I am fucked. Well and truly.

I should walk away now, tell her never to darken my door again, but I know they’re empty threats. Words I will never utter.

The addiction is in me now, in my bones and cells.

It’s got a hold of me and I’m never going to get rid of it.

I’ve replaced the condoms in my wallet since our last encounter, so I grab one and get it out. Undo my trousers, roll it down my cock. Then I step forward and grip her, lifting her up against the solid oak shelves before pressing against her. She winds her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck, her breasts pressed to my chest.

I push into her and the tight heat nearly makes me lose control then and there. And like we did before, I have to pause and take a breath. Appreciate this incredible moment once again. When she is mine, all mine.

I look down into her eyes and she looks back.

My God, she’s beautiful.

I begin to move and she makes the most delicious sound. Half a moan, half a sigh. Her hips lift against mine, and she moves with me.

The pleasure begins to wind around and around us, pulling tight.

She gasps again as I move deeper, faster, and her hands grip the shelves. Books fall to the floor, but I don’t see them. I don’t hear them. All I see is her.

‘Sebastian . . .’ She groans, arching against me. ‘Oh my God . . .’

The shelves shake as I move even faster, driving her on and myself along with her. The feel of her is incredible.

I bend and taste her neck, then her shoulder. My fingers dig into her hips, gripping her hard. I can’t get enough of her. I never will.

She’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

The orgasm comes like a freight train, barrelling down on me and I know I’m not going to last. I bite her breast, nip her, tease her nipple and pinch it. She gives a breathless cry and then I slip my hand between us, where she is sensitive and slick, and I give her a flick of my finger.

She screams as I thrust and then it’s over for her, and she’s shaking and shaking, and I’m shaking along with her as the orgasm hits me over the head and I go down.

We don’t move. I’m physically unable to. She’s panting in my ear and I can hear my own heartbeat, thudding, deafening. I feel the way I do after a long, hard run, when the endorphins kick in and you’re on that physical high.

Christ. I’ve just screwed a woman in my bookshop, and what a woman she is . . . I’ll never be the same again.

There’s a circle of fallen books around us, which feels appropriate. But I don’t bother picking them up. I deal with the necessities first, including locking the front door of the shop, then, when I’m done, I pick her up from where she’s slumped against the shelves and gather her close.

She puts her arms around my neck, lying back against my chest, all sleepy and sated. Her gaze is dark as she looks up at me from beneath her lashes. ‘Where are we going, Mr Blackwood?’ she asks, husky and sensual.

I stride towards the entrance to my flat. ‘You know very well where we’re going, Miss Jones.’

‘Miss Jones again. Hmmm. Have I been bad?’

‘You’ve been excessively disobedient. I’m going to have to punish you.’

She smiles as I kick the door open. ‘Oh, goody.’