3. Paige #2
As I walk, I sip. Mmm . Still warm. And so freaking good.
So far, the evening is proving quiet, and I’m already feeling the victory of a successful keeper shift under my belt—albeit a short one.
Hopefully, Hoc will chill out and I’ll be back on track to graduate from my internship.
Hell, maybe they’ll elevate me straight past novice if I play my cards right.
After the first hour passes with no books attacking me, I decide it’s safe to pass the remaining time listening to an audiobook.
The story of a slow-burn romance between a mafia crime boss and his female love interest, who is secretly his enemy’s daughter, plays in one of my ears while I keep one earbud free.
It’s a forbidden love sort of thing. Human romance.
But, damn, the heat level is off the charts.
“Please—” I beg.
“Please, what, Dee?” He stares down at me through hooded eyes while my own gaze travels down over his ripped abdomen and the massive bulge in his jeans.
“Please. I swear, I'm not spying on you.”
“You see why it’s difficult for me to believe you,” Michael growls as he takes the tip of his finger and runs it along my cheek.
“What do I have to do to show you that I’m innocent? That my interest in you is purely my own?” I keep my chin strong, my tone level, because I want this man to see me as more than the daughter of his enemy.
I want him to see me as a woman.
He growls. “I can’t say I dislike the sight of you on your knees. Pouty mouth ready for me.” Michael’s hand goes to my chin, and he runs the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. “Will you show me that you’re not wearing a wire?” He sticks the tip of his blade into the top of my shirt.
He cuts the fabric, and I suck in a breath as my shirt opens just enough to bare the swell of my breasts—and to show I’m not wearing anything but this low-cut lace bra. “Much better.”
“Do you believe me now? Do you believe that I’m here because I can’t stop thinking of you?”
He likes the power, and I have no problem giving it to him.
“That depends,” he says softly.
“On what? I’ll do anything.”
He grins. “Then answer this.” He sets the blade aside. “Are you ready for me, Dee? Ready for what I can give you?”
“Yes,” I reply, breathless. “I’ve been ready since the moment we met.”
He grins down at me and then undoes the button of his jeans. I’ll do anything for him. On my knees, my back—whatever he desires, so long as he gives me the one thing I’ve never been able to find.
Connection.
I’m so wrapped up in the story, I almost miss the book that rattles to my left. When the movement catches my eye, I stop, turn, and swallow hard as it continues to move, jostling the books beside it.
“Oh no, you don’t,” I mutter as I glare at the leather-bound volume boasting the title Sea Monster . Which, let’s be fair, is reason enough to hurry and shut the thing up.
With my non-coffee hand, I reach out and press my finger against the book’s spine, whispering the word that will seal it shut. “Clauseruntque.”
The book goes still just as the story I’m listening to picks up. Shit, I’m practically salivating at this point.
"I want to see that glorious body of yours,” Michael demands.
“Anything for you.”
With the misbehaving book back in its place, I take another sip of pumpkin spice—it's important to reward oneself for a job well done—and keep walking. While I keep a careful eye trained on the shelves, I listen with rapt attention to the scene playing out in my ear. The male continues questioning the heroine as he removes his pants. She swears—again—that she’s not spying.
He demands that she strip to prove she’s not wearing a wire.
Uh-huh. Perfect sexy scene set-up.
I turn the corner to the next row of shelves, completely caught up as the man watches her remove her clothing. Sensually, of course.
When she’s stripped down to nothing but her bra and panties, she stops. He growls for her to keep going. She refuses.
I turn down another aisle.
Mermaid section.
This area is usually pretty quiet. Maybe the characters inside know they’d be escaping to an atmosphere their gills can’t handle. Whatever the reason, this section is usually my easiest.
Unconcerned, I quicken my pace, as the audiobook continues to build the heat.
“You have the body of a goddess,” Michael tells me. And with the heat in his eyes, I believe him.
He reaches out and slips a finger beneath the lace panties I wear. Then, without asking for permission, he yanks and tears them from my body.
I gasp.
He slides a finger over me and moans. “So ready for me, Dee. So, damned ready.”
The tension is ridiculous, and I decide right here and now to never settle for a guy who won’t rip my panties off.
Ugh. Not that I know where to find one. And if I don’t get access to those portals soon, I may never get the chance to look. Hoc’s protectiveness is best described as Hoc-blocking.
I take another sip of my latte, sinking back into the story and living out my sex life vicariously through fictional characters.
A noise from up ahead snaps me out of it.
I hurry toward the creatures of the air section in time to see another book rattling.
The wyvern. Again.
This book likes to cause trouble, but tonight it seems especially full of itself.
The woman in my ear whimpers as the man yanks off her bra.
The book rattles harder.
Shit . Talk about a buzzkill.
With my free hand, I fumble for the pause button at the same moment the wyvern’s book manages to tear itself loose and fly off the shelf. The cover shudders, threatening to open, and I forget about the story, racing for the book.
A screeching cry leaks out from between the pages, echoing in the ear that doesn’t have a sexy scene playing out.
Wyverns are hideously high-pitched.
And this one is definitely going to get my ass busted if I don’t hurry up.
The book shivers against the floor, jumping a few inches to the left. I almost miss it in its chaotic attempt to dodge me, but thankfully, I’m more agile than a three-thousand-year-old wyvern terror bound in leather.
Quickly setting aside my latte, I lunge as the book leaps and only barely manage to grab the thing out of the air. The wyvern screeches louder. I wince and proceed to wrestle the damn thing, stumbling left then right again. Through clenched teeth, I utter, “Clauseruntque.”
With a final shove against my midsection, the book falls still.
Unfortunately, the momentum has left me in perpetual motion.
Careening backward, my shoulder hits the shelf behind me—hard.
I grunt, releasing the now-quiet wyvern book. It falls to the floor with a harmless thud—followed by several more muted thuds that have dread crawling up my spine faster than I can turn to see what’s fallen.
“Shit,” I hiss, bending low to grab the three other titles I’ve just knocked loose.
Maybe the books didn’t notice. Maybe they won’t even—
Before I can finish thinking the thought, the first book wakes.
The Mummy, it reads.
Dread coils in my belly. I’ve seen this movie. And there’s no Brendan Fraser here to save me.
It trembles, and I panic. Throwing my entire body on top of the thing, I scream, “Clauseruntque!”
The book falls silent.
Something wet touches my ankle and I remember the latte. Twisting my body, I spot the offending pumpkin drink tipped over from the chaos and currently leaking onto the carpet.
With a heavy sigh, I reach for it, easing my weight off the trio of books I’ve yet to re-shelve. The moment I do, I realize my mistake.
A spine cracks open too fast for me to read the lettering. Pages blow by, and magic stirs the air. It snaps around me like an electric tornado, a whirl of color and sound that blocks out everything else.
“No!” I scream, no longer caring if someone hears because, in the next few seconds, I could be dead. “Hel—!”
My cry is cut short as a creature escapes straight from the pages of the story itself and into existence right in the center of the puddle of pumpkin spice.