5. Hazel
five
Hazel
I can't stop thinking about him.
After our encounter at Timber!, Flint's touch still lingers on my skin like a phantom caress. I catch myself daydreaming at the library where I work, shelving novels in completely wrong sections because my mind wanders to green eyes and strong hands.
"Earth to Hazel," my coworker Lisa says, waving her hand in front of my face. "That's the third time you've put mystery novels in the biography section. What's going on with you?"
I feel my cheeks flush. "Nothing."
"Liar," she says with a knowing smile. "You've got that 'I met someone' look all over your face."
I bite my lip, unable to contain my smile. "Maybe I did."
Lisa pulls me behind the natural science section, which is always quiet, keeping her voice low. "Tell me everything."
I give her the PG version—how I got stood up, how Flint taught me to throw axes, and how we're going on an actual date tonight. Some details are just for me.
"He's taking me to dinner tonight," I finish, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.
"Well, you better go home and get ready," Lisa says, checking her watch. "I’ll cover your last ten minutes.”
I rush home and take extra time to get ready. I choose a deep green dress that brings out my eyes and hugs my curves in all the right places—a far cry from the cardigans and sensible skirts I wear at the library.
When Flint arrives, his eyes widen appreciatively. "Wow," he breathes. "You look incredible."
I blush under his intense stare. "Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself."
Dinner is at the only Italian restaurant in town. It is intimate and cozy, with candlelight creating a warm glow. Conversation flows easily between us. I tell him about my job at the local library, my love of connecting people with stories, and my dream of running the children's literacy program.
"There's something magical about helping a child discover the right book," I explain. "It's like watching a door open to another world."
Flint listens intently, his eyes never leaving mine, as if every word matters deeply. He tells me about growing up in a small logging town, following his father's footsteps before finding his own path.
"I never thought I'd end up teaching people to throw axes," he admits with a laugh. "But I love watching that moment of triumph when someone hits the target for the first time."
"Like when I hit the target?" I ask, remembering the thrill of success under his guidance.
His eyes darken. "Exactly like that. You were such a good girl, following my instructions perfectly."
A shiver runs through me at his words. The way he says "good girl" awakens something I never knew existed within me—a desire to please him, to earn that praise again and again.
After dinner, we stroll hand in hand through downtown. We pass the library, and he stops to look at the window display I'd arranged last week.
"You should come by sometime," I say. "I could recommend some books for you."
He smiles, bringing my hand to his lips. "I'd like that. Though I should warn you, I might have trouble focusing on reading with you around."
As we approach his truck, Flint turns to me, his hand cupping my cheek. "The night doesn't have to end yet," he suggests.
"I don't want it to end," I admit.
His kiss starts gently but quickly turns hungry. I press myself against him, savoring his warmth. A boldness I didn't know I possessed takes hold of me.
"Get in the truck," I whisper, surprising myself with my directness.
Flint raises an eyebrow but doesn't question me. He slides into the driver's seat, and instead of sitting beside him, I climb onto his lap, straddling him.
"I want to make you feel good," I tell him, "like you made me feel good."
His hands find my waist. "You don't have to—"
I slide off his lap, positioning myself between his legs. The confined space of the truck cabin feels intimate rather than restrictive, creating a private world where only we exist. My hands tremble as I work open his belt and then the button of his jeans. I swear I know how to undo a button, honest.
I free him from his boxers, my breath catching at the sight. He's impressive—thick and long, with a prominent vein running along the underside. A drop of moisture glistens at the tip, and without thinking, I lean forward to taste it, my tongue darting out to collect the essence of him.
Flint hisses, his hand gently resting on the back of my head. "That's it," he encourages, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. Take your time, beautiful. There's no rush."
I look up at him, suddenly uncertain. "I want to make you feel good, but I'm not sure exactly how..."
His eyes soften with understanding. "I'll guide you," he promises. "Do you trust me?"
"Completely," I whisper, the word feeling like a sacred vow between us.
"Wrap your hand around the base," he instructs, his voice gentle but firm. "Not too tight—that's perfect."
I follow his direction, marveling at the contradiction of soft skin over hardness. I can feel his pulse beneath my fingers, rapid and strong.
"Now, use your tongue," he continues. "Trace the underside, from base to tip."
I lean in, doing as he suggests, running my tongue along the prominent vein. His sharp intake of breath tells me I'm doing something right.
"Good girl," he praises, and the words send a rush of warmth through me. "Circle the head with your tongue."
I explore him with growing confidence, swirling my tongue around the sensitive ridge, learning what makes his breath catch, what draws those deep, rumbling groans from his chest.
"That's it, Hazel," he murmurs, his fingers threading through my hair. "You're a natural."
My earlier nervousness fades, replaced by a sense of wonder and power. I, quiet librarian Hazel, am bringing this strong, confident man pleasure with just my mouth and hands.
"Now take me into your mouth," Flint instructs. "Just the head at first. Use your lips to cover your teeth."
I take him between my lips, careful to keep my teeth covered as he suggested. His taste is stronger now—salt and musk and something uniquely Flint.
"Perfect," he groans. "So perfect, Hazel. Now, use your hand and mouth together."
I coordinate my movements, stroking with my hand while taking him deeper into my mouth with each bob of my head. Finding a rhythm takes practice, but Flint's patience never wavers.
"That's it," he encourages. "Hollow your cheeks a little. Yes, just like that. You're doing so well."
His praise washes over me like warm rain, each word driving me to please him better, to earn more of those delicious affirmations. The vulnerability of the position—on my knees before him, my mouth stretched around him—feels empowering rather than degrading. This is my choice, my desire, my gift to him.
"Look at me," he says softly. "I want to see those beautiful blue eyes while you take me."
I raise my gaze to his, maintaining eye contact as I continue sucking him off.
"God, you're gorgeous," Flint breathes, his thumb tracing my stretched lips. "Such a good girl for me, so eager to please. The way you look right now, Hazel..." He trails off, seemingly lost for words.
In his eyes, I see not just desire and the beginnings of something more significant. It emboldens me to take him deeper, relaxing my throat as I've read about in the more explicit romance novels tucked away in the library's adult section.
"Fuck," he groans, his hand tightening slightly in my hair. "That's amazing. Where did you learn to—never mind. Don't stop."
I feel a surge of pride at his reaction. By day, I help patrons find information, organize community events, and maintain the quiet dignity of the library. But here, with Flint, I'm discovering a different side of myself—passionate, daring, uninhibited.
"Use your tongue while you suck," he suggests, his voice strained. "Swirl it around the head when you pull back."
I follow his instructions, adding this new technique to my repertoire. The taste of him grows stronger as more pre-come leaks out.
"You're a quick study," he praises, his breathing more ragged. "Such a good, attentive girl. So perfect for me."
His words send heat pooling between my thighs. I’m turned on by pleasing him this way. I want to learn exactly what he likes.
"I'm getting close," he warns, his muscles tensing beneath my hands. "You can pull away if you want."
But I don't want to. I want to experience all of him, to bring him to completion with just my mouth and hands. I look up, meeting his eyes, trying to communicate my desire without words.
He seems to understand because he groans, his hand cradling the back of my head without pushing. "Fuck, Hazel," he groans, his control visibly slipping. "Your mouth feels incredible. So hot and wet and perfect. I'm going to—"
His words dissolve into a deep moan as he reaches his peak. I feel the pulse of his seed against my tongue, the flavor stronger and more complex than I anticipated. I swallow instinctively, continuing to move my lips and tongue gently, easing him through the aftermath.
When the last tremor subsides, I release him, sitting back on my heels. A strange mix of emotions washes over me and lingering desire still throbbing insistently between my thighs.
"You're incredible," he murmurs. "So brave and beautiful."
I nestle against his chest. "I like it when you say things like that," I admit quietly.
Flint tilts my chin up. "I'll never stop telling you how amazing you are. The way you respond when I praise you. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"I've never felt this way before," I confess. "Like I'd do anything to hear those words from you."
"That's nothing to be ashamed of," he assures me. "We all need to be seen and appreciated. I love that I can give that to you."
As he drives us to his home, I realize I'm falling for him. It's too soon and completely illogical.
But I can't bring myself to care about logic or timing. I think of the countless romance novels I've helped patrons find at the library, stories of whirlwind romances that I always considered fantasy rather than possibility. Yet here I am, living what feels like the opening chapters of my own personal love story—one I never expected but now can't imagine living without.