Chapter 11
Dax
The view from the top isn’t what most people think.
As I stare out the floor to ceiling window of my highrise office in the heart of Boston, I don’t feel high and mighty.
I don’t feel accomplished or even good about anything.
I’ve never had a store flop. I’ve never had a purchase be this difficult.
Usually, I see a bookstore that is failing and I buy it.
I cover the windows and the doors with COMING SOON HEMINGWAY BOOKS AND ORION COFFEE and we get to word.
Or I buy a vacant building and do the same.
But who knew this one would be such a headache? All because little Miss Frizzle had to get involved. I am buying a shop from my best friend for Christ’s sake. This should be a no-brainer. And yet, my brain is very much involved, not to mention other parts of my anatomy.
No matter how hard I try to focus on the tasks at hand, my mind keeps wandering back.
Back to the way Libby looked in her sunshine-colored outfit, stumbling about with her zucchini plant or whatever the fuck it was.
Smelling like apples, wine, and something more musky that gave me a hard-on as soon as I approached her.
And don’t get me started on the little stunt she pulled with the keys. I don’t think she expected me to go diving down her front side to retrieve them. Honestly, I didn’t expect myself to either. But between her sass and the temptation, I was outnumbered. And I went for it.
And fuck me it was worth it.
Except now, thoughts of Libby are dancing around in my head like a hangover that no amount of caffeine or Advil can kill. I worry that the only way to satisfy the beast is to feed it. And that…I cannot do. I shouldn’t do. I won’t…
I try to focus on work. On the tasks at hand.
The construction crew said that the wall between Way With Words and the storefront next to it, which I also purchased, is in fact weight bearing, which means we won’t be going in with sledgehammers any time soon.
It doesn’t, however, mean that we can’t put an archway that leads into the coffee shop.
The layout won’t be an exact mirror of most Hemingway locations.
Even with adding on the neighboring storefronts, it’s still going to be smaller than most. But that’s something I can work around.
“It’ll be a niche Hemingway,” Kai assured me. “A Beacon Street version. Smaller, a little more character but also all of the essential defining points that make it Hemingway ?.”
That said, things on the business end of it all looked promising. Beacon Street is prime shopping for Boston real estate and snagging this was a winning lottery ticket as far as Hemingway is concerned. And yet, it’s a headache.
All because a girl in yellow that smells like wine and decorates her apartment with fake plants save for one has my mind straying from work and swirling around the possibility of a kiss that neither of us let happen.
I stay late at the office, not needing to be home any time soon.
I check my phone and find that nothing is pressingpressing, and I have time to get a few back burner things done in peace and quiet.
I order take-out and word until my neck is kinkedkinked, and my back is soresore, and I need a full body stretch to untangle myself.
I get in my car and turn on the radio, making my way down the dark streets that are neither busy nor dead.
Boston has always been home. With its hustle and chaos mixed with culture and architecture and history, the old and the new, I love it.
Yet parts of it feel like ghost towns. Not because they are abandoned but because of the memories there.
There are places I avoid (the pizza place near my house, even though they make the best pepperoni rolls), places that make my heart tight every time I go inside (the Icecream shop around the corner).
And there are places I will never go again (the farmer’s market near the Aquarium).
There are roads I don’t take. And every time certain holidays or simple dates of the year come up, I prefer to not leave the house at all. And because of these detours, I find myself driving past Way With Words.
I slow when I see her car parked out front. A sun faded, sky blue Miada. I can smell the old upholstery mixed with vanilla air freshener and years of cheap body sprays. I find it odd that Kai drives a BMW and Libby drives that. And at the same time, it’s not odd at all.
I slow as I approach the shop. That’s when I realize the lights are still on. My heart dips in my chest and I keep driving. Then my eyes flicker to the rear view. My grip tightens on the wheel. And I turn around.
I don’t pause at all as I kill the engine, unbuckle and get out of the car. If I stop and think about what I am doing, I won’t do it. I have a key to the shop that Kai gave me and I use it. The door is old and it takes some fiddling with to unlock.
“Sorry, we are closed!” Libby calls from inside.
But as I walk inside, I realize she isn’t looking.
She doesn’t know it’s me and she doesn’t know I am fast approaching her.
She has her back to me and she’s making her way down a ladder attached to a built-in-shelf labeled Travel, almost to the bottom.
But before she reaches the ground, her peripheral catches me and she yelps, clearly startled. I reach out to catch her as Libby loses her footing on the last rung.
“What the hell are you doing here? You can’t just come in here,” she snaps as her body crashes against mine. She’s not in yellow, she’s in orange. Equally as bright, equally as Libby, equally as intoxicating.
“Actually I have a key so–”
“It’s not your shop yet!” she shouts. And I do mean shouts. There’s frustration and hurt and confusion behind it. Like the sound an injured animal would make if someone touched its wounds. Protective.
And it breaks me. My eyes search hers and her glare softens around the edges and I cover her mouth with mine.
At first, Libby presses her palms to my chest, as if she is going to push me away.
But she never does. Her entire body softens against mine and her hands relax, gripping my shirt in them.
The kiss goes deeper on its own and we both give into it.
We give into what I think we’ve both been wanting for days.
The thing we wanted on her doorstep but said no to.
I’m tired of saying no. I’m tired of doing what I should do and not what I want to do in that moment. I have been so careful for so long and I just want to let go. For just a few goddamn minutes, I want to let go.
And we do.
“Why are you here?” she asks into my mouth, refusing to break contact.
“I don’t know,” I answer, pulling her tighter against me, one of my hands on her cheek, the other one wandering down her off-the-shoulder orange hoodie, down to her waist where my fingers brush the skin above the elastic of her leggings, making her giggle.
She’s ticklish. She’s a million wondrous things and I want to know them all. I want to explore them all.
“I don’t know if you should be,” she goes on as my mouth makes its way down her neck, indulging in the soft spot next to her collarbone.
“I don’t really care what I should be doing right now. All I care about is this. I can’t stop thinking about this.”
Libby moans as I grip her ass and press my lips to the swell of her breasts at the same time. “We could not and say we did…” she murmurs. But we both know that’s not what we want.
I pull away just enough to look at her. “And what would be the fun in that?”
Before she can answer, I clip my hands inside the waistline of her leggings and give them a good tug.
I know the force needed to tackle stubborn leggings, a clothing invention designed to make men’s lives difficult.
But even Lululemon is no match for my hunger right now and they slide off her legs with ease.
Then I lift her up and set her on one of the ladder rungs. My mouth melts over hers once more, enough to engage in the moment again, enough to make her whimper into my mouth and to loosen her muscles, her knees parting as I step in between them.
When I pull away, I bend down. She is just high enough that If I come to my knees, my face is right where it needs to be to rock her world. Pussy level.
I growl as I breathe her in, hot and bothered and sweet. “I swear to god, Libby. Why do you wear things like this?” I ask, running my finger inside the seam of her hot pink panties.
“Because it makes me feel sexy,” she whispers, her knees spread wide in want.
“You are fucking sexy,” I assure her. “You know that right?”
“I…I mean…” she stutters and I realize she is still the same girl from the blind date. Except now, I have context. She was hurt by a man who she loved and trusted. A man who didn’t know her worth and made sure she knew that. And guessing by her stuttering, she still believes his lies.
Well, not on my watch.
I kiss the insides of her thighs and Libby grips the sides of the ladder.
“Has anyone ever told you how gorgeous you are?” I ask as my lips slowly make their way inward.
The amount of self control it’s taking not to simply devour her like a fucking vampire is unreal.
But I want her to enjoy this. I want it to be about her.
I want it more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.
“Covergirl maybe?” she jokes.
I run my thumb over her wet mound in response and she moans again.
“Has anyone said it and meant it? Because you are stunning, Libby. Every last inch of you.”
With that, I hook my finger inside her panties and tug them aside.
“You drive me wild,” I go on, my mouth close enough to her that I know she can feel the heat of it. “And I want you to feel that.”
“What if we get caught?” she asks.
“By who?”
“People walking by. The lights are on. They can see.”
“So let them watch,” I answer, my dick hardening at the idea of it.
“What about the security cameras?” she asks, running her hand through my hair. Her fingernails scratch my scalp, making every nerve in my body ignite.
“Wipe them,” I grit out.
I press my lips softly to her and she jolts, as if I used a defibrillator. With that I grin.
“Fuck, baby. You’re so wet for me.”
“So stop teasing me,” she begs.
“Am I teasing you?” I ask before running just the tip of my tongue up about down the length of her.
She moans again, her back arching against the ladder. There’s no way this is comfortable. There’s also no way I am going to stop. “Fuck me…” she whines.
“What do you say?” I ask, running my tongue over her again, enough to make her drip but not enough to make her come.
What Libby does next is not what I am expecting. It’s also the hottest fucking thing a woman has ever done.
Her hand grips the hair on the back of my head and she presses it forward, forcing contact between her lips…and mine.
“Now,” she demands.
I suck once, with enough force to make her cry out. And then I look up at her.
“I think you forgot how to say please…”
When her pouting mouth doesn’t answer me, I smirk, lowering my face to her again. With the tip of my tongue, I find her clit, teasing it for a moment and then stopping abruptly. I wait until her body relaxes and I do it again. Wait. And again.
“Fuck,” she whimpers.
“Not the right word,” I shake my head and tease her again. Never long enough for an orgasm to fully build. Only long enough to drive her crazy.
“Say it,” I tell her.
Libby runs her hand down the back of my head again but I grab her hand, lacing my fingers with hers so she can’t get away. Then I tease her again. And again.
“I can do this all night, baby,” I warn her with a smirk.
Her eyes shoot a silent fuck you in my direction.
I let out a gritty laugh and lean in again. “Fine. Have it your way.”
My tongue presses to her clit, and I pull away. Then I go lower, circling her opening…and pull away. Back and forth, giving a little but never enough.
Then I press the pad of my thumb hard against her, enough to make her hips push into my touch, enough that I can feel her heart racing through my hand.
“Okay,” she lets out. “I need to come, damn you.”
“Magic word?”
“Please.”
“Good girl,” I grin and cover her clit with my mouth. I suck and flick and lap over her harder and faster, sucking hard enough that I am drinking her in. It’s enough to make me come, though I don’t. This needs to be about her. I want it to be all about her.
“Oh my god,” she lets out. “Dax…I’m going to…fuck!”
Libby cries out as the orgasm rips through her body. Her hand, that is still laced with mine, squeezes tight enough to cut off circulation and I can feel her leaving her own body as I suck her into a white oblivion.
When I finally pull away, she goes limp. As I sit on my knees in front of her, she slides off the ladder with a smile. Then she reaches for my belt, unlatching it. “You want more?” I ask.
“I want more,” she nods, unbuttoning my slacks.
“Tell me what you want,” I say huskily. Her fingertips graze my cock and I can feel the precum that’s been building for a while now dampening my pants.
“I want your cock inside me,” she says.
With that, I shove her hands out of the way, wanting–needing– to speed up the process. But just before I liberate my dick from the confinement of my now too tight slacks, my phone buzzes with a ringtone that I know all too well. It’s enough to make me stop. Enough to kill the mood.
I pull it from my pocket and sure enough, Delilah’s name pops up.
“What is it?” she asks and I can’t tell if she saw the name or not.
“I have to take this,” I say, standing up and zipping my pants back up.
“Okay…” Libby seems confused.
“I’m sorry I just…I have to go.”
With that, I walk out of the bookstore and into the night, wondering if I just made yet another mistake.