2. Nocturnal Whispers #2
I forced myself into motion, stacking the day’s returned books onto a cart and pushing it toward the back.
The movement helped, a little. But even in the stacks, the sense-memory of the dream gnawed at my awareness.
Every time my shirt brushed against my chest, I flinched.
Every time I reached up, the pull of my bra straps reminded me of the phantom hands, the taste of their skinless hunger.
I shelved half a dozen books before I dropped one.
A hardcover, Psychology of the Self, which crashed on the floor and landed open to a chapter called “Desire and Displacement.” The irony was not lost on me.
I stooped to grab it and caught the smell of the paper, a blend of starch and old air that shot me straight back to childhood.
When I straightened, my palm left a smudge of sweat on the glossy jacket.
I kept moving. Shelved and re-shelved, finding busywork anywhere I could.
By ten o’clock, the library had filled out: freelancers, old men reading the newspapers for free, a couple of teenage girls in matching leggings and athleisure.
My eyes flitted from face to face, unable to land.
I tried to scold myself back into normalcy.
There is nothing to see here, you are a professional, don’t be a creep, but it only made my awareness more acute.
It was just before eleven when Amanda Chen burst in.
She always came in like a high-pressure system: all whiplash ponytail and rapid-fire small talk, arms full of designer tote bags and iced coffee from across the street.
Amanda had been at the library for just under three weeks, but she already moved like she owned the place.
She wore a fuchsia top that clung to her chest, exposing a triangle of collarbone and enough cleavage to make my throat go dry.
“Lauren! You look like someone just ran over your cat.” Her voice had that sing-song inflection that made even sarcasm sound cute.
I was in the middle of re-stocking the printer paper, kneeling awkwardly behind the counter. “Morning, Amanda,” I mumbled, then realized my voice was scratchy and cleared it. “Rough night.”
She snorted. “Tell me about it. I had to ban a guy from the 24-hour reading room for jerking off to the computer lab webcams.” She said this at a perfectly conversational volume. The retiree and the mother both looked up; Amanda waved, unbothered.
I envied her, a little. She floated through life immune to embarrassment, shielded by the knowledge that whatever she said was the least weird thing anyone would hear that day. She leaned over the counter, fixing me with those enormous brown eyes. “You okay?” she asked, softer.
“Just tired. Allergies.” The words came out flat. I hoped she’d drop it.
Instead, Amanda clapped her hands. “You need a pick-me-up. Let’s do a donut run at break. You can tell me what’s really going on.” She disappeared toward the magazine racks, leaving me marooned in the fluorescent glare of the returns desk, my heart hammering like I’d just run a race.
I didn’t want to tell anyone what was going on.
I wasn’t even sure I could put it into words.
It was like there was a radio playing inside my skull, all static and fragments of sound, and every now and then a burst of moaning would cut through, followed by nothing.
I killed the next thirty minutes with more shelving, more mindless inventory.
It was a Tuesday, so the new periodicals were due to be sorted and displayed.
I grabbed the bin and headed for the north stacks, trailing my hand along the edge of the shelf to ground myself.
In the 100s, the philosophy and psychology section, I found my way blocked by a cluster of carts.
I heard voices. Amanda was there, of course, along with Meredith from circulation.
They stood in the narrow aisle, talking with the kind of intensity that said they’d rather not be interrupted.
The air in the library felt heavier than usual, thick with the scent of old paper and a faint hint of Amanda’s perfume.
Something floral, heady, and just a little too much.
I froze mid-step, my fingers clutching the spine of a book I was supposed to shelve.
Amanda’s voice carried through the stacks, low and conspiratorial, dripping with a kind of confidence that made my stomach twist.
“Oh, he more than made up for it,” she said, her tone theatrical, almost rehearsed. “We closed down the restaurant, and he practically dragged me back to his place. Barely made it through the door before he had me against the wall.”
I shouldn’t have stopped. I should’ve walked away, retreated into the safety of the reference section, where the silence drowned out everything but the hum of fluorescent lights.
But I didn’t. I stayed rooted to the spot, my breath shallow, my pulse quickening as Amanda’s voice curled around me like smoke.
“He didn’t even let me take my shoes off,” she continued, her words punctuated by a soft, throaty laugh. “One hand on my wrist, pinned above my head, and the other… well, let’s just say my panties didn’t stay on for long. He had them around my ankles before I could even think about protesting.”
My cheeks burned, and I pressed the edge of the periodicals bin into my palm, the cold metal biting into my skin.
Amanda’s voice was a lure, dragging me deeper into a world I barely understood but couldn’t resist. I could almost see it: the dimly lit apartment, the way his breath would have been hot against her neck, the way her body would have arched into his.
“He bent me over the side table,” Amanda said, her voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow louder than before. “You know how some guys just… take charge? Like, they don’t ask, they don’t hesitate. They just know what they want.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. My imagination conjured images faster than I could suppress them: Amanda’s hands gripping the edge of the table, her back arched, her skirt pushed up around her waist. The sound of skin meeting skin, sharp and rhythmic, echoing through the room.
The way she would have gasped, her breath hitching as he drove into her, relentless and unyielding.
“He fucked me so hard I saw stars,” Amanda said, her voice tinged with a kind of awe that made my knees weak. “Actual, literal stars. My thighs are still sore.”
I felt a twinge low in my belly, a feverish ache I hadn’t felt in years.
My grip tightened on the bin, the metal digging deeper into my palm.
Amanda’s words lingered in the air, rich with detail, vivid and unapologetic.
I could taste them on my tongue, sweet and forbidden, and I hated myself for wanting more.
“Swear to god,” Amanda added, her tone final, leaving no room for doubt.
Meredith giggled, a high, nervous sound that broke the spell. “You’re kidding!”
“I’m not,” Amanda replied, her voice firm. “He was… intense. Like, I wasn’t prepared for it. But god, it was good.”
I exhaled slowly, my breath shaky, and forced myself to move.
But my body felt heavy, my limbs sluggish, as if Amanda’s words had seeped into my skin and settled there, restless and demanding.
I could still hear her voice, the wet click of her tongue on the ‘k’ in ‘fuck,’ the lazy drawl of her vowels.
It clung to me, lingering like a scent I couldn’t shake.
As I walked away, my thoughts spiraled, tangled in images I couldn’t banish.
Amanda’s body, bare and trembling. His hands, rough and possessive.
The sounds they would have made… moans, gasps, the slap of skin on skin.
My heart raced, and I pressed my thighs together, trying to quell the heat pooling between them.
But it was no use. Amanda’s story had unlocked something in me, a door I’d kept firmly shut for years.
And now, it was wide open, inviting me in.
I didn’t know if I was ready to step through it, but the temptation was there, whispering in my ear, urging me to follow.
I put away the periodicals with shaking hands.
A few of the covers stuck together, static-charged or maybe just damp with my sweat.
I ran my palms down the front of my skirt, willing myself to regain composure.
It didn’t help. My underwear was, humiliatingly, wet.
I clenched my thighs, as if that could somehow squeeze the sensation away.
I fled to the staff lounge. The room was windowless, lined with battered lockers and a sad little vending machine.
I braced myself against the laminate countertop, forehead pressed to the cool woodgrain.
I sucked in air through my teeth and tried to slow my pulse.
It didn’t work. The dream rushed back. Hands on my breasts, lips at my throat, pressure between my legs, and Amanda’s voice was in my ear, bright and wicked: He fucked me so hard I saw stars.
I wanted to gouge the memory out, replace it with nothing.
A shadow in the doorway. Amanda herself, holding a napkin-wrapped donut and a smile. “You hiding from me?” she teased.
I straightened up so fast I nearly toppled the coffee pot. “No, just… needed a minute. Low blood sugar,” I lied.
She crossed the room, pressed the donut into my hand. “You should eat something. You look pale.” Her concern was genuine, infuriatingly so.
I tried to thank her, but my mouth was dry. I managed a nod and nibbled at the edge of the donut, though the sweetness made my teeth hurt. I could feel Amanda’s gaze on me, curious and unjudging. It made me want to confess everything and say nothing, all at once.
After a minute, she shrugged and said, “Well, if you ever want a girls’ night out, I know a couple of guys who’d kill to meet a hot librarian.” She winked. “You clean up nice.”
I smiled, weakly. “Thanks. I’ll… keep that in mind.”