4. Juliette #2
He pulls me sideways, into the gap between two shelf units, pressing us both into the shadows.
It’s barely wide enough for one person, let alone two, and his body is flush against mine from chest to thigh.
His heart races through his shirt, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
His cock is a hard, thick brand against my hip.
One of my legs is forced up between his.
The position is filthy and perfect and terrifying.
The footsteps pass.
Pause.
Continue on.
We wait until they fade entirely, until the only sound is our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the building’s climate control. My skin feels too tight. Every place we touch burns hotter for the interruption.
“That was close,” I whisper. My hands fist in his shirt hard enough to hurt.
“You have a problem.” I mean it as an accusation. It comes out impressed.
“I have a wife. In a library. After midnight. Who tastes like the only future I want.” His mouth finds my jaw, then the corner of my lips, then the shell of my ear, and I shudder.
“The problems have been resolved. This is the prize ceremony. And I am going to collect so thoroughly you’ll feel me every time you sit down tomorrow. ”
“That was hot,” I admit, hips shifting restlessly against him. “The almost-getting-caught thing. God, I’m dripping and you’ve barely touched me.”
“That was a misdemeanor.”
“Same thing,” I say, and he kisses me, and this time there’s no hesitation, no interruption, nothing but his mouth and his hands and the shelf digging into my back as he presses me harder against it.
One hand drops to the hem of my dress and drags it up my thighs with delicious slowness.
The library’s chill finds bare skin. His fingers trace the edge of my underwear and find it already soaked.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Tell me this is inappropriate and we should go home and do this in a bed like civilized people. Tell me you’re scared of how much this already means.”
I should say that. I should absolutely say that. The truth of how completely he’s rewritten my life sits sweet and terrifying in my chest.
“Don’t stop.” I roll my hips into his hand. “Please don’t ever stop. I’m scared too. I’m so fucking scared of how much I need you already. So make it worth the terror.”
His laugh is low and triumphant and threaded with the same fear. “That’s my wife.”
He drops to his knees right there in the narrow gap between the shelves.
The sight of Zachary Dean - my husband, the man who just flew across the world and bribed a security guard - on his knees on library carpet makes my head spin.
He shoves my dress the rest of the way up, hooks my underwear aside, and buries his mouth between my legs without preamble.
The first long, filthy lick wrenches a broken cry from my throat.
I slap a hand over my own mouth. He doesn’t ease me into it.
He eats me like a man starved - tongue thrusting deep, then flattening over my clit in firm, relentless strokes, lips sealing and sucking until my thighs shake around his head.
One of his hands grips my ass to hold me open; the other slides two fingers inside me and curls them immediately against that spot.
“Fuck - Zachary - oh my God-”
He pulls back just far enough to speak, lips shining, eyes locked on mine in the dim light. “Quiet, Mrs. Dean. Dennis is a professional, but he’s not deaf.” His thumb keeps moving where his mouth was. “You taste like mine. I’ve been dreaming about this exact flavor since the wedding night.”
He dives back in. I keep my hand clamped over my own mouth and rock against his face, shameless, while he works me with single-minded hunger. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers are obscenely loud in the silent stacks. Praise pours out of him between licks.
“So wet for me already… pretty little pussy… look at how you drip down my chin… that’s it, ride my tongue, take what you need…”
When I come it’s sudden and violent. My knees buckle; he holds me up with both hands on my ass and keeps licking me through every pulse, drawing it out until I’m whimpering into my palm and oversensitive and tugging at his hair.
Only then does he rise, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and kiss me deep so I taste myself on his tongue.
“My turn,” I gasp, already shoving him back a step and dropping to my knees in the narrow space.
Carpet bites into my skin. I don’t care.
I tear his belt open, yank his zipper down, and free his cock - hot and hard, the head already slick.
The sight of him makes me dizzy with how much I love this man.
“Juliette. You don’t have to-”
“I want to.” I look up at him and hold the eye contact while I drag my tongue from base to tip in one slow, filthy stripe. “I want to ruin you right back. Eyes on me while I suck my husband’s cock in the middle of the poetry section.”
He curses, low and reverent. Both hands fist in my hair - not forcing, just holding - as I take him into my mouth.
I sink down until he hits the back of my throat, hollow my cheeks, and pull back with a hard suck.
The groan that rips out of him is the best sound I’ve ever heard.
I set a rhythm that’s all wet heat and teasing pressure, swirling my tongue under the head on every upstroke, one hand stroking what I can’t fit.
Spit runs down his shaft. His hips start to rock in tiny, aborted thrusts.
“Jesus Christ… look at you… on your knees for me between the fucking shelves… taking me so deep… I’m never going to walk into this library again without getting hard… fuck, just like that… you’re going to make me come already-”
I pull off with a wet pop before he can, stroking him slowly instead, and smile up at him with swollen lips. “Not yet. I want you inside me when you lose it.”
He hauls me up off my knees, spins me so my back hits the main poetry shelf again, and hikes one of my thighs high around his hip.
Books tumble - Dickinson, Whitman, someone whose spine cracks under my shoulder - and neither of us looks.
He shoves my underwear fully aside and drives home in one deep thrust.
The stretch empties my lungs. He fills me so completely the room goes away. For a second we just stay locked together, forehead to forehead, breathing each other’s air, the magnitude of husband and wife and forever crashing over us both.
“Here?” I manage, already clenching around him.
“Here. Now. Against the poetry section, like I’ve been planning since the night I almost lost the chance to ever have this.
” His voice cracks. “When we got interrupted on the wedding night - when I couldn’t take my time - I’ve been going out of my mind replaying it.
I wanted to watch every second. I wanted to feel you come around me until you forgot every name but mine. ”
“We finished that night.” My hands frame his face. I keep his eyes on mine as he starts to move - deep, hard, hungry strokes that rock me up onto my toes and make the shelf groan.
“Not properly. Not the way I needed.” His hand slides between us so his thumb can circle my clit in time with his thrusts.
“I wanted to make you scream and then do it again and then spend the rest of the night learning every way to make my wife come apart. I still want that. I’m going to want it every day until I die.
The thought of ever losing this - of losing you - scares me more than anything I’ve ever faced in a boardroom. ”
“Zachary-”
“I need you.” He’s moving faster now, composure fraying, the wet slap of our bodies echoing softly off the books.
“I need to see you fall apart one more time right here where it started, and then I’m going to follow you over, and then we’re going to go home and I’m going to take you in every room of our house until neither of us can walk and the only word left in your mouth is my name. ”
“That’s - a lot of rooms-” I gasp, already tightening around him again.
“I’m motivated. And terrified. And completely gone for you.”
I clamp my own hand over my mouth just as the next orgasm slams into me.
“Tell the books,” he breathes against my ear. “Quiet, Mrs. Dean.”
I am quiet. I turn my face into the shelf and give every sound to my own palm, thighs clamping around him, walls fluttering around him in rhythmic waves - and the silence makes it hit harder, everything trapped, everything doubled.
He watches me come apart with an expression of pure, wondering satisfaction and raw fear, like this is everything he ever wanted and everything he could still lose.
“Again,” he demands when I’ve stopped shaking, already grinding deep, thumb still working my oversensitive clit. “One more. For me. I need it. Need to feel you seize up around me while you remember you’re mine.”
“I can’t-”
“You can.” His eyes never leave mine. “You will. Because I’m your husband and I’ve been dying without this and I need one more piece of proof that I get to keep you.”
I come again. Harder than before, my whole body seizing around him, the stacks going soft and far away, and he follows me over the edge with a groan he muffles against my shoulder - hips stuttering, cock pulsing, flooding me in long hot spurts I can feel deep inside.
He keeps thrusting through it, shallow and slow, until every last drop is spent and we’re both trembling.
We stay there for a long moment, pressed together against the shelves, breathing each other’s air.
His forehead rests against mine. His hands are gentle now, soothing, drawing lazily on my damp skin like he’s still convincing himself I’m real.
Books lie scattered around our feet. My dress is rucked up to my waist. His trousers are open.
We look thoroughly debauched and completely married.
“We just had sex in a library,” I say once I can form words, voice ruined. A watery laugh escapes me.