Chapter 13 The Morning After #4
Fairhrim made her way through shelves bookended by the busts of ancient greats—Aristotle, Pythagoras, Archimedes, Hippocrates.
Osric followed. “This was once an enfilade of three staterooms. I had the walls knocked down and remodelled along neoclassical lines.”
“A much better use of the rooms,” said Fairhrim.
She called out names as she went, as though encountering old friends—Dioscorides, Galen, Paracelsus, and then down a more modern row—Lovelace, Gordon-Cumming, Rudge, Stanhope.
“I wonder if you’ll notice the obvious gap in the collection, which I must remedy,” said Osric.
“Who’s missing?”
“Fairhrim.”
The scholar in question tried not to look too pleased. “I’m not certain you’ve got the space.”
“I’ll make the space.”
“But I’m Pugnacious and a Whingebag.”
“You’ll be shelved under Whingebag.”
“You tend towards the classics. I’m rather too cutting edge for you.”
“I like sharp things.”
“Modern journals aren’t as aesthetically pleasing as these volumes.”
“Anything to do with you is pleasing.”
There was a pause. Fairhrim asked, “Are you flirting with me?”
“I assume you’re still a safe flirt,” said Osric—a bit of a prod to see if she would hint at remembering the night before.
“Foolproof,” said Fairhrim.
She proceeded through the stacks. Osric followed.
Several times she stopped without warning, causing him to walk into her.
She carried on with the brush of her arse against the front of his trousers.
He wished she wouldn’t; his cock was on high alert for any reason to get hard.
The fourth time it happened, it occurred to Osric that she might be doing it on purpose.
She came to the bust of Pliny the Elder and followed the curve of his cheek with a fingertip. Osric was savagely jealous of Pliny the Elder, who was a harlot.
She stopped at a cluster of books apparently by a famous mentor of her father’s and gave Osric a brief overview of the woman’s legendary contributions to the cytology of plants.
No. She was not teasing him.
Fairhrim spotted another series just behind Osric and squeezed behind him to exclaim over it. Silky skirts whisked by; a breast brushed at his back. She smelled like his soap again.
Yes. She was teasing him.
An earnest talk on a moderately famous lepidopterist followed.
She was not.
Now she was in raptures over the collected works of a microbiologist, but Osric wasn’t listening; he did not care about amoebas; he cared about the moderate bulge at the front of his trousers.
He discovered a pleasurable new form of suffering, which was to stand as near to her as he could and not touch her.
Fairhrim spoke. He watched her lovely lips form syllables, thought of kissing her, of pushing her into the shelves and biting his way down her neck, of lifting up her skirts, of making her pant and squirm the way she had last night.
All of which was a mistake, because he was now erect, and the only saving grace was the relative penumbra of the stacks.
“It would be hard, wouldn’t it?” asked Fairhrim.
Osric had not been following the discussion culminating in this statement, to which he haphazardly replied, “Yes.”
“Thought so,” said Fairhrim, and she, diabolically, brushed past him again.
It was certainly hard; if she’d had any doubts about it, she couldn’t now.
He snatched her arm.
With bright-eyed innocence she turned and asked, “What?”
“You know what you’re doing.”
“Exploring?”
Her expression was such that he wasn’t certain that he hadn’t severely misinterpreted the situation. But she was also a mistress of self-command.
“Mordaunt?” prompted Fairhrim.
“Call me Osric.”
“Absolutely not,” scoffed Fairhrim. “That is far too familiar.”
“Too familiar? Really? After what we’ve done?”
The innocence persisted. “What have we done?”
“You don’t remember last night?”
“What did we do?” asked Fairhrim. “Dinner?”
He stared at her. When she said dinner, he thought he’d seen the faintest pull of amusement at her lips. It was no longer there.
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” said Osric, releasing her wrist. “Have you explored to satisfaction?”
“Not quite to satisfaction, but you may walk me out.” Again, that half-imagined ghost of a smile. “I really ought to be going.”
Osric, tight about the jaw, escorted Fairhrim to the kitchens and thence to the waystone. She thanked him with devastating detachment for the library tour, which she called “uplifting,” and stepped towards the waystone.
Osric was convinced that Fairhrim had entirely forgotten last night’s events, until she looked over her shoulder and said, “After last night, I’ve concluded that your choice of alias is appropriate.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Goodbye, Mr. Hungwell.”
The innocence was replaced by a smile, impish, cheeky. She pressed her tācn to the waystone and was gone.
She knew. She had known the whole time. She had been doing it on purpose.
She was entirely responsible for the erection rubbing itself raw in his trousers.
Osric sighed towards the sky and told himself that he was a grown man, and that he would not be wanking off to her for the second time that day.
He went inside and pumped himself empty in the shower.
Pathetic.