12. Lynn #2
“Hello, darling.”
“Hi.”
We stare at each other across the fiction section.
“I need to reshelve the mythology section,” I say.
“Do you need help?”
“You’re not trained on the system.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
I grab the cart of returns and wheel it toward the back of the library, where the mythology books live in dusty splendor. Milo follows, hands in his pockets, every line of his body radiating casual elegance.
The mythology section requires a ladder.
This is relevant information.
I position the ladder against the highest shelf and start climbing. I can feel Milo watching from below, the weight of it warm on the backs of my legs.
“That one goes on the third shelf from the top,” I say, passing down a tome on Egyptian deities.
“Here?”
“Left a bit. No, your other left. There.”
We work in silence for a few minutes. It’s almost peaceful, the quiet rustle of pages, the soft thud of books finding their homes, the warm glow of the reading lamps casting everything in gold.
Then Milo moves to stand directly behind the ladder.
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out slightly strangled.
“Spotting you.” His hands rest on the ladder rails, bracketing my legs. “Safety first.”
“I’ve used this ladder a hundred times.”
“And I’ve worried about you falling a hundred times.”
“You’ve known me for two weeks.”
“Feels longer.” His thumb traces a circle on my ankle, and I nearly drop the book I’m holding. “Feels like I’ve known you forever.”
I’m holding onto the ladder with a death grip now, my heart hammering.
“That’s - that’s a line.”
“Is it working?”
“You’re my professor. You’re not supposed to have lines.”
“I’m on a mission to court you. Lines are essential.” He’s climbing now, one rung at a time, until he’s standing on the ladder behind me, his chest against my back, his mouth at my ear. “I have many lines. Would you like to hear more?”
My breath catches. “This isn’t - we’re in the library-”
“Your library.” His lips brush the shell of my ear. “Seems appropriate.”
“Someone could come in.”
“Door’s locked. I checked.”
“That’s - that’s presumptuous-”
“That’s prepared.” His hands settle on my hips, steadying me, or maybe steadying himself. “Tell me to stop and I will. But Lindsay…” His voice drops to something rough and wanting. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. All week. Since the moment I saw you.”
I turn my head, and his face is right there, inches away, gold eyes burning.
“Where does it hurt?” I whisper.
He blinks. “What?”
“Last time. In your office.” I touch my cheek, the ghost of that first almost-moment. “You asked where it hurt. And I said here.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes.
“Maybe you could kiss it better,” I say.
He makes a sound, low, desperate, almost pained, and then his mouth is on my cheek, pressing soft against the spot where I’d touched.
“Where else?”
I point to my forehead. He kisses it.
My temple. Another kiss.
The tip of my nose. So gentle I barely feel it.
And then I turn fully, awkward on the ladder, gripping his shoulders for balance, and I point to my lips.
“Here.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
The kiss starts stunned, a shock of contact that freezes us both, and then it’s not slow at all.
It’s consuming.
His mouth moves against mine with a hunger that steals my breath, his hands sliding into my hair, my fingers fisting in his sweater. The ladder creaks dangerously beneath us.
“Down,” he gasps against my lips. “We need to - down-”
We stumble off the ladder somehow, a tangle of limbs and want, and then my back is against the bookshelf and he’s pressing me into it, his body a solid wall of heat. Books wobble precariously above us.
“Tell me to stop,” he says between kisses. “Tell me and I will.”
“Don’t you dare.”
His groan is the best sound I’ve ever heard.
His hands are everywhere, my waist, my hips, sliding under the hem of my sweater to find bare skin. I gasp at the contact, at the rough warmth of his palms, and something inside me snaps.
“Sit,” I hear myself say.
He freezes. “What?”
“Sit. Down.”
He sits.
Right there, on the library floor, between the shelves of mythology and folklore, looking up at me with eyes that have gone completely gold.
I straddle him.
The sound he makes, a broken, desperate thing torn from somewhere deep in his chest, sends heat flooding through my entire body. I can feel him, hard and straining, exactly where I need him.
“Lindsay-”
“Is this okay?”
“God, yes, but - we’re in the library-”
“My library.” I roll my hips experimentally, and his head falls back against the shelf, books raining down around us. “Seems appropriate.”
“You’re - fuck - you’re using my lines against me-”
“Is it working?”
He answers by gripping my hips and guiding my movements, showing me the rhythm he wants. The friction wrecks me, layers of clothing between us and still I feel everything.
“Quiet,” he breathes. “We have to be quiet-”
“Then stop making me want to scream.”
“I can’t-” His hips buck up to meet mine. “I can’t help it - you feel - Lindsay-”
More books fall. A whole shelf’s worth, cascading around us like literary confetti.
“Shh.” I’m laughing and gasping at the same time. “We’re going to get caught-”
“Don’t care.” He’s mouthing at my neck now, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. “Don’t care, don’t care, need you-”
We’re both straining to hear footsteps, ears pricked for the sound of the door, but there’s nothing, nothing but our ragged breathing and the creak of the shelves and the wet sounds of desperate kisses.
I’m close. Embarrassingly, impossibly close, just from this, just from grinding against him through our clothes, his hands on my hips, his mouth on my throat.
“Milo-”
“I know.” He pulls me tighter, moves me faster. “I know, darling, I’ve got you-”
“I’m going to-”
“Come for me. Please, Lindsay, I need to feel it-”
I come with his name bitten into his shoulder, muffled through the wool of his sweater, my whole body shaking with the force of it.
And he follows, I feel the moment he loses control, feel him pulse and shudder beneath me, and then his teeth sink into my neck.
Not hard enough to break skin.
Hard enough to mark.
We collapse against the shelves, surrounded by fallen books, breathing like we’ve run a marathon.
“Did you just-” I touch my neck, feel the tender spot where his teeth were. “Did you bite me?”
“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I couldn’t - you were - and then I-”
“I’m going to have a hickey.”
“You’re going to have a mark.” His voice is dark with satisfaction. “Mine.”
“That’s possessive.”
“Yes.”
“And slightly medieval.”
“Yes.”
“And-” I shift in his lap, and we both hiss at the sensitivity. “-and I kind of like it.”
His laugh is breathless, incredulous. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Seems fair. You’ve been killing me for two weeks.”
We sit there for a long moment, tangled together on the library floor, surrounded by the wreckage of the mythology section.
“You’re banned,” I finally say.
“From what?”
“Helping me reshelve. Ever again.” I gesture at the chaos around us. “Look at this. It’s going to take me an hour to fix.”
“Worth it.”
“You’re not the one who has to explain why the entire Greek pantheon is on the floor.”
“Tell them Aphrodite approved.”
I snort. “I’m going to tell them a very enthusiastic patron got confused about the Dewey Decimal System.”
“That’s technically accurate.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You like me anyway.”
I look at him, rumpled and satisfied and looking at me like I’m the best thing that’s ever wandered into his life, and warmth blooms low in my chest.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I really do.”
He cups my face and kisses me again, soft and sweet, completely different from the desperate hunger of before.
“Tomorrow?” he murmurs against my lips.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I agree.
And then, reluctantly, I climb off his lap and start gathering books, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
The mark on my neck throbs.
I don’t mind at all.