One For The Books

Krista huddled against the glass doors of Boston’s “B” train, ignoring the press of bodies behind her. It was always jammed beyond capacity on Friday evenings, but it seemed busier than usual tonight. Maybe it was because she was exhausted from a day of helping bleary-eyed grad students find texts for the thesis of the week. Maybe it was because even dead tired, her nerves thrummed with quivering anticipation, a prowling cat within her blood, waiting to devour, possess.

Trevor had that effect on women. It wasn’t his average nice guy looks, or even his smile, a cocky mixture of smirky confidence and prurient curiosity. It was his eyes, impenetrable dark pools of smoldering promise fulfilled by the dusky growl of his voice. Every rational thought was banished from the moment she heard him ask for a copy of Crime and Punishment, and obliterated when she looked up from her inventory to gaze into those searing depths.

Krista leaned against the train’s smudged doors, knees buckling under a vision that had driven her wild for months. By the time the doors burst open on the dim murkiness of Hynes Convention Center, she could feel the wetness seeping through her stockings, tacit acknowledgment of her body’s need to twine itself around him and never let go.

She ran the length of Massachusetts Avenue, lungs burning and feet screaming in agony by the time she reached her Commonwealth Avenue apartment. Maybe he’d called.

A yellow piece of paper, hastily ripped from a legal pad, fluttered from her door. Probably a note from the landlord. She was always in trouble for something.

Oh my God, trouble indeed, Krista thought as she opened the folded message and saw the loopy half-cursive, half-print scrawl.

Meet me at the library. 9 p.m.
Bring nothing but your leather trench.

Racing inside, throwing her keys on the entry table, she left a trail of clothes from the living room to the bathroom. Did he mean to wear nothing else? Surely that wasn’t what he meant. Then again… Krista tossed the sweater she was holding to the floor. She was already running late and he’d like this, even if it wasn’t what he intended. She didn’t worry about him leaving — his need for her was as strong as her need for him — and this pleased her beyond restraint.
Tripping lightly up the library steps, she shivered at the brisk breeze flapping the leather coat against her naked calves. Good god he was crazy. Her bare feet sank into the lush burgundy carpet as she tiptoed past the night clerk, who was immersed in The New York Times. She’d never noticed it before, but everything in the massive building trembled with potential, from the cold marble staircases to the golden-walled elevators.
Her breath hissed between her teeth as she spied him standing between rows of books, hands shoved deep in his pockets, feet crossed in casual nonchalance. Their eyes met and Krista untied the belt cinching her waist, allowing her coat to gape and reveal the black lace bra and panties she’d chosen for what she hoped would be the first consummation of many, a slaking of the smoldering heat that was driving her to the brink and laying waste to her brain.
An unhurried smile flickered across his face, and whistling tunelessly, he turned and began wandering the rows, brushing expert fingertips across the books’ spines. Krista followed without question. Her white-hot lust was as strong as his, and it pleased the hell out of him.
An idea flicked through her head. If he wanted to play coy, she could match him like no woman ever had. She would need just the right book though. Not too thick, not too thin. Something irreverently inappropriate, something like the tomes she stroked each day in the bookstore, lost in a fantasy too lurid to share with anyone. Except Trevor. There were no barriers with him. No lines to stay carefully within. If ever there was a time to do it, the time was now.
Krista lazily stroked her breasts, searching for just the right volume. There. A chunky set of leather Hemingways. Ribbed. The color of a polished walnut. Sneaking a peek through the stacks, a secret smile glowed within. Trevor was pretending to read an art history book, but he was distracted, a raw hunger so palpable she could almost smell its heavy sanguine need.
She rubbed To Have and Have Not along her cheek, reveling in the buttery-smooth softness as she wantonly thrust a newly pedicured foot on a lower shelf, her coat hanging sluttishly, luridly agape. She scraped her teeth lightly along the book’s worn surface, moaning just loud enough for him to hear. When he appeared at the end of the aisle, she slid it lower, across her jutting nipples, over her soft belly, before sliding it between her legs. Her high school English teacher had droned incessantly about appreciating the Classics. I appreciate the Classics just fine, Krista thought. And from the looks of things, so does he.
The ribbed spine did little to satisfy her throbbing clit, only engorging it further as she imagined what it would be like to ride astride him, hands splayed across his chest as she rocked slowly, staring into his eyes and offering her breasts to the wicked mouth that had teased her into a torturous frenzy. The book grew dark with her wetness, and she could see Trevor’s tongue skimming his lips as he watched the evidence of her want trickling across the surface. The hunter would be the prey tonight.
She curled her tongue lasciviously around the leather and traced one of the ribs, sucking the salty creaminess into her mouth. Watching him watching her, she licked languidly, an unmistakable demand blazing: You will fuck me tonight.
Trevor had given up on practiced aloofness, lightly stroking his nipples beneath his shirt, kneading the unmistakable length of the cock that would soon be hers. She had him where she wanted him, and she knew it.