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My hands stroke the same chest that I admired on my phone last night while I read that quote.
“I was thinking of you when I posted that one,” Bryan says.
I grab hold of his muscular arms. “Me?”
“I’ve wanted to talk to you, to meet you, for months.”
“What stopped you?”
“I’m not sure. I guess it was fear that I’d ruin the fantasy and have nothing left to look forward to?”
I pull away. “You worried that I wouldn’t be what you expected.”
“No, the opposite.” He takes my hands in his and places them back on his chest. “That you wouldn’t be interested in a robotics geek.”
I scoff. “How can I not be?”
I’m honestly in awe. That I’m here, in this mansion on the hill, in a giant library, surrounded by hundreds—scratch that, thousands—of books. That there’s a shelf with my own Dewey number. And that the owner was actually worried I wouldn’t be into his nerdy side when it’s the biggest turn-on for me.
It’s frighteningly erotic to be standing with a hot shirtless man against a backdrop of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. To know that he’s run his fingers over the gold embossed writing of the old leather tomes—that he’s opened those editions, and that the spines of the paperback novels are creased from being lovingly read.
I feel like I’m lost in a dream. Yet somehow, for the next little while, this is my reality.
Oddly enough, the awe I feel is reflected on Bryan’s face. He inhales a sharp breath as he unbuttons my blouse, revealing my red lace bra.
“You are full of delightful surprises.”
“This QuickStar influencer I follow posted about it,” I admit. “I’m a sucker for stuff like that. You should see the things I’ve ordered—a self-rolling yoga mat, an electric jellyfish aquarium… don’t ask. It’s a bit of an addiction. Though now that I’m…” I trail off.
Unemployed. That’s what I was going to say—that now that I’m unemployed, I won’t be able to afford that kind of stuff—and the word echoes in my head, mocking me.
“Did you order the talking bookmarks?” Bryan brings me back to the here and now.
“The ones with the snotty British accent?” I snort. “Literally every bookstar account I follow has promoted them, but mine stopped working after like, five minutes. They’re a total rip-off!”
“I completely agree. I bought an entire box, thinking I’d donate them to the library.” He shakes his head. “But they just sit in the corner because I’m too embarrassed to show them to anyone.”
I glance to where he’s pointing, and there is indeed a huge brown box.
“How many?” I ask, unable to hold back a giggle.
“A thousand.” He shrugs. “I got a discount.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. It’s such clear proof that we’re from entirely different worlds—but here in Bryan’s library, with both of us in a state of semi-undress, I can’t bring myself to care.
I reach out and run my fingers along his non-airbrushed abs. He focuses back on my red lace bra, and his gaze grows heated as he reaches behind my back and unclasps it in a smooth, one-handed motion.
I feel a wave of jealousy, thinking about all the women a hot, rich guy like him must have been with. But I’m the one here now—and I take a certain thrill in that.
I reach down and pop the button on his dress pants. Bryan takes in a sharp breath as my fingers graze the waistband of his boxers. He swallows hard as I run the zipper down and push his trousers down his hips.
I stop short. “Are those… library boxers?” They’re yellow and striped with the words Author and Title and Due Date printed over his right hip; Borrower’s Name covers his left. They’re the design of the due date cards that no one uses anymore.
Bryan flushes. “I wasn’t expecting to be taking off my pants for anyone today.” He reaches towards his dress pants, almost like he’s going to pull them back up, but I stop him.
“I love a man who appreciates books and libraries as much as I do.” My cheeks flush because I just said the world love out loud, even if I didn’t mean it like that. Yes, I may have started falling for him the moment I found his QuickStar feed, but that doesn’t mean it’s love. It’s just a crush—a very heated crush. One that his cock seems to reciprocate.
His library due date card boxers tent around what is clearly an opus, not a novella, and I start to push him backwards towards the couch.
