Page 108 of Unmanageable

Instead, I lower my hands from the table. My shoes make no sound against the carpet as I shift my weight forward in the wooden chair, my long legs sliding beneath the narrow table until my knees are bracketed on either side of her shins.

Scottie freezes, her fingers hovering an inch above the keyboard. She looks at me through her lashes, a warning flare behind her eyes, but she doesn’t move away. She can’t. If she pulls back, the wooden legs of her chair will scrape against the floorboards, and the librarian will be down our aisle in two seconds.

I reach out under the dark table.

My right hand is warm as it makes contact with her bare knee. The skin of her leg is cool against my palm, a smooth, soft contrast to the rough, calloused texture of my goalie fingers.

I move my hand slowly, my palm sliding up the soft skin of her lower thigh. The fabric of her black skirt bunches against the back of my knuckles as I push it upward.

Her eyes fly to mine, wide and dark, her pupils dilated until the green of her irises is just a thin, burning ring. Her mouth opens slightly. Her fingers clench into the edge of the laptop frame until her knuckles go white.

I pick up my pen with my left hand, still keeping my right hand firmly planted on the warm inside of her thigh, and write a single line on the paper. I push it forward with my thumb.

DON’T MAKE A SOUND, SCOTTIE-GIRL.

She reads it, her jaw trembling. I can feel the tight tension in her muscles, the sheer, agonizing effort she’s making to keep her spine straight and her breathing silent.

My right hand moves higher, my fingers sliding over the smooth curve of her inner thigh, the heat between her legs instantly radiating against my palm. She is already warm, already damp through the thin cotton of her underwear.

A tiny, muffled sound escapes her—a soft, pathetic little gasp that she catches by biting down on her lower lip until the skin goes white.

I use one finger to slide the edge of her underwear aside, finding her wet, swollen clit. I trace it once, slowly, feeling her flinch against the chair. She lets out a shaky, desperate breath, her head tilting back as she stares at the ceiling.

I sink that first finger inside, feeling her heat pulse around me, and then slide a second one in behind it, stretching her just enough to make her gasp. I rotate my fingers, a steady, deep rhythm that makes her hips jump against my hand, her body completely at my mercy.

I increase the pressure, my thumb finding her clit, rubbing against it with a firm, relentless friction. She’s staring at me, her eyes wet and unfocused, her mouth hanging open as she fights for air. She’s undone, her movements beneath the table frantic as she chases the feeling, her thighs twitching rhythmically against my arms.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The rhythmic sound of footsteps echoes from the end of our aisle. The librarian is walking the rows.

Scottie goes rigid, her eyes flying to the edge of the stacks, her face turning a pale, terrified shade of white. If she gasps now, if she moves, the woman will be around the corner in two steps.

I don’t stop. I deepen the rhythm.

A silent, massive tremor goes straight through her spine. Scottie’s eyes roll back. She buries her face into the crook of her own elbow, biting into her sleeve to muffle the moan that tears out of her throat.

Her body shakes in long, violent waves against my hand, her pussy clamping down around my fingers with a fierce, crushing strength that makes my own jaw ache with the effort of staying still.

I hold her steady, my other hand coming up to rest on her knee, squeezing softly. She holds herself perfectly silent through the entire orgasm, her tears soaking into the fabric of her sweater.

The librarian’s shadow stretches across the linoleum at the end of our aisle, lingers for one terrifying second, and then moves away toward the fiction section.

I keep my hand flat against her skin, holding her steady as the tremors begin to recede, her breathing turning into long sighs that hit the quiet air in warm bursts.

Slowly, Scottie lowers her arm from her face. Her eyes are glassy, her red hair disheveled, and her lower lip is swollen, a tiny, dark bead of blood welling where her teeth had pinned the skin.

I pull my hand back from beneath the table.

I reach across the wood and use my finger to wipe the droplet from her bottom lip, dragging the crimson smear across my own pad. Without breaking eye contact, I bring my hand to my mouth.

I slide my fingers between my lips, one by one, sucking them clean slowly making her pupils dilate all over again. I don’t look away, and she doesn’t flinch.

Only then does Scottie move. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then drags back up to meet my eyes, her expression heavy with a dazed, raw hunger. She flicks her own tongue out, licking her bottom lip to catch the lingering salt and the remaining traces of her own blood, her breath hitching as she tastes the sweetness of the aftermath.

“You lost,” I whisper.

Scottie lets out a soft, wet laugh, a shaky exhale that sounds like surrender. She reaches up, her fingers fumbling as she tries to fix her wild hair, but she can’t stop looking at my mouth. She leans back in her chair, her legs relaxing, as she looks down at the laptop screen.