“Why do you like the book then?”
“I like the writing. Lines like ‘I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it - overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.’”
Quoting sumptuous passages from literature in that sexy, smooth voice of his was not going to help her stay in control. Her knees felt wobbly. She pressed a hand against her forehead as if she might faint.
“You okay?” he asked in a soft voice, and then reached for her, brushing loose strands of hair across her forehead.
She nodded. She was afraid to speak. She didn’t know what to do around him. No other actor had ever affected her like this. She’d never even been remotely interested in an actor. They were work to her. They were a job. A job she loved, but that was it, that was all. Call them in, try them out, pick the best.
The problem was Reeve was far too skilled at this role for her own good. He made her suspend disbelief too easily. He looped his hands around her neck, drawing her nearer to him.
“I like the last line of the book too. ‘Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning—So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’”
She inhaled sharply and damn near collapsed. This was too much. She was silly puddy with him, she was a teenager touched for the very first time. There were sparks inside all the private places in her body, and her br**sts felt heavier because she so wanted them to be touched. She inched closer, and he drew his arms tighter around her.
“I see great writing turns you on, Sutton,” he whispered, then left a soft kiss on her neck.
“You too,” she said, and pressed against his jeans. He was rock hard, and knowing that she affected him made her suddenly turn the tables. She felt so out of control with him most of the time, so much like an open book that she needed to get her power back, and she planned to before she fell even further under the spell of his words, his tongue, his fingers, and those eyes that drowned her in desire. She pressed a palm against the denim of his jeans, and he responded with a long, low moan. She grinned wickedly to herself. Oh yes, this was going to be fun.
She looked one way, then another. No one was near them. They were in the far corner of the stacks, all alone on a Wednesday afternoon. She heard no footsteps, only the faint ticking of a wall clock somewhere and then a low hum, likely a heater. There were surrounded only by books, by facts and fictions of Renaissance men and women trying to map their lives from the moon and the stars.
“There’s really only one way to know for sure if this is the ideal location for the famous library scene,” she said, and began unzipping his jeans. She looked up at him, as if to ask if it were okay. But she wasn’t really asking. She just wanted to see the surprise in his eyes, and yes, it was there. He hadn’t expected this. She could tell there was a nervous side to him right now. But as she reached her hand inside his briefs, feeling the hard length of him, she knew he wasn’t going to back down. He felt amazing, long and thick and sculpted. Velvet soft outside, rock hard inside. She could have spent all afternoon playing with him, toying with him, delighting in the perfection of his size. But there was work to be done, and orgasms to be achieved, and the clock was indeed ticking. She kneeled down. Keeping one hand wrapped firmly around the base, she kissed the tip. He let out another quiet moan, and when she glanced up, she saw him leaning back against the books and he bit down hard on his lip. She teased him for a few seconds with her tongue, and from the way he twined his fingers into her pinned-up hair, he rather enjoyed the feel of her lips on his long, hard length. She wanted to run her tongue from one side, then the other, tasting every inch. She wanted to savor his deliciousness and take her sweet time getting to know every fabulous inch of him. But instead, she wrapped her lips around him, and brought him all the way into her mouth.
He gripped her hair tighter, as little sounds and moans escaped his lips. As she moved up and down, bringing him as far into her throat as she could, wanting him to feel completely surrounded by her warm, inviting mouth, she gazed up at him. His eyes were shut hard, and his features were screwed up in a look of exquisite pleasure. At last, she thought. She could do to him what he’d done to her. She could take charge of his pleasure. She could ensure that he would be the one feeling waves of sweet release wash over him. She wanted to tell him, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this,” but she had a feeling he wasn’t worried at all. Besides, her mouth was quite full. She teased him with her tongue and her lips all over, pressing her hands against his strong, hard thighs—toned from all that cycling—for balance. He grabbed at her hair, and that made her even wetter, knowing how close he was.
She wanted to touch herself at the same time. She was aching, longing desperately for him to lift her up so she could wrap her legs around him and slide onto him, riding him here in the library, all the while suppressing her own desire to scream his name in pleasure. She was a screamer, that’s for sure. She was a loud one, and she never held back.
But she could take care of herself later. This moment was for him. Because pleasing him would give her back her power. She wouldn’t feel so helpless. He was a perfect specimen of hotness in every way and she couldn’t resist bringing him in deeper.
“Sutton,” he moaned, and that made her tighten her lips around him. She loved that he was so far gone into the feeling that he had to say her name, that he couldn’t keep quiet. Soon, he rocked his hips into her, and she went faster, as more low and quiet moans met her ears. Then he thrust once, twice, and she tasted him for the first time, and she loved it. She wanted more of it, more of him. She could do this every day.
When he was done, she rose and brushed one hand against the other. Reeve had a dazed look etched across his gorgeous features.
“Why yes, I think the Renaissance astrology section will do just fine.”
Chapter Seven
Later that night, Sutton had just finished researching all the vital details on a rising filmmaker who’d requested a meeting with her next week. The filmmaker had nabbed top honors at Sundance and wanted to bring both marquee and unknowns into his next project, a dramedy about a group of guy friends a few years after college. She placed her file and notes on her coffee table, and poured a glass of chardonnay, allowing herself a few minutes away from work to kick back.
With a wine glass in one hand, Sutton wandered over to her bookshelves, scanning for a paperback she’d held onto since university. She took a sip of the chardonnay, then pulled the dog-eared book from the shelf and sank down into her soft couch, pulling a red chenille throw over her legs. The Artful Doger hopped onto the sofa and curled up next to her. She opened the book and turned to her favorite page. “Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning—So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”