The door closes behind me, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing through the maze of books. Ceiling-high shelves are lined with antique, iron-bound volumes too precious to be borrowed by anyone. There is not a speck of dust, the floor is unstained by the footprints of visitors, the silence distorts my own footsteps into a strange noise. This is a locked section of the library, I shouldn’t be here…
Although Devin said I could visit him anytime.
I look around for other staff, but there is no one here.
Just him.
He’s arranging books on a table, his long hair glistening in the setting sun. At other times he keeps me talking, asking me about my life, talking about himself, but this time he is working in silence, deep in thought. Just like the day we first met, and I watch his broad shoulders and the muscles in his arms with the same quiet awe. His graceful fingers turn the heavy volumes as if they were weightless, their covers land softly over one another. I admire the respectful, gentle and yet swift way he works.
As I watch, a corner of a book slips through the neatly arranged pile, his hand wavering.
I turn to the shelves so as not to disturb him, but none of the titles interest me, and my thoughts return to his hands, his mouth…
His embrace… A warmth runs through me, and I insinctively close my legs.
He picks up a pile of books and begin to walk. I resist the temptation to follow him. The sound of his footsteps moves away, then closer, then stops, finally settling behind me.
My nose fills with his sweet, spicy scent. His arm rises above me, sliding a volume into place. Breathless, I wait for him to move on. But he stays. I feel the inviting warmth of his body, his breath softly brushing a few hairs on my head. My heart leaps into my throat as I turn, my nose almost hitting his chest. He doesn’t pull away as he’s done so many times before, his arm resting on the top shelf, shutting me off from the outside world. I would find this closeness threatening from anyone else, yet I would pull him to me. I could just do it. My cheeks burn, my knees shake.
This is not right. I should go home and study and let him concentrate on his work… I look up at him, let his black eyes penetrate me, hold me. Piercing, loving, with a sadness lurking in the depths that only those who have suffered much in the past can look with. But now there is a new feeling in them, one I hadn’t noticed before, or simply didn’t want to notice: desire, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the moment when it can sweep away the barriers.
He leans towards me, but stops inches away, waiting for me to close the distance between us. I stand on tiptoe, my lips touching his mouth.
He kisses me back greedily, passionately, burying his hand possessively into my hair. The walls that have held him back are cracking and everything he’s been trying to hide is coming to the surface. Before, I thought it was unimaginable that he could touch me like this.
You are not worthless.
I want to be his, to make him forget that he was ever not enough for anyone. I want to take in his loneliness, all the things he’s suffered in his life but never told anyone about, his disappointments, his doubts. To let him know that he can trust me as much as I trust him, and that he no longer has to hide the storm raging inside him behind kind smiles.
He kneels on the floor with me. As he hugs me, his soft hair falling around me, his hard groin pressed against me. The same two weeks of repressed anticipation are urges him as they are driving me. He lays me on my back on the floor. Not roughly, but there is no trace of his usual restraint. He unbuttons my trousers, releasing me from them with practiced, quick movements. I expect to be overwhelmed with shame, but as soon as I realise that his dark eyes are a mirror of my own misery, his closeness feels natural.
I hear him unbuckle his belt. He presses me down, his full weight on my arms. His fingers grip me so tightly that my hands are almost numb. I wish that he would hold me like this forever, as tight as no one has ever held me before. His hips move firmly between my thighs when he gets inside me,, filling me completely. He holds me firmly, but my body willingly accepts whatever he gives me. Whether it’s pain or pleasure. He pauses for a moment, but I don’t want him to be gentle. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper into me. Even if it hurts. I want to feel him, not just the side he shows in civilian to please the world.
His muscles force me into passivity, getting deeper inside me with with each thrust, bringing me closer to his true being. Which is far from nice or kind. Wild, howling in pain, possessive. I let his feelings in. His anger at the life others have forced him into. His hatred for those who have hurt him. His grief and loss for those he has lost.
I know exactly what it’s like to suffer, screaming mutely under the surface. I would give anything to ease his burden.
He pushes me closer and closer to delirium. I relax into it, enjoying all the bitterness and sorrow of his soul pouring into me, echoing in me pulse after pulse.
My back arching, my muscles wet with desire contracting around my finger.
When the ecstasy subsides, I pull away. My breathing calms, my mind returns to reality. The dark solitude of my room envelops me, shadows cast on the ceiling by the street lamps.
The emptiness hurts.
What if it never happens?
I crawl under the covers, hug my plush pony and roll over in bed. I remember the embrace of his strong arms, his muscles against me under the turtleneck, the smell of him, the warmth of his breath on my ear.
“Thank you.”
I can hardly believe he actually hugged me, and not just in my imagination.
I can almost hear what Mandy will say tomorrow when I tell her.
“Just a hug? He hasn’t kissed you yet?!”
She wouldn’t understand… There was something about his hug… deep and intimate, that made it hotter than any kiss and swept the thoughts out of my head. I’d even forgotten to ask for his number, although I’d baked the cake in case I might have the confidence if I give him something. But now that the opportunity has passed, who knows if I’ll ever have the courage?
Or is stretching his personal boundaries too pushy? After all, he hasn’t asked for my number. After all, we see each other every day, I don’t want to seem obsessed.
But… what if I am?
A shadow moves across the ceiling, a feathery silhouette of wings. I look up at the window.
These blue and white birds are becoming more common these days. Are they nesting here?