AUTHOR'S NOTE: The charmingly surly, drunken mess that is Bernard Black belongs to Dylan Moran and a very talented creative team at Channel 4. Sexy Librarian Girl is of my own invention and cannot be found anywhere in the series, so don't bother to go looking. The original story is quite a bit more... naughty, so this version has been edited for . Don't go looking for that, either, I haven't found the unedited piece a home on the internet just yet. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this story. If you do, please leave a review and let me know. :)
Bernard Black leveled his best "go away" stare at the young woman on the other side of his desk. She cocked her head slightly, raised one eyebrow and stared right back.
"What part of no do you not understand?" He asked, drawing out the word "no".
"All of it. Can I have the book now?"
"No!" Bernard slapped his hand on the book in question, pinning it to the desk. "My book! Mine, you understand? It's not for sale!"
"That's very interesting," the woman drawled, "seeing as how it was in the case with a price tag on it!"
"Well, it's my book, and I am deciding right now that I'm not selling it, you it would please me very much if you would go away now." Bernard made to pick up the book, not expecting the woman to grab the other end of it and hold on tightly.
Keeping a firm hold on the book, she dropped her other arm onto to the desk's surface and leaned across, staring Bernard in the eye. "You know what else would please you very much right now, Mister Black?"
Deadpan, he asked, "What." He'd long ago perfected the art of asking questions with the wrong punctuation.
"The very rare offer I'm going to make to convince you to let me have this very rare book." She smiled. "I might be willing to go a bit farther than the price marked on the book, Mister Black… tell me, would ever consider a slightly more… nontraditional form of payment?
Bernard's head snapped up, his expression akin to that of someone who has just stepped in dog muck. "Are you honestly attempting to whore yourself out for Hemingway?"
She winked. "Maybe."
He was mystified. Women did not generally tend to throw themselves at Bernard; even on the off chance he had something they wanted. The few times he'd attempted to court girls, they hadn't been interested. Sex was not something he spent a great deal of time thinking about, not to mention he didn't get very many opportunities to actually engage in the act itself.
"Let me make sure I have this sorted out," he began, yanking the book out of her grasp. "You're going to sleep with me if I let you have this." He waved the book vaguely to indicate what "this" was.
She smiled again. "Well, I was intending to do a whole lot more than just sleep with you."
He set the book back down and tapped it with his finger. "You're going to have sex, with me, for this."
"Yes."
It was a nice book, a signed first edition, intact binding. Slightly foxed, but that only proved it had been previously enjoyed. Bernard had priced it exorbitantly high on purpose, but he had also obtained it for a few pounds at an estate sale. He doubted it was worth sleeping with himself for.
The woman was pretty enough to be considered far out of Bernard's league. She was on the taller side, with fair skin and dark red hair that fell in waves over her shoulders, swept away from her face with a headband. Her prettiness was not the deciding factor in Bernard's decision.
What intrigued him the most was that she had refused to take any of his several "no"s for an answer regarding the book. Not many people said no to Bernard's unique brand of manically hateful misanthropy.
Which is why he sat back in his chair, folded his hands, and said, "okay."
He'd expected the woman to act bewildered, or to immediately backpedal and try to escape the deal. He did not expect her wiggle her upper body across the desk, invade his personal space and say, "Fantastic! I'll be by at nine, and before that, you are going to take a bath, wash your hair and put on something clean. Freshly laundered sheets would be a plus. Ta!"
With that, she pushed herself off the desk, spun on one heel and marched out the door.
Bernard looked at his hands. They were gripping the edge of the desk, his knuckles were turning white.
A bath? Shampoo? Laundry? She was the one who wanted to get nasty for a book, he shouldn't have to clean up first! Bernard understood, in the special way that stubborn people understand things, that he wasn't the cleanliest of people. Manny had once accused him of being a "hoarder", whatever that meant. In any case, Manny had also taken it upon himself to rid Bernard of his hoarding habit by routinely cleaning both the shop and the apartment, doing the laundry and taking care of the cooking. All this was accomplished without much input from Bernard other than what brand of wine he should stock the pantry with.
Taking a shaky breath, Bernard lit a cigarette and pushed through the curtain into the back of the shop. It was clean enough, he decided, rummaging through the cupboard for a decent bottle of merlot. He needed expensive booze if he was going to attempt a bath.
With the bottle uncorked and the cigarette smoked half to ash, Bernard made his way up the stairs and into the tiny bathroom. Thankfully, Manny had doing the cleaning before leaving for the night—something about getting pissed with some old friends—leaving Bernard with nothing to clean up but himself. He took a swig of the wine before setting the bottle on the rim of the tub and stepping back to regard the showerhead. He was completely unfamiliar with this routine at any time other than a holiday, in which cases his drunken memory kicked him to put him through the appropriate motions. He carefully twisted knobs and pushed at things until a stream of water shot forth from the showerhead.
Bernard did not entirely trust water. He was also not sure why, exactly, he was following the young woman's instructions. Nevertheless, he peeled off his suit and stepped into the tub.
After an experience that he was well on his way to forgetting thanks to half a bottle of good wine, Bernard was faced with the problem of the laundry. He peeked into his bedroom, wrapped in a dripping towel, somewhat relieved to see that Manny had put fresh sheets on the bed. That meant he also had a clean (or clean-ish) suit somewhere. Ever since Manny's parents had come to visit and Manny's mother had restored Bernard's black-ish suit to it's original white color, Manny had been buying him new black shirts and suit jackets to make up for the loss. It had taken Bernard a long time to dirty his favorite suit, and it was not an occurrence he wanted to suffer through again. An examination of the wardrobe yielded a fraying gray shirt and one of the black suits, already worn ragged at the cuffs.
Bernard noticed his bottle was empty, and made his way back down the stairs. He had pulled another bottle from the case in the bottom of the pantry when he heard the door to the shop open and close. Warily, he glanced at the digital display on the microwave—nine o'clock. He had just enough time to dive back down and retrieve a second bottle when the curtain fluttered, revealing the young woman from before in a rather… interesting outfit.
"Wine! Excellent. I stopped and got a Chinese. Shall we go upstairs?" She asked brightly, her heels clopping on the floor as she walked past Bernard to the stairs.
He stared. Most women, he figured, would either decidedly not go out of their way for such a transaction as this or, alternatively, would go very much out of their way. She appeared to have done neither. The outfit she had donned, while different from what she had been wearing before, was not traditionally sexy. She'd belted a fitted cardigan over a tailored pencil skirt and let her hair down, and although the effect was somewhat tantalizing, it was not overtly sexual.
She looked, Bernard suddenly realized, like a librarian.
The librarian and the bookseller.
Frowning, Bernard climbed the stairs, a bottle of merlot in each hand. The girl was sitting on his bed, pulling takeaway containers out of a paper bag and folding the napkins into little squares.
"Do you have some sort of book fetish or something?" He asked bluntly, standing in the doorway.
"Some people would say so," she replied airily, examining a sauce packet. "I also don't think they ever give you enough sauce with the takeaway."
Bernard set the bottles down on the top of his bureau, opened a drawer and pulled out a corkscrew. "No," he began, opening up a bottle, "with the clothes. You're dressed like some sort of… sexy librarian thing. It's not right."
"Not right, eh?" She fidgeted with the packet before dropping it back into the paper bag. "I thought a man like you might care for sexy librarians."
"A man like me doesn't particularly care for anything."
"Everybody cares for something, Mister Black, and this transaction only works if you make a certain amount of, um, effort. Be a dear and bring me one of those bottles."
With a scowl, Bernard walked over to the bed and handed her one of the bottles. She raised it in a mock toast, and her obligingly tapped the neck of his bottle against hers.
One of us, thought Bernard, is uncomfortable with this situation. Unfortunately, that person is me. In my own bedroom!
"Why did you bring dinner?"
"I was hungry and figured I should be polite and bring you some, too."
He stared at the box of food, confused and suddenly outraged by his confusion. "First you bargain to sleep with me in order to get a first-edition Hemingway, then you bring takeaway, and now you're drinking all of my wine! Why?"
She stared at him over the top of her wine bottle. "Why don't you go have a seat over there?" She nodded towards the corner of the room, where Bernard had tucked an armchair and a reading lamp.
Bernard slumped into the chair, cranky.
She raised the bottle to her lips. It stayed there for an uncomfortably long time. When she lowered it again, she scooted off the bed and walked steadily towards Bernard, undoing the belt around her sweater. The belt dropped to the floor near his feet, and the jarring sound of the buckle hitting the floorboards made Bernard look down reflexively. When he glanced back toward her, she was settling one slender shin on either side of him in the chair.
He was rapidly becoming very uncomfortable.
Straddling his lap, she rested the wine bottle near his shoulder and leaned down to look him in the eye. "Do you really want to know why I'm doing this, Mister Black?"
He turned his head slightly, letting some of his discomfort show on his face in hopes that she'd go away forever. Well, maybe not forever. A few years, perhaps, until he'd gotten used to the idea of pretty young women sitting in his lap. "Yes. Yes, I do."
She smiled, slowly. "I have a thing for surly Irish booksellers."
He swallowed. "You do." Another question asked with a period.
She leaned in to whisper in his ear. "I do."
He suddenly became acutely aware of their proximity, her breath tickling his ear, her legs tucked against his, her hands resting on his chest. His pulse quickened, his mouth ran dry. He licked his lips, preparing to speak, just as she planted a gentle kiss on his temple. Any attempt at speech was forgotten as she placed a line of kisses down the side of his face, nuzzling his jaw as she brought her bottle-less hand up to cup his cheek.
Bernard was dazed. He'd never expected to the object of someone's fetishlike desire.
She drew back, laughing quietly. He felt the weight of the bottle leave his shoulder as she tipped it back, draining it. It slipped from her hand, landing beside the abandoned belt with a heavy thud. "Well, Mister Black?"
He snapped to attention, eyes wide. "Yes?"
"Are you going to drink your wine?"
"Yes." With that, he upended the bottle and gulped until he reached air. When he put the bottle down, she was smiling. "What?"
"That was impressive. You missed a bit."
With those words, she brought both hands to his face, leaned in, and kissed him on the mouth.
It was… pleasant, Bernard decided. The wine was slowly helping to ease away his apprehensions about the pretty girl sitting in his lap, relaxing both his racing thoughts and racing pulse. He realized that he should be doing something—touching her, kissing her, something other than desperately digging his fingertips into the arms of the chair. He purposely unclenched his hands, slowly, carefully bringing them to her waist. She seemed to take his sigh of relief at this accomplishment as a sign of enjoyment, wiggling her hips down onto his thighs, bowing her head down to make better contact with his mouth.
Before Bernard could really come to terms with what was happening, she'd nudged his lips apart, slipping the tip of her tongue into his mouth. He was intensely glad he'd been able to locate a toothbrush in the bathroom, although in retrospect, it had probably been Manny's. Bernard tightened his grip on her waist, wiling himself to remember what the man was supposed to do in situations such as this. His most recent experience had been forever ago, that thing with Fran that she wouldn't allow him to remember.
But then again, said his mind, Fran wasn't here right now, was she? She'd never find out if he remembered a little bit, and a little bit was surely all that he had left after devoting a large amount of memory to her vivid description of what tortures she'd inflict on him if he dared to remember very much. Brief flashes of drunken memories blazed like racing cars through his mind, roaring passionately on tracks of merlot.
The girl's mouth had slipped to his jaw, her lips dancing on the sensitive skin of his neck. He could feel her fingers fumbling with the buttons on his suit jacket. When the last one slid free, she deftly slipped her hands beneath the fabric, pressing her palms against the thinning material of his shirt. Bernard's breath caught; her hands seemed to radiate heat against his chest. The wine had taken effect; he unlatched a hand from the girl's waist and ran it through her hair, tangling his fingers her silky, dark tresses. She made a soft sound of approval as he guided her away from his neck and pressed his lips to hers again, kissing her self-consciously but soundly, gaining confidence as he went along.
Bernard shifted his body in the chair, pitching himself toward the front of the chair, moving their bodies closer. He wound his arm round the girl's waist, running his free hand up her back underneath the cardigan as he untangled his fingers from her hair in a clumsy attempt to smooth the snarl he'd made. His mouth slid toward her neck as she tilted her head back, he ran his teeth down the delicate skin of her throat. She brought her head forward, pressing her chin to his hair, and murmured his name.
No. She hadn't said his name, he realized. She'd called him Mister Black, and while it hadn't bothered him before, it did now.
"Bernard," he said.
"Bernard," she repeated.
"Now you."
He felt her smile against his cheek. "Natalie."
"Well, Natalie," he muttered into her hair. He didn't bother to finish the sentence; he had nothing else to say. She had really fantastic hair, though- soft and silky, shiny, thick. It smelled vaguely of spices. For the first time in his life, Bernard had a positive thought about shampoo.
Natalie leaned back, wiggling her arms out of her sweater and letting it fall to the floor, where it knocked over the empty wine bottle. She returned to kiss Bernard, shoving her hands underneath the lapels of his jacket, pushing it down off his shoulders. He let go of her just long enough to allow her to strip him of the jacket, returning his hands to her hips, sliding over the sleek material of her skirt to rest on the swell of her ass, which he gave a soft squeeze.
She called him Mister Black again, in mock outrage, and he nipped at her bottom lip. She corrected. "Bernard!"
He smiled against her mouth, running his hands back up over her backside and underneath the hem of her blouse. She fiddled with her shirt, her fingers fumbling the tiny buttons through their holes. When she'd undone the last one, Bernard was able to run his hands up her back to her shoulders, enjoying the delicate feel of her skin.
"Your hands are dry," she whispered against his ear.
"Books," he said. "Lots of paper."
She mumbled something that he couldn't quite make out, but he thought he heard something about bookshop owners and the naughty things one could do with hand lotion.
Still grinning, he nibbled at her ear as he slid a hand around to her front, pressing his palm over the fabric of her brassiere, fingers toying with the strap. It was a strangely appropriate undergarment—not a frivolous piece of lingerie but a sturdy, functional piece which only happened to be lilac-colored and edged with lace. Like the rest of her outfit, it was practical but oddly arousing, not purposely sexy but sexy nonetheless. Bernard pulled her shirt down from her shoulder, planting a kiss in the depression of her collarbone. He slid the strap of her bra from her shoulders, running a fingertip along the edge of the cups.
The bra suddenly came undone, and Bernard realized that she had slyly maneuvered a hand behind her back. He hesitated, slightly, and felt her hand work it's way through the black tangle of his hair, pulling him down. He inhaled the scent of her, woman, soap and vanilla perfume, almost disturbingly intimate. She moaned, both hands massaging his scalp, arching her back, pressing his head into her chest.
Bernard could have happily stayed in that moment for a rather long time. She had other ideas. Pulling him away from her chest, she gestured wordlessly behind her.
"It's full of takeaway." Bernard said, slightly dazed.
"It's okay." She slid backwards, caught her balance and walked unsteadily towards the bed, shoving the boxes into the paper bag and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor before spinning to face Bernard. He was already behind her, hair mussed and slightly out of breath from excitement. She lost her balance, grabbed at the collar of his shirt, and together they tumbled onto the lumpy, out-of-date bedspread.
Bernard immediately kissed her, quickly running a hand up from her hip to her shoulder, but she placed both hands on his chest and pushed, insisting that he roll over. He obliged, and she scrambled back upright. She wasted no time in unzipping the back of her skirt, wriggling it down over her hips, stepping out of it, losing her balance. Bernard, laughing, helped remove her stockings, running the tips of his fingers up and down each bare leg, planting kisses on the smooth skin at the back of her knee. He knelt over her as she reclined on the bed, dangling her calves over the edge, kissing her mouth. She slid the buttons of his shirt undone, fingertips kneading the knotted muscles in his back.
He rolled to the side, taking her with him, and her hand slid from his back to his buttocks, sliding downward, feeling the shape of him underneath the thinning fabric of his pants. The hand suddenly slid forward, over his hip and in between his legs, where the unmistakable shape of his erection pushed against the cheap material. She traced its silhouette with nimble fingers, earning a groan of pleasure from Bernard as he thrust himself into her hand. Pushing him onto his back, she straddled his legs, hurriedly undoing the fly of his pants, pulling them down over the bulge in his drawers, yanking them down his thighs. His underwear was similarly handled.
Swallowing hard, Bernard twisted his body on top of hers, hooking his fingers into the elastic of her underpants, pulling, kicking his pants off his lower legs. His lips somehow found her jaw and he buried his face in her neck, slipping a hand between her legs. She jerked it away and twisted her body to replace the hand with a different part of his anatomy.
Bernard didn't have to be told twice. He entered her swiftly, lost in a haze of desire that didn't abate until both of them had reached climax.
They lied there for what seemed like forever.
Slowly, Bernard came back to reality. There was a strange but very pretty girl in his bed. She had wanted a book. She had a sort-of thing for bad-tempered bookshop owners. There was a bargain. Sex was part of it. Chinese food was involved somehow.
Natalie stretched beneath him, bringing a hand up to stroke his face. "So, Mister Black"—she smiled—"do I get my book now?"
He tweeked his mouth into a half-smile. "One," he began, "its Bernard. Two… if you keep behaving like this, I'll have to give you every book in the shop."
She grinned back.
"I like books, you know."
"And booksellers?"
"Surly, Irish booksellers."
"Like me?"
"Like you."