By: ilsuocantante

Prompts: glasses, book

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The door jingled as I stepped inside the used bookstore. The air was heavy with the smell of musty pages and I breathed it in as I would the scent of a lover. It had been a hell of a day and all I wanted was to go home to my new apartment and curl into bed with a book and a bottle of wine. Unfortunately, most of my belongings were still en route, including my box of books. I was new to the city, having been enticed by the Seattle Times to come write for them rather than the smaller paper in Forks, Washington, I'd previously worked for... and my first week had been a train wreck, to put it mildly.

Dear God, whatever I did to make you despise me enough to give me a boss like Lauren Mallory and an assistant like Mike Newton, please know that I am sorry. And for the record, in the future I would prefer you to strike me down where I stand rather than subjecting me to this kind of torture.

It seemed every square inch of the place was piled with books and I immediately felt at ease, though a little unsure of where to start. I was scanning the stacks, looking for a sign or some kind of decipherable system of categorization when I heard a bored voice behind me sigh, "Romance novels are in the back to your left."

I whipped around, startled for a moment by the break in the silence, and then angered by the person's assumption and tone. It took me a moment to locate the origin of the voice. He was sitting behind a small counter, nearly hidden by the large stacks of books on either side. His cheek was propped on his left fist, while his right held a thick book. His head was bowed, shielding his face from me, all I could see was the shock of messy reddish brown hair covering his head.

"Excuse me?" I sputtered, a bit taken aback by his assumption.

He didn't even look up. "I said the romance section is in the back to your left."

"Thanks, but that's not what I'm looking for," I said haughtily. What the hell? Does he assume that just because I'm a woman I'm automatically looking for some shirtless Fabio-covered trash?

He shrugged, again not even bothering to look up. "'K. Well, vampire books are in the Young Adult section, two rows back to your right."

Are you kidding me with this? What an elitist asshole.

"Thanks," I snapped. "But if I was looking for something to get myself off on, I would go home and watch some porn instead of coming to a bookstore at 8:00 pm on a Friday. Just tell me where I can find some goddamn Kerouac."

His head snapped up, looking at me for the first time since I'd entered the store. I was struck immediately by the sight of him; he had the greenest eyes I'd ever seen, the verdant pools intense behind the black frames of his glasses. He had the beginnings of a beard, his full lips a rosy contrast to the dark stubble surrounding it.

Jesus. Too bad he's such a fucking ass.

He seemed to be taking me in just as thoroughly as I had him, and his blatant perusal caused me to both blush and burn. He was one of the hottest guys I'd ever seen and if he hadn't already thrown his douchebag cards on the table, I would have been all over it.

Unfortunately, he had... and no matter how much I may have wanted to find out what the contrast of soft lips and scratchy stubble felt like on my skin, no matter how long it had been since I'd last seen a real life penis... I wasn't really interested.

Let me rephrase that: my mind knew I shouldn't be interested. My vagina had no problems with him.

He smirked, one corner of his mouth quirking up sexily. "Kerouac?"

"That's what I said," I responded tersely, annoyed at my reaction to him.

"Third row back, right side, second shelf down."

I nodded, spinning on my heel and stalking back to the stacks and away from the sexy asshole. I found the Kerouac section just where he said it would be and immediately plucked On the Road from the shelf. I flipped through it idly, finding my favorite passages and smiling to myself at their familiarity. A favorite book was like an old friend. This copy was slightly battered, pages were dog eared, passages were underlined and I spent a moment imagining its previous owner and their reactions to the text. I wondered if they mirrored my own.

Suddenly I felt a presence beside me. "So what is a girl like you doing reading Kerouac?"

I sighed and turned to face him. He was even better looking up close. Damn him. I could see now that his beard was not the flat brown I'd assumed, but a mixture of blond and red and mahogany. His eyes were not just green, but flecked with gold. His white v-neck stretched nicely over a toned chest, his black pants just tight enough to showcase a nice ass... and his black and white converse showcasing some very large feet.

I gulped at that particular implication.

"A girl like me?" I countered, not really sure what he was getting at.

He looked pointedly at my conservative gray pencil skirt and white button up. "I'd pin you for an Austen type, maybe even Fitzgerald if I was giving you the benefit of the doubt... but not Kerouac."

I sighed. I knew what he meant, and I could - grudgingly - admit that it would be a reasonable conclusion. "I enjoy losing myself in the fluidity of his words. Sometimes their utter lack of structure is a nice contrast to the appearance I have to maintain day to day."

"And what appearance is that?" He smirked, one brow rising above the black frames of his glasses.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm a reporter, which means everything I write has to be objective and devoid of emotion. Kerouac is almost nothing but emotion - everything he's thinking and feeling in that moment is on the page. It's just... I don't know... something I like to read to remind myself that I'm not as robotic as I have to pretend to be everyday." I shrugged, unsure why I felt the need to explain myself to him.

He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes burning into me, before nodding. "Understandable. I'm sorry I was such an ass before."

I laughed. "Sorry for snapping at you."

He shrugged, grinning. "It's ok, I kind of liked it. The only ones for me are the mad ones," he quoted.

My own answering grin split my face. "The ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved."

He moved closer to me. "The ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn..."

I realized for the first time I was entirely alone in an empty store with a strange man. A man who smelled like cinnamon and sage and whose proximity was entirely intoxicating. I heard myself respond, "Burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."

Suddenly I was pressed up against the bookshelf, caged in by his arms on either side of me. He leaned down, his face a mere inch from my own. "I see you now. You burn."

And his lips were on mine, the brush of his stubble an acute contrast to the softness of his mouth. They pressed against mine, sweeping back and forth before his tongue swiped slowly against my bottom lip. I opened readily, wanting his taste inside my mouth. He was heat and silk and sweet and I moaned into his mouth, my hands snaking up his arms to tangle in his hair. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me against him. His mouth burned a trail from my lips to my jaw to my neck as his hands slid up my torso to cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing against my nipples straining against the fabric of my shirt and bra.

I'd never had such a visceral reaction to someone - least of all a stranger. I knew this was completely out of character for me, knew I should stop it... but his touch was burning into me, blazing a trail of fire over my skin and I could not find the will to stop it.

I wanted him.

I felt his hot breath against my collarbone, felt my heart thundering in my chest as he fingered the hem of my skirt. He lifted his head, his burning green eyes meeting mine as though to ask if it was ok.

"Please," I whispered.

His mouth met mine with a groan as he lifted my skirt, one large palm cupping my sex through my underwear. I bucked against his hand, hot and aching with need for him. One finger snaked beneath the elastic, and he moaned into my mouth when he met with my warm wet skin. Another finger joined the first, stroking up and down my slick flesh, applying constant pressure and friction to my throbbing clit.

"Oh God," I whimpered as I came suddenly, my body jerking spasmodically against his hand. The intensity of the orgasm was heady but short lived, I was left needy and aching and empty.

I fumbled with his belt buckle, my hands shaking as they undid the buttons and zipper on his pants. "Please, please," I panted into his mouth.

He lifted me, resting my ass against one of the shelves as I wrapped my legs around his waist. "You sure?" he asked.

I nodded frantically, gripping his hair roughly, pulling his mouth to mine. He thrust into me, our twin moans echoing in the caverns of our joined mouths. One arm snaked around my hips, his hand cupping my ass, pressing me to him as the other gripped the shelf for leverage.

"God," he groaned, thrusting in and out of me at a furious pace.

I was past words, past even sounds... I was only breath, I was only heat.

I only existed in this moment; the rest of the week, the rest of my life didn't matter as I burned up and out, exploding into a shower of sparks as I came. I felt him thrust and tense against me, pulsing inside of me, filling me with heat.

We stood, gripping one another as we panted and pulsed, trying to catch our breaths. Just as my heart slowed and my breathing calmed, we heard the door jingle as someone walked through. Our eyes met, mirrored surprise and panic as we frantically righted clothes and smoothed hair. With one last indecipherable look, he left me to walk to the front of the store.

I tugged at my skirt and tucked in my shirt before following him out, just in time to hear the woman ask, "Where is your romance section?"

I sent him a smirk behind her back as I answered for him, "In the back to your left."

I walked out, letting the cool night air seep into me, washing the burn from my skin but unable to touch the warmth residing in my chest. Tonight had been exactly what I needed; I felt alive and renewed. I didn't want to mar the experience with the inevitably awkward conversation afterward.

After all, I knew where to find him if I ever needed another fix.

And if he looked hard enough.... say the third row back on the right side, in the book left lying haphazardly on the second shelf down, he'd know where to find me too.