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I pull back the nearest chair and dive under the table, settling awkwardly inside a cage of hard wooden chair legs. Rory’s extended legs shift slightly to the side to accommodate me. He crosses them deftly at the ankles, his black shoes gleaming.
If they catch me down here…
I don’t want to think about it.
It takes several long moments for my heartbeat to steady. I can’t make out what Arabella’s squawking, though I hear the appalled shush of the librarian, and eventually Arabella’s voice simmers to a fraught and bitter hiss. I swallow, glancing up from my crouched position by Rory’s feet. His blazer is smartly buttoned, his tie straight and tucked beneath. I see the tautness at his collar, of the muscle between neck and shoulder, as he turns his head to locate Arabella.
“Can I come out?” I whisper, but Rory puts a placating palm on top of my head, and I go still.
He glances down at me and our eyes lock. The library suddenly seems suffused with heat. Rory studies me with such intensity that I know he’s committing my stance to memory. His faint smirk is back again as he answers, “Maybe I rather like you down there.”
I swallow hard, resting my temple against Rory’s knee. Every move I make from my crouched, kneeling position feels like it can be heard across the library — sweet, slow, private rustling. Rory’s palm smooths down my hair. I know both of us are thinking of heady days, of hot silky wetness as we spilled our sins in a similar position, in the St. Camford computer lab. On my knees, with the threat of being caught, feasting on Finlay and Rory at the same time, watching them come while kissing the other.
It plants a seed.
We’ve endured too long without losing ourselves to each other.
My fingers slant over Rory’s inner thighs, my hands a demand to prize his legs apart. His silvery eyes narrow, and he pushes my head down, down far beneath the table, until we break eye contact. I hear his soft exhale when he thinks I can’t hear, and then smile as, hesitantly, Rory unclasps his legs, enclosing me.
Affirmation.
Is Danny still watching? He won’t be able to see me from the barrier of chair legs — butRory… the thought of him on full display to Danny, giving in to the messages on my tongue, his gray eyes glassy and dazed, pale lips bitten and red, male groans desperately suppressed… I may be planted dutifully by Rory’s feet, but to wear one’s arousal so obviously in public is an act of pure submission.
I’m overtaken with monstrous lust, the civility of our library surroundings only helping to increase my urgency. The time we have is limited. My hands reach across, slowly releasing the button of Rory’s waistband. Above me is the sound of his book falling, a dull heavy slam onto my wooden shelter, followed by the automatic plummet of Rory’s pointy elbows.
Rory shifts his chair in tightly, barely giving himself room to breathe as the edge of the table presses deep against his rib cage. He must be hunched over the desk — his head in his hands, gazing unseeingly down at the book, but the picture of perfect concentration.
“What are you doing, little saint?” Rory whispers through, it sounds like, lips that scarcely move. His voice is pitched low in his throat.
In answer, I drag his zipper. The noise is sudden, subtle, swift. Strong thigh muscles bind me, pinching me still, while my fingers trace the growing bulge beneath. I sense the hammer of Rory’s heart, the jump in his nerves, the easy firming of his cock.
He can say no to this. At any time.
I don’t insult his intelligence by reminding him of his power.
But Rory’s a subversive freak, and so, I’ve learned, am I. The first I’d ever known him sexually is when he’d fucked Li at the back shelves of the library, clawing at her skin, pawing at her breasts. A quick, cathartic, and thoroughly loveless fuck, with Finlay playing bodyguard and me hidden, mesmerized, behind books. We were twisted long before now.
This time he doesn’t have a bodyguard.
Chatter drifts in and out of ears that sharpen then muffle the world beyond this table. Even now, I hear Arabella and her low, scornful muttering. What I’m doing is insanity. It’s deeply unwise.
And yet I can’t stop.
I stroke silken navy boxer-briefs and lean forward, tracing Rory’s full length with my mouth. For one endless moment, Rory’s breath stops — and then restarts, deep and long and low, as though trying to re-focus himself, the muscles beneath his blazer contracting brutally.
Am I really doing this? My lips hover above Rory’s thick, clothed erection, caught in a moment of madness and desire, urged on by the subversiveness of this union. Public sex. Library sex. Maybe it’s something I’ve always wanted, deep down and in secret, ever since I first learned that Rory Munro fucks girls in libraries.
On a steeling breath, I draw down his waistband and expose the velvet smoothness of his cock. His bare erection bobs powerfully underneath the wooden surface, and for a moment I admire it. He’s perfect. The small triangle of his silken trail leading to the wavy fawn of his curls, his erection a pillar, a totem, a structure designed to endure. I brush the bridge of my nose against the intimate join of his inner thigh, indulging my senses in his dark rich soap and planting a soft kiss.
“What does it feel like?” I whisper, genuinely curious, as my hand curls around the base of his proud, stiffened cock. “Being exposed like this in the library?” It’s a waste of a question, but I ask it anyway, my voice soft: “Does it turn you on?” Rory says nothing but the tight, desperate pulse of his cock between my palm is answer enough.
I listen carefully to the world beyond our desk. Still there’s Arabella, ranting away. The impatient flutter of pages. Frustrated sighs — the normal studying kind, not those on the verge of being spilled by Rory.
With a languid tongue, I surge forward and capture his naked silken beauty, licking my way along the underside of his cock as though we have all the time in the world. A wild, stunted grunt falls above me. I slide Rory’s crown between my lips, suckling softly, and close my mouth around his weighted heat.
The salt of pre-cum flashes across my tongue, already present — and a warning sign. Already so wet. Already so hot for this. My tongue sweeps slowly along his smooth length, noting the growing tension of his muscles. My fingers cling to the soft fabric of his taut lower thighs, my head bobbing as I swallow and soothe. Slick warmth coats my cheeks. Rory’s hands scrabble above me on the desk, and the book — a mere prop — is pushed across the table as if to toy with something that isn’t me.
“This is insane,” I hear him whisper through a blown-out breath, torso hunched over his book. Somehow, I don’t think he’s referring to ancient Chinese dynasties.
