Sexy Shorts

by Kathryn Nolan

  Both of his palms landed on my bare knees, and I was oh-so-aware of it. “It didn’t mean… I mean, it was fine. And while it was happening, I thought about you.”

  I’d fantasized about his body, the feel of his cock between my lips.

  Patrick clenched his jaw. “And what happened when you did that?”

  “I came,” I said. His fingers slid all the way up my knees and onto my inner thighs. “Will you tell me why you didn’t lose yours?”

  He laughed softly, looking away. I wanted to run my tongue up the side of his neck. “I guess I was waiting for you.”

  It took barely a moment for me to lean forward and kiss him. And it felt like everything: teenaged nostalgia and hot nights and the sweetness of a summer romance.

  But then Patrick slid his tongue between my lips, and the delicious ache between my legs roared to life. I’d missed kissing him—oh how I’d missed it. Four years of pining feel like nothing compared to the fierce urge I had to take him inside my body.

  “Rosie,” he said, sighing as I wrapped my legs around his waist. “I want it to be you. Please let it be you—” but I was already rocking against his erection. Nipped at his jaw and tore his shirt over his head. Patrick had lean, hard muscle and dark hair on his chest.

  And when I freed his erection, his breath shuddered against my ear.

  I reached up, fingers opening my bedside drawer. Drew out a condom. The two of us were still on my bedroom floor, grinding against each other. As I opened the condom, his thumbs grazed my nipples.

  “What do you think it feels like?” I asked, pushing him to the floor. Off came his remaining clothing, and before me was a veritable Adonis. Tan brown skin, midnight hair, thick muscled thighs. I leaned down and bit a ridge of muscle, and he groaned. Teased his long, veined cock with my tongue before slowly, slowly rolling the condom down.

  “Wet,” he said, watching me lift my shirt off. Remove my bra. “Hot. Tight.” I slid my underwear down my legs, and I was naked in front of him. Patrick growled, a real growl, and he was no longer blushing or shy.

  His back arched off the floor, head back, neck exposed. The sound he made was so rough and real and sated that I almost came. I worked my cunt down, then up again, his fingers bruised my hips.

  “What the ever… loving… sweet… Christ… fuck…” he groaned, lifting me and slamming me back down. I was enthralled with his response, wanting him to direct and move my body the way that he craved it.

  “What does it feel like?” I asked again. I rode him smoothly, licked his throat. Nuzzled his ear as he lost his mind beneath me.

  “Paradise,” he sighed, flexing his hips up and then rolling me onto my back and driving his cock home. Then it was my turn to arch and moan, staring up at him in pure wonder. He was part poet, part animal, and his lips on mine was pure worship.

  “You are perfect and beautiful, and it was worth waiting four years for this. It was worth waiting for you, Rosie.”

  I grasped his shoulders, and his thumb stroked my clit. I jumped, startled, and then Patrick worked his thumb in small, steady circles. Just like I’d taught him, years ago. We were both rushing toward the edge.

  “Come with me,” I whispered, lifting my legs higher on his body. Taking him deeper. His strokes became faster, unpolished. He was unraveling before me, and I was drunk on it. And it was his climax—his first climax inside a woman—that sent me hurtling toward orgasm. We spiraled and leapt and broke free together—a glorious, sweaty, happy mess on the floor of my bedroom.

  Later, I took Patrick to the Santa Monica boardwalk where we drank cheap beer and ate tacos and reminisced about the summer we’d once spent together. He told me stories about Ireland and read me poetry and confessed he was nervous about his degree.

  The sun set over the ocean, turning his hair copper, and our feet touched in the cool sand.

  “What happens next?” I asked, warm and content by his side.

  Patrick grinned at me, the four years apart melting away. “I think I take you on a proper date. How does that sound, love?”

  Like Petals for the Sun

  Ray Bradbury had forgotten to sign his last name.

  It was the sole reason why I was sitting in a secluded alcove at a tavern in Philadelphia with Henry. Ray’s last name was missing from this signed, first edition copy of Fahrenheit 451, his infamous novel about a dystopic American society where books are burned and critical thought outlawed.

  In 1953, he’d signed the first fifty copies of Fahrenheit 451 and had them bound in asbestos—a protection against fire.

  And this copy, this singular copy, just said ‘Ray.’ No ‘Bradbury.’

  Which made it not only interesting but also rare. Distinguished.

  Henry and I would never know the fated reason—a knock at the door. An errant thought. A glimpse of a bluebird out the window, causing the author to close the copy of his masterpiece, unfinished.

  Whatever the reason, it had brought us here: astonished at what we’d accomplished, rescuing what was lost.

  “I can’t stop looking at it,” I whispered, our heads close as we stared at the tablet in front of us, loaded with pictures of our recovered book. The manuscript itself was already back at Cipher, much too valuable to be sitting on a bar table covered with empty wine glasses and crumpled up napkins. But before we’d taken these photos, I’d watched Henry turn the pages of the novel with something akin to reverence.

  “An author that wrote one of the seminal pieces of literature signed this,” Henry said, finger tapping the ink on the screen. “At the time, he had no idea how famous this book would be. How vital.”

  “It’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?” I teased, nudging his shoulder with mine. When he looked up, his smile was fairly dazzling. Henry had been at Cipher for all of six months, and in that time, he’d been quiet, serious. But we were both three drinks in and high on adrenaline.

  “I read this book in high school, and it changed the course of my life,” he said. “I couldn’t stop thinking about a world without books. How empty our lives would be.”

  “And someone had the audacity to steal it,” I said, feeling the familiar anger.

  “But we got it back, Del,” he said. “We got it back.”

  Henry and I worked at Cipher, a secretive private detective firm that hunted down stolen rare books and manuscripts. Across the world, famous institutions paid Cipher to keep our mouths shut and track down stolen books quickly and quietly before the FBI’s Art Theft division could get involved. Stolen manuscripts painted museums and libraries in a bad light, and there was no reason to spook your donors and collectors when a few savvy private detectives might be able to find it first.

  In the world we operated in, this copy of Fahrenheit 451 wasn’t worth much: $267,000 at its last appraisal. But it’d been stolen from Yale University’s rare book and manuscript library, and the head archivist had been furious. He’d suspected it was their newest hire, a temporary archivist named Sheila. She was smart enough (and trained enough) to recognize the value of the manuscript when she saw it.

  But she was no criminal mastermind, posting the book for sale on one of the many rare manuscript sites Cipher kept a sharp eye on. It was all-too-easy to pose as a buyer, and I’d brought Henry along to verify the manuscript’s authenticity. Sheila gave up the book easily—we had enough information to threaten her with reporting her to the FBI.

  The main thing these institutions had in common was wanting the book back promptly, with or without suitable punishment.

  Cipher was always paid to look the other way.

  Although our boss Abraham was also known to share anonymous tips with the FBI after we’d closed a case.

  “Is this how it always feels?” Henry asked, dark eyes meeting mine.

  “For me it does,” I said. “I’ve been here for two years, and that feeling has never grown stagnant for me. I used to feel something similar when I was working the Burglary Unit as a detective. I have a real penchant fo
r finding missing things. That sense of right clicking into place. But this—” I tapped my finger on the screen again. “This has always felt even better.”

  Henry shook his head, smile continuing to light up his face. “In all my years as a rare book librarian, I’ve had the privilege of caring for manuscripts hundreds of years older than this signed Bradbury. But holding this tonight, counting the pages, thinking about this novel returning to its rightful home, I never felt more alive.”

  I nodded my head, fingers curling around my wine glass. When I brought it to my lips, his eyes briefly landed there. “I think that’s what infuriates me the most about the theft of rare books. Taking a beautiful piece of literature that rightly belongs to the public and selling it to the highest bidder.”

  “I feel that way too,” he said. Henry paused, suddenly looking shy. “Can I buy you another drink?”

  I was just on the right side of tipsy, pressed against my handsome coworker in a tavern built in 1773. There were notes of magic nestled in the whispered history of these walls. A reckless spirit in the hushed air.

  “Of course,” I said.

  I was dancing along a precarious line.

  My past two years at Cipher had been the happiest of my life—it was a job where I could combine my love of being a detective with my heady fascination with books. A true best of both worlds.

  And then I met Henry. The day he strode into our offices, I was convinced I’d actually swoon by the coffee maker. Henry Finch had been hired as our new expert, a rare book librarian educated at Oxford. Fluent in three languages. Brilliant and accomplished.

  And the only word I could think of to describe him was dashing. Henry was well over six feet tall and wore a tweed jacket with horn-rimmed glasses. He had dark black skin, close-cropped curls, and a tentative smile that had my heart fluttering.

  I’d never seen a more handsome man in my entire life.

  That day, his palm had slid against mine with a strong, sure grip. “A true pleasure to meet you, Delilah,” he’d said, my full name sounding sinful on his lips. “I’m looking forward to working together.”

  My days at Cipher hadn’t been the same since.

  Abraham had just one managerial rule: no fraternizing between coworkers. It was really just the four of us: Abe, Freya, me, and Henry. We worked in high-stress situations, sometimes dangerous, and the one thing that could distract a person during a job was fantasizing about hot, passionate sex with their brilliant, dashing coworker.

  And I knew where drinks with Henry could lead. Because I’d done that when I was a detective and had paid the price.

  Yet here I was, drinking with Henry.

  “What do you think the Founding Fathers were reading in this booth, three hundred years ago?” Henry asked, sliding back into the booth with two more glasses of red wine.

  “Pornography,” I said, smiling when he choked on his drink.

  “Don’t be coy,” I said. “You know this tavern used to be filled to the brim with 18th century smut.”

  Henry laughed—a rich, velvety sound. “I’m so happy you brought me here.”

  “You’re the one who suggested drinks,” I reminded him, letting the wine slide down my throat. It felt so decadent to let myself flirt with the man I’d been having lurid, detailed sex fantasies about for months.

  “That’s true,” he conceded. “There just isn’t another person in my life who could really understand what we did tonight.”

  “I know the feeling,” I admitted. I crossed my legs under the table, our knees brushing together.

  Henry didn’t move away.

  “Tell me about the first time you read this book,” I said, tapping on the screen. The original maroon and white cover was bright in the dim light of the bar.

  “Both my parents are professors, so I had a lot of time to myself growing up. They’d drop me off at the Free Library of Philadelphia, near the art museum, and I’d spend whole days wandering through the stacks. Reading whatever book caught my eye for hours.” He paused, taking a neat sip of wine. The alcohol and adrenaline was making Henry more verbose, but he was still the kind of person that really only spoke when it was important. “It was at that library where I first read Fahrenheit 451. I couldn’t stop thinking about pages of poetry burning in the flames. Words and images disappearing in the smoke.”

  I shivered. “I grew up in the country, and we had this huge hammock between giant oak trees in our backyard. I read this book there on a summer day when I was seventeen years old. And I thought about it for weeks afterward.”

  Henry leaned closer, and I inhaled his scent: cedar and sandalwood.

  “The power of a book,” Henry said, chuckling. “I’ll never get over that sensation. I’ve spent my entire career surrounded by books, and they still elicit this feeling of total wonder.”

  We were quiet for a moment, and then Henry’s head dropped to the table. “Goddammit I’m such a nerd, Del.”

  I patted his back, noting the play of muscles beneath my fingers. “Everyone at Cipher is a big nerd, Henry. Join the club. It’s a Saturday night, and you and I spent our weekend hunting down a stolen Ray Bradbury book. And now we’re just drinking and continuing to talk about books.”

  Henry lifted his head, that dazzling smile sliding across his face. “I guess you didn’t have a date tonight, huh?”

  “I haven’t had a date in a couple of years,” I admitted. “A bit gun-shy from my last one, I’m afraid. And when was the last time you had a hot date?”

  “Not since I’ve moved back to Philadelphia,” he said. “I spend a lot of my time reading.”

  “I spend a lot of my time reading,” I repeated. “Like the nerds we are.”

  “Do you ever wonder…” he started, briefly looking away. “Do you ever wonder if we’re missing out? I’ve spent my whole life with my head in a book. I didn’t party in high school or college because I was studying, content to explore and discover all that literature and history had to offer me. But I worry…”

  “What?” I pushed.

  “Is it bravery or cowardice that keeps us reading?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Bravery. Books take us to new worlds. New planets. Books can take us back four hundred years in our past or show us four hundred years into our future. Books make us feel alive. It’s alchemy through words.”

  A shadow of a smile played on Henry’s lips.

  “Plus,” I said, laying my fingers on his wrist. “Tonight you were basically Sherlock fucking Holmes. That’s pretty brave.”

  His pulse beneath my fingers was a hypnotic cadence. I leaned in closer, our thighs touching, our shoulders touching.

  “It’s just that… sometimes I worry that I’m hiding behind them,” he said. His dark brown eyes held my gaze for a full minute. I felt captivated by the array of emotions I saw there.

  As if in a dream, Henry reached forward and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, thumb caressing down the sensitive edge. “You have beautiful hair, Delilah. When the sun catches the strands, the light fractals like a raven’s wing.”

  “That’s a… brave thing to say,” I finally managed. Everything around me felt muted and soft-edged—the sounds of the other patrons, the clinking of glasses, the cool air swirling around us.

  His fingers found my hair again, lifting it away so his lips could linger above my ear.

  “Is this a side effect of what we do at Cipher?” he asked. “Feeling like you want to indulge in your secret desires?”

  Henry pulled back but kept our faces just a few inches apart. I couldn’t stop staring at his full lips. “It’s the adrenaline. It makes you feel invincible.”

  “I think I like it,” he said.

  “You’ll get addicted,” I said, but there was no bite to my warning. “And what makes these desires so secret?”

  Henry and I had barely interacted these last few months past the usual coworker greetings. He’d been mired in research, and I’d tracked down a few books, meaning I was out
of the office more than I was in it. But when I was there, every nerve ending in my body was acutely aware of his presence. His voice. The intensely intimate way he examined manuscripts, hands caressing the delicate pages.

  I never thought he was also aware of me.

  “It’s a secret because I’m not supposed to stare at my coworker’s raven hair as it blazes beneath the morning light, streaming in from our office window,” he said. “It’s a secret because I’m not supposed to admire her lips, painted in bright red lipstick.” Henry slid his arm behind my head, trapping me against the booth. “Do you have any secrets like that, Delilah?”

  A warning bell attempted to clang in my head, but I suppressed it. I recognized this moment, had felt it back when I was a detective, flirting shamelessly with Mark, my superior officer. Before I was fired—before we were both fired—the forbidden nature of what we were doing was its own aphrodisiac. The warning bell was all part of the fun.

  This felt different: just the feel of Henry’s fingertip, brushing the shell of my ear, sparked a tortuous heat low in my belly. It was wrong because of our jobs and the no fraternization policy at Cipher. But it didn’t feel wrong the way Mark did.

  My body wanted to open for Henry as surely as the morning glories in my garden unfurled their petals for the sun.

  “I guess… I have a secret too,” I said, tilting my face into his palm, fingers on the back of my neck, his thumb caressing down my cheekbone.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “I’m not supposed to fantasize about having sex with my coworker in our storage closet,” I said. Henry’s fingers tightened on my neck.

  “No, you’re certainly not.”

  “Which is a problem. Because I’ve been doing it since the first day I met my coworker,” I whispered. His thumb reached my bottom lip, pushing gently.

  “That’s a real problem, Delilah,” he said. “Because at work, you’re supposed to focus on the task at hand.”

  “So are you,” I said, brow arching in challenge.

  Henry slanted his body all the way towards mine, bringing our mouths an inch apart. My leg was half on his lap, body curling against his chest. He was tweed and cedar and hard muscle and soft pages and the mysterious, smoky scent of history.