In Too Deep (4 page)

Daniel shuffles the pages, apparently rereading. Or perhaps he’s just unable to look up and meet my eyes? I let him carry on. Reading. Blinking. Getting harder. It just gives me more time to check out his package.

Judging by the way the denim at his crotch is bulging, he’s deliciously big. As much a titan in the physical endowments department as he is in the realms of learning. As I watch, he shifts on the bench ever so slightly. I guess that he’s uncomfortably positioned inside his jeans, but is fighting the urge to do something about it.

‘Goodness me,’ he says at length, earlobes a touch rosy again. ‘When did you receive this? And how?’ He folds the letter
between
his long fingers, eyeing it as if he’s handling a rare and especially poisonous species of viper, yet is still apparently reluctant to let go of it. ‘It’s serious, you know … the sort of man who writes something like this could be very dangerous. It might be wise to report this to the library’s security. Just to be on the safe side.’

He’s right, but I’m not going to do it. And not just because I don’t like being told what to do, or because those security thugs would have a field day of sniggering over it. No, it’s because of my gut feeling about Nemesis: that, despite his kinkiness, he’s fundamentally benign, and he genuinely likes me. OK, so maybe I am behaving too stupidly to live, but how often does a man tell you he worships and adores you?

‘It was in the library’s suggestion box, personally addressed to me.’ I fold the sheets again, feeling a shimmer of arousal as if the very paper is drenched in an aphrodisiac. A potion that works on Daniel Brewster’s loins just as it does mine. ‘It was there when I opened it up at ten o’clock.’

He shifts uneasily in his seat and I watch the play of emotions on his face. There’s indignation, excitement, puzzlement and perhaps, possibly, jealousy. I hide a smile. Does he wish
he’d
sent the letter? Has he been wanting to shake off his scholarly image and get frisky with me for weeks now, and he’s furious because he’s been beaten to the post by Nemesis? It’s a delicious thought and, if true, great for my ego. He’s a superstar of sorts, and I’m just a rather average, slightly overweight librarian.

‘What will you do?’ He gives me an intense look, eyes dark as espresso behind his elegant lenses. With a swift, agitated gesture, he sweeps a dangling black curl away from his brow.

‘Well, nothing just yet. It’s just one note. There may never be another.’

Now there’s a thought. And one I should welcome. But instead it makes me feel deflated and depressed. There’s been a scarcity of erotic excitement in my life for a long time now – in fact there never was much – but suddenly I’ve got a taste of it and my appetite is roaring. What will Nemesis say next? How far will he go?

‘This could be a very dangerous individual, Gwendolynne.’ Daniel’s still frowning and edgy. But he’s also still stiff behind the fly of his jeans. I sense that, as a man of reason and analysis, he’s slightly cross with himself for getting turned on, and that only reinforces my fanciful idea that he might be jealous.

I wonder how he would approach a woman? And what ploys he’d use to get her into bed, or simply persuade her to allow him to touch her?

He steeples his fingertips as if he’s debating with himself, and I feel like telling him he wouldn’t have to try very hard with me. I’m all over his delicious, quirky male beauty and I’d succumb to him at the drop of a rare history text. No flirting, no dinner dates, no presents – none of that stuff required. Not even any saucy but delightfully poetic letters.

Shocking as it seems, I’d do him right now. If I got a chance.

‘Don’t worry, Daniel. I’m sure it’s just a one-off. We get dodgy notes and rude pictures in the box all the time.’ My fingertips tingle with the need to reach out and touch him, maybe pat his long denim-covered thigh to make my point. Yeah, right … ‘When you don’t reply to the overture, they always lose interest.’

He clasps his fingers and his expression tells me he doesn’t quite believe me. Or maybe it’s just that he’s sharp enough to read my signals and he’s not sure he likes them, hard-on or no hard-on.

‘Are you sure?’ He heaves a sudden sigh, his chest lifting. And I know it’s a very nice chest, because a week or so ago, during a brief heat-wave, he abandoned his tweedy jacket in the main lending library and just worked in a white tee-shirt that embraced his luscious pecs delightfully.

‘It’ll be OK. But thanks anyway. For worrying …’

He straightens up on the seat, and somehow seems to grow from Clark into Superman.

‘But you must promise me … if there’s any trouble with this … this Nemesis, you’ll call on me for help.’

He
is
Superman, and suddenly, despite the fact that I fancy him something rotten, I’m touched. And this time I
do
pat him on the thigh. And then lean over to kiss my ‘thank you’ on his cheek.

Well, that’s what I meant to do. Instead, somehow, I miss his cheek and zero in, with pinpoint accuracy, on his lips.

At first, it’s still a kiss of thanks, and Daniel’s mouth is velvet-soft and quiet under mine. We’re still OK. Nothing’s happened. It’s just a ‘friend’ thing and we can both get out of this without either the pink cheeks or the rosy ears of total embarrassment.

But then everything changes. In a suspiciously accomplished movement, Daniel whips off his glasses, tosses them on to the bench, and then his hands, those strong elegant hands I’ve been entertaining such spectacular fantasies about, come up and cup my face, fingers spread to hold my head and keep our mouths in perfect alignment.

His tongue presses against my lips, and there’s nothing in the slightest bit diffident about it. As it explores and thrusts and tastes, I crumple Nemesis’s letter and let it fall to the gravel, blue words on blue paper forgotten as I lift my hands to Daniel’s shoulders.

His mouth tastes of peppermint as if he’s been sucking Polos. I share the flavour but it’s the man that’s more delicious. And
for
someone who’s projected such an image of composure and scholarly reserve all the time I’ve known him, he certainly knows how to kiss like a macho stud.

Attack. Retreat. Cajole. Beguile.

I’m putty in his hands, a melting heap of pumping hormones, liquefying both metaphorically and very physically between my legs. He doesn’t touch any part of me other than my face, which he cradles, but he might as well have his hand inside my panties.

Me, I have less restraint and, as the mad hormonal messages ramp up and up, some of them bypass my brain completely and end up in my hand. Completely out of control, I lay my fingers across his crotch.

For a few moments, it’s as if his conscious mind doesn’t notice, and just his body responds, automatically pushing his erection against my touch. Then his grey cells catch up and he shoots back across the bench like a startled kitten, breaking our kiss and sending his spectacles skittering on to the gravel. He swoops over, scrabbling to find them, and we’re in farceland again.

In a flash, I’m mortified and angry, but I’m not sure who with. Me, for doing something reprehensibly stupid and forward with a man I barely know? Or with Professor Hottie for leading me on and then suddenly getting cold feet?

He blinks at me from behind his miraculously unharmed glasses, and doesn’t appear to know what to say.

‘Well, obviously that was a mistake of huge proportions.’ I rise and swoop up my belongings – bag, water bottle, perv letter – from the ground where they’ve all ended up in the course of Daniel’s wild retreat.

‘Er … yes, it probably was,’ he agrees softly.

Now I’m crosser than ever. I know it’s mainly frustration, but still I lash out.

‘So it’s OK for you to look down my top and admire my cleavage, but it’s not OK for me to make a move on you?’

He makes a little huffing sound, as if perplexed. He obviously does not like complications.

‘That’s not exactly what I meant by a mistake.’ He’s in control again now, although a glance downwards shows he’s still perky. ‘It’s just that you and I have an excellent professional relationship. In the library. And I enjoy our interaction there.’ He taps the tips of his fingers against each other, something that I think means he’s nervous but trying to squash it. ‘And I wouldn’t want to spoil that or make things embarrassing for you.’

‘Of course not, Professor, consider it unspoilt and me un-embarrassed.’

Oh, please don’t behave like a brat, Gwen. You’re a grown woman, not a kiddie who’s just had her lollipop stolen. I know it’s a nice lollipop … it felt heavenly to the touch … but please act sensibly, will you?

‘Good, I’m glad that’s settled.’ Tap, tap, tap, go the fingers, and while my wayward pussy throbs, craving their dexterity, another part of me suddenly wonders if it’s all tactics, some kind of clever and devious act. ‘Would you like me to walk you back to the library? Just in case?’

For a moment I wonder what the hell he’s talking about, then it dawns on me. Is he concerned about me being stalked by Nemesis? Playing the chivalry card?

‘No. Thanks. I’ll be fine. I think I’ll walk into the Cathedral Centre and do some shopping. There’s no need to worry about me.’

This is doing my head in. I don’t want to get involved in any more mind games. I hardly know Daniel Brewster any better than I do Nemesis. I have to get out of here.

‘Right. OK. I’ll see you later.’

With that, I twirl on my heel, crunching the gravel and speed away as fast as I can without actually running.

I manage fine. I get as far as the corner, and I can’t hear him following me. But then I spoil everything. When I look back, he’s still standing there. He should be frowning but he’s actually smiling, nay, grinning. Which makes him twice as beautiful and ten times as infuriating.

And as far as I can tell he’s
still
got an erection!

3 Self-indulgence Kit

AH, MY BEAUTIFUL
Gwendolynne … do you have a lover? Much as I’d like to have you all to myself, I can’t imagine that there isn’t a man in your life. Or even men. Any male who crosses your path would get a hard-on
.

It’s another note. More copperplate seduction waiting for me when I got back from lunch … As if I haven’t got enough trouble.

Of course you have a lover. Why wouldn’t you? And just to prove that I’m not jealous or possessive, I don’t resent him at all, I just admire him for his sublime taste in women
.

So, this stud of yours, does he visit you often? And do you wait for him in bed, heart beating in anticipation of a sweet new fuck? Does your delicious, trembling body warm for him and grow moist, ready for his cock?

If I were he, I’d come to you every single night. I wouldn’t be able to resist. I’d let myself into your room, and pause for a moment on the threshold to savour that gut-kick moment of knowing that soon I was going to be inside you
.

Ah, there you are, spread out on those satin sheets again, perhaps wearing the silk lingerie we discussed earlier. You’re drowsing, dreamy, waiting … Perhaps you’re touching yourself, savouring your own readiness, your fingertips slyly tucked beneath the exquisite thong you wear? In the soft grove of your pubis there’s a flowing well of moisture, oozing and silky. You rub yourself lightly, imagining the touch is mine – his – and preparing yourself. You want to be ready. Ready to rise to a
swift
orgasm, hungry for initial pleasure. For a delicious hors d’oeuvre to prime the sexual palate for a long banquet ahead
.

As I stand at the door, welcome flares hot in your eyes, but you don’t pause in your attention to your pussy. Your smile sears my loins as your fingers circle beneath the silk and lace, and you swirl your gorgeous bottom against the satin beneath you, breathlessly excited
.

I beg you to allow me to approach, but for the moment you’re in charge, and you forbid it. I stand at the door, every inch of my body enslaved as my cock aches and throbs. You close your eyes, locking your pleasure inside a personal, exclusive world, and as you rub faster and faster you begin to gasp and groan
.

My need for you is unbearable. It’s agony, like having my cock trapped in a tight iron cage. It strains in torment against the restriction of my jeans, pushing at the zip so hard my eyes start to water. Or is that just tears of joy at the rawness of your beauty, and your supreme sensuality?

As you climax, I can’t hold back any longer. The sight of you is overpowering. I rush to your side, throwing myself on to the bed, stretching out alongside your writhing form, absorbing every detail of the way you move, the way you look, the creamy lustre on your skin and the adorable, agonised expression on your rapturous face
.

I see everything. I see your pleasure. I see everything I want and need
.

And now I must take care of myself … release the tension in my cock in the time-honoured way. Still seeing, in my mind, your fabulous body writhing
.

Yours, Nemesis
.

Crikey, this is intense stuff. I opened a bottle of wine a while back – for medicinal purposes only – and I suddenly realise I’ve
drunk
nearly half of it, mulling over this letter and the contrariness of Professor Hottie at lunchtime.

Men! They’re all either perverts or control freaks or they don’t really know what they want. Daniel Brewster seems to conform to all three of the above but, refreshingly, Nemesis at least seems to have some idea of what
he
wants, and he knows how to ask for it! The guy is obsessed, obviously, but I’m still getting that irrational impression that he’s not just some heavy-breathing dirty-mackintosh merchant.

To compound my wine-swigging transgressions, I dive headfirst into a jumbo bag of Kettle Chips for comfort too. Stuff the diet. It’s been a strange, strange day.

My bedroom is my sanctuary, and thankfully free of kitsch satin sheets. I feel both tired and energised at the same time. I have the telly on low and my self-indulgence kit all around me. Wine and crisps to feast on, a brown velveteen throw around my shoulders, and my freshly showered body all cosy in my soft, loose, brushed-cotton pyjamas.