Perfect Strangers

31

He tugs on my hand and pulls me away from where the taxi dropped us, on the left bank of the Seine, a stone’s throw away from Notre Dame. A small crowd of people mills in front of the store, browsing through the outdoor book stalls and chatting, sipping espressos from the café next door. The building the store is housed in appears centuries old, a tall stretch of pitted stone with crumbling corners and a white façade mellowed to ivory with age.

As soon as we pass through the glass-paned front door and a bell somewhere out of sight jingles merrily, I’m flooded with the most wonderful sense of connection, like I’ve been plugged into a socket and have started to hum with energy. I feel as if I’ve come home.

It’s the smell.

Books—especially old books—have a smell all their own, a sweet and musky scent warmed by a hint of vanilla that floods the brain with good memories and good feelings. I stop in the entry and close my eyes, inhaling deeply.

I exhale and open my eyes, drinking in my surroundings.

The shop is crammed to the ceiling with shelves of books. Narrow passageways lead away from the entry to a nest of other rooms. A wooden staircase winds up to a second floor. Dusty chandeliers cast warm light over red velvet draperies and the occasional leather chair, their seats cracked and worn.

In a voice like you’d use in church, I say, “This is heaven.”

Standing beside me, James chuckles. “Told you. C’mon, let’s look around.”

He nods to the lovely blonde behind the register, then leads me down a passageway. Stenciled on the soffit above us an inscription reads, “Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.”

I trail my fingertips over spines as we pass shelf after shelf of books, until we turn a corner and stop in a quiet alcove. I glimpse a copy of Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov shelved next to War and Peace by Tolstoy.

“The Russian section is my favorite,” says James, coming to stand close behind me, his chest against my back. He grasps my upper arms and dips his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply the same way I did when I walked in and smelled all the delicious books.

“That’s good news. For a minute there, I thought you were leading me straight to Hemingway.”

I pluck The Brothers Karamazov off the shelf and open it, lifting the pages to my nose for a sniff. Sighing in pleasure, I look at a random line and read it aloud. “The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.”

“Indeed,” murmurs James into my ear. He slides his hand down my arm, over my hip, and between my legs.

I freeze. My heart takes off like a rocket. Through small gaps in the shelf in front of me, I see other people browsing in the front of the store.

I whisper, “James.”

His strong fingers delve into the gap between my thighs, gently rubbing. “Hmm?”

“Someone will see us.”

“Maybe.”

He sounds nonchalant. Meanwhile, I’m starting to sweat. Is this why he asked me to wear a dress?

“I’m not sure we should—”

“Read me some more.” He pinches his fingers together, making me gasp. Then he slides his hand down my thigh, slips it under the hem of my dress, and slides it back up again. He settles his warm palm between my legs. Now the only barrier between his hand and my naked flesh is my panties.

The way he cups my s*x feels possessive.

“James—”

“Read,” he commands, his voice low.

I look at the pages, but the words have started to blur. With shaking hands, I flip a few pages, then focus on a line. “L-love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared to love in dreams.”

“Mmm. How eloquent. You see why I like the Russian section? It’s so romantic.” James slips his fingers under the elastic of my panties and glides them over my c******s.

I jerk, sucking in a startled breath.

Into my ear he breathes, “Guess you like it, too. You’re already wet.”

My heart bangs so hard against my sternum it’s painful. He winds his other arm around my waist and pins me against the wall of his body, then starts to move his fingers faster, stroking me until I’m breathless and throbbing.

“Read, Olivia.”

Panting, feeling scared and desperate and insanely turned on, I stare at the book in my hands. Pages whir past as I flip forward, then back, almost dropping the book in the process. I find a page and read, my voice shaking.

“You will burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again.”

James kicks my feet apart wider, then sinks one finger deep inside me.

When I shudder and let out a soft cry, he whispers harshly into my ear, “Burn for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

His erection is a hard, insistent heat against my ass. If he bent me forward a little, he could yank aside my panties and f**k me from behind.

I’m out of my mind with the thought of it.

The possibility that he could make love to me here, in a public place, in partial view of the patrons at the front of the store or full view anyone who wandered into the alcove, has me so hot—and terrified—I can barely think.

He uses my hair as a leash to pull my head back. Then he kisses me deeply as his thumb works my c******s and his index finger slides in and out of me, over and over.

The book falls from my hands and clatters against the floor.