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The woman in her was pressing her thighs together, trying to remind herself that showing off his library was not a form of foreplay... ... Okay, no, there was no point in lying to herself. This was definitely foreplay.
Off course books are foreplay
The loft... the balcony... the second level above, all open. The rolling ladders, the stacks going from floor to ceiling, reaching as tall as the manor itself, all just building and flowing around and around. Stacks sitting in neat rows on the floor, waiting to be organized. Stacks of books on desks. Books open on a table. Books upon books upon books upon...
She wanted to touch them all, to run among the stacks. She wanted to ride across on the ladders, to climb up each of them. She wanted...
She was in love. In love with this library. In love with this space. All she needed was a warm cup of tea, a good blanket, and some fuzzy socks, and she was sold. She was never leaving.
“A book can take you somewhere,”
“A bookshelf can take you anywhere. A library can take you everywhere.”
He became something more. Something to be feared. To be respected.
He was immortal. And she wanted that immortality.
“Why am I sparkling?” she asked, thinning her eyes a little. “I look like I bathed in glitter.”
Oh no! No more twilight vampires please!!
“Blood, books, then sex,” she listed while climbing from his lap. “In that order, and do not try to add something in there.”
