After a leisurely breakfast at a small café just down the road from James’ apartment, James takes you on your own personal tour of the city. You wander, his arm around your waist, past the theatre and the clubs, and discuss Oscar Wilde as you stroll along the river and through the park.
At a small footpath, he turns to you, his eyes bright with excitement, and says “There’s something I want to show you.” He takes your hand and leads you through the glistening, snow-covered park to an old red-brick building, hidden between two more modern buildings.
He releases your hand, bounds up the small staircase to the front door and holds it open for you.
You read a small sign in the window as you enter. Northbridge Community Library.
“This is what you wanted to show me?”
He nods. You take a moment to look around. It’s all dark wood and tall shelves – so very James – and it doesn’t surprise you when he takes your hand again and leads you through the maze of books, past reading nooks and around corners until you reach the centre of the room. It’s brighter, the corridors of shelves opening up into a spacious square filled with a line of empty desks.
It’s as if you’re the only ones in the library.
You follow him as he wanders around the edge of the square, searching through the shelves until he finds what he’s looking for. It’s a book, with yellowing pages and ratty corners, the lettering on the spine so faded that you can’t make out its title, but it seems to mean something to James so you don’t comment.
Instead, you join him at one of the desks.
“This place is amazing,” you whisper. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Not anymore,” he says, the book remaining closed on the desk in front of him. He twists in his seat to face you and reaches out for your hand, his fingers playing with yours. “It was my hideaway, back in Freshman year. I’d stay at the loft at weekends, to get some space from my suitemates, and I’d come here to write. I planned out the first draft of my play right here.”
“Right here?” you ask, shifting your chair closer, angling it just so you’re slightly behind him and can lean in close and rest your chin on his shoulder. “Are you sure? I don’t see a plaque.”
James laughs loudly, and you quiet him with a whispered reminder that you’re in a library. His smile is wide, fond, and when he kisses your hair, you nuzzle just a little bit closer. “They must still be working on it.”
You beam up at him. His gaze softens, his hand rising to cup your cheek, and then he’s kissing you, lips pressed to yours. “I wanted you to see this place while you were here,” he says, between kisses. “I thought you’d like it.”
“I love it.”
“Good.”
“What’s the book?” James lifts the cover enough so you can finally see the title, embellished into the binding. “The Importance of Being Earnest.”
“One of my favourites,” he tells you, starting to flip through the pages. “It’s more farcical than anything I would write, but it explores a lot of the traditions and customs of Victorian society that I find interesting, even if it is mocking them. I can’t count the number of times I’ve read it. Whenever I was struggling to write or to plan what came next, I’d put my work aside and read this instead This line, here? It reminds me of you.” He stops turning the pages, the book lying open on the desk in front of him and points at a line midway down the page. “Ever since I met you I have admired you more than any girl.”
You smile and press a kiss to his shoulder. “For me, you have always had an irresistible fascination,” you read. James looks over his shoulder at you, watching you as you follow the script. You’re not acting, you mean every single word, and once you’ve glanced over the following sentence, you shift your gaze back to him. “Even before I met you I was far from indifferent to you.”
The play doesn’t ask for a kiss but you’re more than happy to improvise and press your lips to his. He shifts but doesn’t break the kiss, moving so he’s sat facing you, and as soon as the angle’s less awkward, you cup his face in your hands, your thumb stroking his cheek. He has one hand in your hair, the other on your thigh, and you can tell the moment he forgets where you are because he tries to tug you closer.
You pull back, your hands trailing from his cheeks to rest on his shoulders. “We’re in a library,” you whisper, your smile too wide to hide the fact that you’re only teasing.
“You’re right, we are,” he says, one eyebrow raised. “How scandalous!” You laugh and lean in again, but he draws back, his hands leaving you as he scoots his chair an inch or so away from you. He’s the one smirking now. “Library, remember?”
“Cute.”
He makes a show of returning to the book, turning the pages back to the beginning of the Act and starting to read. You don’t comment. You’re happy to play along, happy to watch him. He’s always so handsome when he’s happy, and right now, you’re not sure he’s ever been more so.
You can tell the moment he forgets the teasing and gets lost in the book – his brow is furrowed, his eyes darting back and forth across the page. You should have expected it – James finds it remarkably easy to focus entirely on literature – and you have to smile.
He only mumbles a vague acknowledgement when you kiss his cheek and tell him you’re going to explore the rest of the stack.
It doesn’t take long to get disoriented. The stacks are tall, the corridors labyrinthine. You weave around corners, making note of the labels of the bookshelves so you don’t take the same path twice, trailing your fingers along the spines of the books.
You’re in what you think is a dead end at the far corner of the library when James finds you.
“Looking for anything in particular?” He joins you by the shelf, his hand settling at the small of your back as he glances over the books.
“No.”
He looks at your hand, your finger still lingering on the spine of a book. He shifts closer and turns into you – his mouth by your ear, breath hot against your skin – and he whispers to you. “We are dancing in the hollow of nothingness. We are one flesh, separated like stars.”
His words send shivers through you, partly due to the way his voice deepens when he murmurs the phrase, but mostly because his lips brush the skin just behind your ear as he speaks. “What’s that?”
“Henry Miller,” he says, nodding down at the book.
You twist around, his hand drifting from your back to your hip. “Do you know any more?”
“He’s not my favourite author, but I know a few more quotes.”
“Any good ones?”
James smirks, his fingers stroking your hip as he moves his hand away and shifts closer, pressing you back against the bookcase. The edge of the shelves dig slightly into your back but you don’t care. You fist your hand in his collar and try to pull him nearer, your breath quickening when he leans in, nose brushing yours, lips almost touching yours.
“The only thing we never get enough of is love-”
You kiss him before he can finish.
The only thing you can never get enough of is him.
You wrap your arms around him, rising up onto your tiptoes so you’re even closer, so there’s no space between you. James kisses back, hard and deep, for only a moment before he pulls away, his breath heavy, and when you start trailing kisses down his neck, his breath catches.
“We shouldn’t,” he says reluctantly, his protests dampened by the way he groans and presses into you, pushing you further back against the books. “Not here.”
“Yes, I know. We’re in a library,” you admit. You pause the kisses and glance up at him, a mischievous smile teasing the corners of your mouth. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”
He shakes his head, smirking. One quick glance over his shoulder – you’re in a dead end at the back of the library – and then he’s kissing you again. Rougher this time, needier. His hands run down your sides, caressing your breasts, hips, thighs, and then he’s lifting you. Your legs go around him as he uses his body to anchor you against the bookshelf, one hand on your ass holding you up, the other trailing down your thigh to your knee and then back up, nudging the hem of your skirt up as he does.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”
James kisses your jaw, his stubble rough against your skin. You can feel him, hard and hot against you. One hand grips his shoulder as the other reaches between you so you can get his wallet from his trouser pocket and clumsily dig the condom out of it. You keep the foil packet between two fingers as you try to put his wallet back, but you have to give up and put it in his blazer pocket instead.
(Are you really doing this? You can’t believe you’re really doing this – not that you’re at all prepared to stop.)
It’s not the smoothest of your encounters, but soon you have his belt and zip undone, the condom on. He tugs your underwear down just far enough and you sink onto him. He groans your name, the word muffled by your neck – he’s still pressing messy, hot kisses to it, even as he rocks into you.
You raise one hand, gripping at the shelf behind you, your head falling back, each movement building pleasure inside you. He nips at your collarbone, his lips linger, and it’s only when you sigh his name – a broken “James” just as he moves just right – that he lifts his head and kisses you again, his mouth warm and open on yours.
His hand moves from your upper thigh to your inner thigh and he loses his grip on you. You slip slightly, the stacks digging painfully into your back (but not too painful – combined with every other sensation he’s eliciting from you, it feels good. Everything feels good.)
You can’t muffle the moan.
“Shh” he whispers, voice hoarse, out of breath, and then his fingers are between your legs, working you just enough for you to finally fall apart. A few more thrusts and he sags against you, his head falling to rest on your shoulder, his breath hot and fast against your skin, his forehead damp.
You both take a few moments to catch your breath and then you untangle and straighten up. James tries and fails to get rid of the creases in his vest before brushing his fingers through your hair.
(You doubt it’s going to look presentable, whatever he does.)
You leave the library hand in hand. James can’t meet the librarian’s eyes. Neither can you. You’re pretty sure it will only take one glance for her to know exactly what you’ve done, your hair a mess, your cheeks flushed pink.
You don’t care.