Chapter 1: Forbidden Fantasies
The air in the far back corner of the Shelton Public Library was always several degrees cooler, and it smelled distinctly of crumbling paper, old leather bindings, and something else—something like slow, quiet time. Willow liked it back here. The fantasy and sci-fi section was her domain, a fortress of towering shelves that cast long, skeletal shadows in the dim light of a single, perpetually flickering fluorescent bulb.
She was tucked into her usual spot, a nest she’d made on the worn burgundy carpet between the ‘R’ and ‘S’ authors. A Melanie Rawn novel lay open in her lap, but she wasn’t really reading. Her finger absently traced the raised letters on the spine. In her mind, she wasn’t Willow in a beige cardigan and loose jeans; she was the flame-haired sorceress on the cover, her wrist currently locked in the grip of the mercenary captain, Jace. He was all rugged planes and simmering intensity, his calloused hands pinning her against a stone wall in a forgotten keep, his breath hot on her neck.
A flush crept up from her collar, warm and unmistakable. She squeezed her thighs together, the soft corduroy of her jeans whispering in the silent aisle. God, she could almost feel the scrape of his stubble.
God, she could almost feel the scrape of his stubble.
The fantasy evaporated, leaving her slumped against the shelf. Never gonna happen, she thought, the familiar, rueful sigh deflating her chest. Her body felt abruptly, disappointingly present. The soft, slightly pudgy reality of it. She glanced down at herself, at the comfortable swell of her stomach under the washed-thin cotton of her t-shirt, the way her jeans hugged a waist that was more suggestion than definition. She was built for comfort, not for spectacle. Her breasts, freed from the constriction of anything more structured than a simple cotton bra, were floppy, pillowy things. Unremarkable. Yet the skin there was traitorously sensitive; the mere brush of her own cardigan sleeve could sometimes make her breath hitch, a private, embarrassing fact.
In the sealed quiet of the stacks, she let the daydream shift and morph, turning truly wanton. It wasn’t Jace the fantasy captain anymore. It was her, Willow, but not. She saw herself in a chemise of sheer linen, laced scandalously tight over those same sensitive breasts, but much larger, firm, the outlines of her nipples visible against the fabric as she served ale in a raucous Tudor-era tavern. She saw herself as a courtesan in some silk-hung aerie, her body not hidden but artfully displayed, her softness not a flaw but a lure, her quietness not shyness but a poised and knowing silence. She imagined the weight of a customer’s gaze, not as a judgment, but as a kind of heat. The fantasy was vivid, detailed, and utterly pathetic. A lonely librarian playing dress-up in the dark theater of her own mind.
A lonely librarian playing dress-up in the dark theater of her own mind. But the curtain wasn’t falling. This time, the lights burned hotter. The details crystallized, sharp as broken glass.
In her head, the tavern was loud, smoky, real. The air tasted of spilled ale and woodfire. And she was different. Not just in costume. Her body was a revelation. The softness was gone, replaced by a taut, curved strength. Her breasts were heavy and full, straining the laces of her chemise, her nipples hard little points that brushed rough fabric with every movement. Her hips swung with a confident sway as she moved between tables, carrying tankards. She felt powerful in this skin. She liked the looks. She met them.
He was in the corner, a slab of a man in worn leathers, a nasty scar cutting through his stubble from eyebrow to jaw. His eyes tracked her, dark and assessing. Not like Jace, with friendly manner and athletic butt. This man’s gaze was colder, dirtier. Real.
She brought him an ale. “You look like you’ve fought a war,” she said, her voice lower than her own, a husky thing.
“I have,” he grunted, not taking the drink, just looking at her. “You look like a distraction.”
“Maybe I am.” She leaned over to place the tankard on the table, letting him look down her chemise. Her nipples tightened as she felt his stare, his hand beginning to move on its own. But she danced back out of reach, flouncing her skirt as she threaded her way back through the dense tavern crowd, certain his eyes were following the whole way.
She didn't return for 20 minutes, his ale long since drained, his jaw set in a grim line. She took his order for another, deliberately brushing her heavy breast against his shoulder as she reached down to retrieve the flagon. She felt his hand snake up her thigh, seeking the heat between her legs that she could barely control. His tough, calloused hand made her shiver, imagining his thick fingers parting her soaking wet lips, pressing inside her desperate tunnel...
But being fucked raw over the table in her place of business wouldn't do. She pushed his hand down, but before he could protest, met his gaze squarely and gestured, with the barest hint of a head tilt, towards the back door. Then she stepped away, dirty glass in hand and slick need between her legs.
He was there before she was, a broad shadow against the dirty brick. The sounds of the tavern were muffled here, replaced by the drip of a leaky gutter and the distant shouts of the city. He didn’t speak. He just grabbed her, spun her, and pressed her front against the cold wall. One big hand palmed her breast through the linen, squeezing roughly. She gasped, arching back into him.
“Eager bitch,” he muttered into her hair. His other hand shoved the skirts of her simple dress up, yanking her smallclothes down to her knees. His fingers found her cunt, already slick and hot. He pushed two inside without ceremony, working them in and out. “Fuck, you’re dripping for it.”
She reached back, fumbling at the laces of his breeches. She got them open, felt him spring free. He was thick, heavy, veined. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking the hard, hot length, her thumb smearing the bead of wetness at the tip.
“Enough,” he growled. He knocked her hand away, positioned himself, and drove into her with one brutal, shoving thrust.
The air left her lungs in a punched-out sound. He was huge, stretching her, filling her utterly. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He just started fucking her, hard and deep, his hips slamming her into the wall with each drive. The rough brick scraped her cheek. His grip on her hips was bruising. Each impact jolted through her, a raw, animal pounding.
“Take it,” he grunted, his rhythm ruthless. “Take that cock, you tavern slut.”
She was so fucking wet for him. The crude words, the sheer physical domination of it, sent dizzying sparks through her. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, a moan tearing from her throat. She could feel everything—the coarse weave of his breeches against her bare ass, the slap of skin, the primal heat coiling deep in her belly. He fucked her like he was taking what was his, and she loved it, she came around him with a ragged cry, her cunt clamping down on his driving cock. He swore, his pace faltering, then buried himself to the hilt with a final, grinding thrust, his release pumping into her, hot and claiming.
Willow’s eyes flew open. She was in the library office, in her rolling chair, her cardigan on the floor. Her hand was under the waistband of her jeans, her fingers slick and buried inside herself. She’d been rubbing frantic, desperate circles against her clit, her hips rocking slightly against her own hand. The fantasy had been so vivid, so fucking visceral, she was almost there, a tight, aching knot about to—
The door clicked open.
“Willow? You still here? I think the circ desk printer is— oh.”
Marnie from Children’s stood in the doorway, her key lanyard dangling. Her eyes took in the scene: Willow, flushed, disheveled, hand frozen guiltily in her lap.
“Hi!” Willow’s voice was a strangled chirp. She yanked her hand out, wiping it surreptitiously on the side of her chair. “Yeah. Just… finishing up some notes. Long day.”
“Right.” Marnie’s smile was tight, knowing. “Well, the printer’s jammed again. But I’ll just… use the one upstairs. Have a good night.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence roared back in.
Willow slumped, a groan of utter frustration dying in her throat. Her body was a live wire. Her cunt was throbbing, wet, desperately unfinished. The delicious coil of tension was still there, now a maddening ache. She pressed her thighs together, but it was no use. The need was a physical itch under her skin, hot and insistent.
She got up on shaky legs, pulling her clothes straight. She could still smell her own arousal, a sweet, musk in the sterile office air. She grabbed her cardigan, her bag, fumbling with her keys. The library was a tomb around her as she hurried out, turning off lights.
Outside, the early evening air was cool. She walked to her old Civic, the seatbelt feeling tight across her still-tense body. She started the engine but just sat there, hands on the wheel. Her pulse hadn’t slowed. Between her legs, a steady, dull ache promised a long, restless night. She had no plan, no outlet, just this buzzing, frustrated energy humming in her veins, a story interrupted at the worst possible moment.