Chapter 6: The Bookstore After Hours
The lie had been easy.
Too easy, really, the way most of her lies had become since the storeroom, since the loft, since Ollie had come back into her life like a storm surge breaching a seawall she'd spent a decade building.
Scarlet stood in the kitchen of the apartment she shared with Marcus, phone pressed to her ear, watching him through the doorway. He was on the couch, laptop open, a glass of wine on the side table, scrolling through a spreadsheet of wedding venues that she was supposed to be reviewing with him tonight.
"I'm so sorry," she said into the phone, her voice pitched for performance. "The seating chart is a nightmare. Patricia wants to put my cousin Amanda next to the Hendricksons, and you know what happened at the last family reunion."
Marcus looked up. Sympathetic smile. A small wave that said don't worry about it.
Scarlet's stomach turned.
"Anyway, I'm just going to stay at the office and finish this tonight," she continued. "I know, I know. I'll make it up to you. Dinner tomorrow? That Italian place you like?"
She listened to the response—her assistant's voice on the other end of the line, bemused but playing along, because Patricia was the kind of person who understood that sometimes a woman needed an alibi.
"I'll text you when I leave. Love you too.Bye."
She hung up.
Walked into the living room.
Kissed Marcus on the cheek.
"I'll be late," she said. "Don't wait up."
"Want me to order you something? You shouldn't skip dinner."
"I'll grab something there."
He reached for her hand—a casual gesture, the kind of touch that had once felt like home and now felt like a cage. His thumb brushed over the ring on her finger. The emerald-cut diamond. The promise.
"Drive safe," he said.
"I will."
She was out the door before he could say anything else.
---
The bookstore was called The Gilded Page.
It sat on a side street in the old quarter, wedged between a coffee shop that closed at six and a vintage clothing store that never seemed to be open. The kind of place you'd walk past a hundred times without noticing, unless you knew what you were looking for.
Scarlet knew.
She'd been eighteen the first time Ollie brought her here. It had been his uncle's store then—a failing business in a failing neighborhood, kept alive by stubbornness and a dying clientele of academics and insomniac poets. Ollie had worked here on weekends, shelving books, dusting spines, and fucking her against the poetry section when the store was closed and the lights were low.
His uncle had died five years ago. Left the store to Ollie, along with a mortgage he couldn't afford and a collection of first editions worth more than the building itself.
Ollie had kept it.
She'd never asked why.
Now she parked her car two blocks away, pulled her hood up against the drizzle, and walked the rest of the way with her hands shoved in her pockets and her heart hammering against her ribs. The streetlights were dim. The rain had softened to a mist that clung to her skin and beaded on her eyelashes.
The store was dark.
She tried the front door anyway.
It opened.
The bell above the door chimed once—a soft, mournful sound—and then the silence swallowed her whole.
The Gilded Page was exactly as she remembered it. Shelves that reached nearly to the ceiling, crammed with books in no particular order. A rolling ladder that creaked when you moved it. The faint smell of old paper and leather and dust, layered over something warmer—cedar and coffee and skin. His scent.
A single light flickered behind the counter at the back.
Scarlet walked toward it.
Her footsteps were loud on the wooden floor. Too loud. She felt like an intruder, like someone trespassing in a church, like a woman about to commit a sin she'd already committed a hundred times before.
"Ollie?"
No answer.
She rounded the counter, pushed through a beaded curtain she remembered from a decade ago, and stepped into the back room.
The office was small. Cramped, really. A desk that had seen better decades, a chair that didn't match, a filing cabinet with a drawer that never closed all the way. The walls were bare brick, painted white at some point and then forgotten. A single window overlooked an alley that never saw sunlight.
And in the middle of it all, Oliver.
He was sitting on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching her with an expression she couldn't read. The light from the front of the store filtered through the beads, casting patterns on his face. Shadows and honey-gold and something darker underneath.
"You came," he said.
"You texted."
"I always text."
"You don't always text." She stopped a few feet away from him, arms crossed to match his. A defensive gesture. She knew it. He knew it. Neither of them acknowledged it. "Last time I got an address at two in the morning. This time it's just 'the store.' I'm starting to think you enjoy being cryptic."
"I enjoy watching you figure out what you want."
"I know what I want."
"Do you?"
The question hung between them.
Scarlet's jaw tightened. "I told Marcus I was working late on seating charts."
"Did you?"
"I lied to him. Again. So I could come here. Again." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "This is the third time in two weeks. Three times I've lied to the man I'm supposed to marry so I could fuck the man I can't seem to quit. What does that say about me?"
Ollie uncrossed his arms.
Pushed off the desk.
Walked toward her with the unhurried confidence of a man who'd never had to chase anything in his life.
"It says you're human," he said. "It says you're scared. It says you're trying to hold onto something that makes sense while you're drowning in something that doesn't."
"That's very poetic."
"I read a lot."
"I'm being serious."
"So am I."
He stopped in front of her. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that she could count the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Close enough that if she leaned forward just an inch, her lips would meet his.
She didn't lean forward.
She stayed exactly where she was.
"What do you want, Scarlet?"
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." Her voice cracked on the last word. She hated it. Hated how weak she sounded, how desperate, how much she wanted him to just do something so she wouldn't have to think anymore.
Ollie studied her face for a long moment.
Then he reached out.
His hand found her hip. Fingers curling around the curve of bone. Pulling her toward him. Not forceful—never forceful—but insistent. Inevitable. The way gravity pulled objects toward the center of the earth. The way rivers found the sea. The way she'd always found her way back to him, no matter how far she ran.
She went.
Her body pressed against his. Her hands found his chest. Her mouth found his mouth.
The kiss was slow at first—a question, an answer, a conversation without words. His lips moved against hers with a tenderness that made her chest ache. His hands slid up her back, under her jacket, under her shirt, pressing against bare skin.
She moaned into his mouth.
"I missed you," he murmured against her lips.
"It's been three days."
"Three days too long."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm in love."
She pulled back. Just slightly. Just enough to look at him.
"Don't," she said."Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that. You know I can't—"
"I know." He kissed her forehead. Her nose. The corner of her mouth. "But I'm going to keep saying it. Because it's true, and because you need to hear it, and because I'm done pretending like this is just sex."
Her throat tightened.
"It is just sex."
"No, it's not."
"It has to be."
"Why?"
"Because the alternative—" She stopped.Swallowed. "The alternative is that I have to make a choice. And I can't. I can't choose, Ollie. I can't lose you. But I can't lose him either. He's—he's good. He's stable. He's everything I'm supposed to want."
"And what do you actually want?"
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Because the answer was standing right in front of her, with his hands on her waist and his heart beating against her chest and his eyes looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Ollie kissed her again.
This time, there was no hesitation. No gentleness. This time, his mouth claimed hers with a hunger that left no room for questions. His tongue slid against hers, hot and demanding, and his hands moved with purpose—unbuttoning her jeans, pushing them down her hips, sliding his fingers between her legs.
She gasped against his mouth.
"You're already wet," he said.
"I've been wet since I got in the car."
"Fuck."
The word came out as a growl. He spun her around—fast, sudden, the way he'd done a thousand times before—and bent her over the desk.
Her palms hit the wood. Her cheek followed. She felt the cold surface against her skin, smelled the dust and paper and old ink, and underneath all of it, him.
Ollie's body covered hers.
His chest against her back. His hips against her ass. His mouth at her ear.
"You know what I think about," he said, "when I'm alone here? When I'm closing up the store and the lights are off and the whole place is quiet?"
"What?"
"This desk." His hand slid down her side, over her hip, between her legs. His fingers found her clit and circled it slowly. "This exact desk. Because the first time I ever touched you—really touched you—was right here. You were eighteen and wearing that stupid sundress, the one with the little flowers, and I couldn't stop staring at your legs."
Scarlet's breath hitched.
"I remember," she whispered.
"You were sitting on this desk, pretending to read some poetry collection I'd recommended, and I knew—I knew—you weren't actually reading anything. You were waiting for me to make a move."
"I was."
"And I did."
His fingers pushed inside her.
She cried out, her back arching, her hips pressing back against him. He curled his fingers upward, finding that spot, working it with a precision that made her see stars.
"I bent you over this desk," he continued, his voice low and rough in her ear, "and I pulled your dress up to your waist, and I fucked you with my fingers until you came so hard you couldn't stand. And then I got on my knees and I ate you out until you came again."
"Ollie—"
"And then, when you were completely spent, when your legs were shaking and your voice was hoarse from screaming my name, I fucked you properly. Right here. Balls deep. Until you forgot your own name."
She remembered.
God, she remembered.
Her fingers clawing at the desk. His hands gripping her hips. The sound of their bodies slapping together in the quiet store. The way he'd groaned when he came inside her. The way she'd stayed bent over that desk for ten minutes afterward, because her legs wouldn't hold her.
"Fuck me," she said. "Ollie—fuck me.Please."
He pulled his fingers out.
She heard the rustle of fabric—his jeans, unzipping. Heard the wet sound of him spitting into his palm. Felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against her entrance.
"Tell me what you want."
"You. Inside me. Now."
"Say it again."
"I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me. I want—"
He slid into her.
One long, slow stroke that filled her completely. She felt every inch of him—the stretch, the pressure, the way his cock curved inside her, hitting places that made her legs shake.
She moaned.
He didn't move.
Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, his breath hot against her neck.
"Feel that?"he said. "Feel how deep I am? How there's nowhere left for you to go?"
"Yes—"
"You're not running anymore. You're not hiding. You're here, on my desk, in my store, with my cock inside you. And I'm going to make sure you remember this."
He pulled out slowly.
Then slammed back in.
The desk creaked. The sound of their bodies colliding filled the small room—skin against skin, wet and hot and obscene. His hands gripped her hips, yanking her back to meet every thrust, and the rhythm he set was brutal.
But not fast.
No. He fucked her slow and deep, each stroke driving him as far inside her as he could go. Withdrawal that dragged against every sensitive nerve ending. Reentry that punched the air from her lungs.
"You feel so good," he groaned. "So fucking tight. Like you were made for me."
Scarlet couldn't respond.
Couldn't do anything but hold onto the desk and take it. Take everything he gave her. Take the pleasure that built in her core like a wildfire, spreading through her body, consuming every thought that wasn't him.
"You want to know what I think about when I'm done?" he asked. "When you leave and I'm alone and I can still smell you on my sheets?"
"What?"
"I think about filling you up."
Her heart stopped.
"I think about coming inside you," he continued, his voice dropping even lower. "About pumping you full of me. About keeping you here—in this store, in this room, on this desk—where you belong."
"That's—"
"Crazy? Maybe." He thrust deeper, harder. "But it's the truth. I want to fill you up, Scarlet. I want to mark you. I want you to walk around this city with my come dripping down your thighs, remembering who you belong to."
"Ollie—"
"You think Marcus could do this? You think he could make you feel like this?"
"No—"
"He doesn't even know you." Another thrust. Deeper. "He doesn't know that you like it rough. That you like being held down. That you come so hard you cry when someone fucks you right."
The tears were already there.
Spilling down her cheeks.
Mixing with the sweat on her face.
"He doesn't know that you're twisted and messy and broken," Ollie said. "But I do. I've always known. And I'm the only one who loves you anyway."
She sobbed.
Not from sadness.
From relief.
From the sheer, overwhelming weight of being seen—truly seen—by someone who knew every ugly, hidden part of her and wanted her anyway.
"I love you," she gasped.
He groaned.
The sound was raw and animal and desperate. His rhythm faltered—just for a second—and then he was fucking her harder, faster, all that careful slowness abandoned.
"Say it again."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you—I love you—fuck—"
He reached around her, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough circles while he pounded into her from behind. The combination was too much—the fullness of him inside her, the pressure of his fingers, the heat of his body covering hers.
She came.
Screaming his name.
Clenching around his cock.
Her whole body convulsing, the orgasm ripping through her like a current, leaving her shaking and boneless and gasping for air.
Ollie followed a heartbeat later.
She felt him swell inside her—felt the first pulse of his release—felt him pour into her with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his soul. His hips stuttered. His hands tightened on her hips hard enough to bruise.
And then he collapsed onto her back.
His weight pressing her into the desk. His breath ragged against her neck. His cock softening inside her but still, somehow, impossibly, there.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
Scarlet didn't know.
She lay there, cheek against the wood, listening to the sound of his breathing slowly return to normal. The rain had stopped—or maybe it hadn't. She couldn't hear anything beyond the rush of blood in her ears.
"Scarlet."
"Hmm."
"You okay?"
"I'm—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know what I am."
He pulled out slowly.
The loss of him was physical—a drop in pressure, a sudden emptiness. She felt his come start to leak out of her, dripping down her thighs, and she knew she should care. Knew she should be panicking about the implications, the possible outcomes, the fact that they hadn't used a condom in years and she hadn't thought to ask.
She couldn't care.
Not right now.
Ollie helped her stand. Turned her around. Cupped her face in his hands and kissed her—soft and gentle, the way he always did after being rough.
"I've got you," he murmured.
"I know."
"I'm not letting go."
"I know."
He pulled her into his arms. Held her. And she stood there, naked from the waist down, her thighs slick with his come, and let him hold her.
The store was quiet.
The city hummed beyond the walls.
And somewhere, in an apartment across town, Marcus was scrolling through wedding venues, waiting for a woman who was never going to be his.
Scarlet closed her eyes.
And for the first time in weeks, she felt something terrifying and unmistakable and entirely her own.
Peace.
"I love you," Ollie whispered.
She didn't say it back.
But she didn't pull away either.