Chapter 6: The Unexpected Return
The library air was a particular kind of quiet, thick with the smell of old paper and lemon wood polish. Catriona moved through the Tuesday afternoon haze, re-shelving history biographies with automatic precision. Her body felt different today. Not sore, but marked. The memory of the living room couch, of Dave’s bewildered face hovering in the doorway while she was speared on Aidan, played behind her eyes like a film clip on a loop. Each time, a fresh, hot shame would flare, followed immediately by a slick, destabilizing thrill.
She had smiled at Dave. Actually smiled, while full of another man. The depravity of it was a stone in her stomach. And yet, her fingers, sliding a book on Tudor England into place, trembled with something that wasn’t remorse.
Her phone buzzed in her cardigan pocket.
Dave: Thinking of getting a curry tonight. Your place? Aidan in?
She stared at the text. The normality of it was an assault. Your place. It was his place too. And Aidan’s. It was the place where, less than 48 hours ago, she had been fucked so thoroughly she saw stars while her boyfriend searched for his wallet.
Catriona: Should be. Just finishing up here. X
She added the kiss automatically. A lie in a single character.
The next buzz was not Dave.
Aidan: Need you in the stacks. Non-fiction. Philosophy.
Her breath hitched. It was their code, established after the kitchen, refined after the living room. A location, a time, an instruction. The ‘Philosophy’ aisle was the most secluded, a narrow canyon of dense, unread Kierkegaard and Schopenhauer at the back of the building. It was her domain, her sanctuary. He was invading it.
Her heart began a frantic tattoo against her ribs. This was new. This was outside the flat, outside the carefully constructed bubble of their shared home. This was in her world.
She finished her cart, her hands cold. She told Marjorie at the front desk she was going to do a noise check in the quieter sections. Her heels clicked a too-loud rhythm on the linoleum before she remembered to soften her steps.
The Philosophy aisle was a tomb, lit by a single, flickering fluorescent tube. The air was cooler here, dustier. She turned the corner.
He was leaning against the shelf marked ‘Existentialism’, reading the spine of a paperback. He wore dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. He looked utterly, dangerously out of place. A predator in a gallery of dead thoughts.
“You can’t be here,” she whispered, the words barely audible.
“I needed a book.” He didn’t look up.
“Aidan.”
Finally, he slid his gaze to her. It was calm, appraising. “You’re wearing tights.”
She looked down at her own legs, sheathed in sheer, grey wool. “It’s cold.”
“Take them off.”
The command, delivered in this sacred, silent space, stole the air from her lungs. “Someone could come.”
“Marjorie is arguing with a man about late fees. The student in the carrels has headphones on. The security camera at this end has been broken for three weeks. You told me.” He put the book back. “You’re a ghost here, Cat. No one sees you. Now, take them off.”
His recall of her offhand complaints about library funding was what undid her. He listened. He planned.
Her fingers felt numb. She leaned one hand against the cool metal shelf for balance, lifted her right foot, and rolled the tights down her leg, peeling them from her skin. The air was chill on her bare thighs. She stepped out of them, bundling the grey bundle into her pocket. A ridiculous, intimate secret.
“Skirt up.”
She obeyed, gathering the hem of her A-line skirt in trembling fists, pulling it to her waist. She stared at a copy of Being and Nothingness, her cheeks burning.
He didn’t touch her at first. He just looked. His eyes traveled over the exposed curve of her hip, the thatch of blonde hair between her legs, still slightly swollen from Sunday, from Monday. His gaze was a physical touch.
“This is where you hide,” he said softly. “Among all these wise men. All these thoughts. And you’re just here, like this. Needing this.”
She closed her eyes. The truth of it was a shiver down her spine.
Then his hands were on her, turning her roughly to face the shelves. “Bend over. Hold the shelf.”
The cold metal bit into her palms. She heard the flick of his belt buckle, the rustle of denim. He didn’t waste time. He pushed her underwear aside and entered her in one smooth, devastating stroke. She gasped, biting down on her own lip to stifle the sound. Her forehead pressed against the cool books.
He set a ruthless, quiet rhythm. Each drive pushed a book deeper into its neighbors with a soft thud. The smell of dust and his sweat mixed in her nostrils. His hand clamped over her mouth, his fingers smelling faintly of motor oil and salt.
“You smiled at him,” he breathed into her ear, his voice a low, vicious rumble. “You sat there, taking me, and you smiled at your boyfriend. My dirty, perfect girl.”
The words were degradation. They were praise. They were the key that unlocked the coil of tension in her belly. The orgasm ripped through her silently, a convulsive wave that made her knees buckle. He held her up, his own release following, hot and deep, his groan muffled against her shoulder.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling with the hum of the bad light. He withdrew. She heard him fastening his jeans.
She stayed bent over, trembling, trying to piece herself back together. Her skirt fell back into place. When she turned, he was watching her, his expression unreadable. He reached out and smoothed a stray hair behind her ear, a gesture so tender it made her want to weep.
“Dave wants curry tonight,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“I know. He texted me too.” Aidan’s mouth quirked. “We’ll eat together. Like a happy little family.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Keep the tights off. All evening. You’ll sit at the table, and you’ll feel me running down your leg, and you’ll eat your korma. And you’ll smile at him again.”
He walked away, his footsteps fading into the silence of the library. Catriona slid down the bookcase to the floor, her legs unable to hold her. She pulled the rolled tights from her pocket, clutching them in her fist. The phantom sensation of him inside her pulsed with every heartbeat.
She thought of the curry, of Dave’s easy laughter, of Aidan’s steady gaze from across the table. She thought of the secret she would carry through the evening, warm and slick between her thighs.
Getting to her feet was the hardest thing she’d done all day. She smoothed her skirt, tucked her blouse, and walked back towards the front desk, leaving the ghosts of philosophy, and the ghost of the woman she’d been, behind in the stacks.