FIVE
Reese - 5 weeks later
If I got one more request to order in that godawful book, I was going to scream. Not because people wanted to read. I loved that people still wanted to pick up pages and escape within them. That was awesome. I hoped I never stopped seeing that enthusiasm.
And, in general, I wasn't a book snob at all.
I read all genres from YA to romance to mystery to classics. I didn't spend a lot of time on horror simply because I never liked blood and gore, but I knew plenty of people found catharsis in that.
It was just, ugh, that book was so badly written.
It lowered the standard for all other books.
It was, well, cringy.
I physically cringed while reading it.
"Just give them what they want," Cy said from where he was perched on the long, low, curved, cherry wood circulation desk. Where I had repeatedly told him not to plant his butt every single time he dropped in. Which was at least twice a week. For the past month.
Apparently, I had an actual, real-life best friend.
That alone was beyond new for me. I don't ever recall having any tight friendships. In school I was shy and a bit nerdy, always keeping to myself during recess. After school, well, Mom generally kept a really close eye on us, or when she wasn't around, my grandmother or aunts. We weren't exactly around to just head out and try to find new after school friends. It wasn't a good area for girls to be walking around alone. Even as a kid I understood that.
Besides, books seemed better than the catty, back-handed meanness I saw a lot with the other kids at school.
As I got older, well, friendships were simply not easy to make as adults. I had the casual acquaintances I had made from the book clubs through the library, but no actual people I went out to eat or to see movies with or anything like that.
I never knew what I was missing out on either.
But, let me tell you, this having a friend thing was pretty cool.
I had always maybe figured that someone calling or texting and asking me to hang out was going to be a nuisance. I mean, what if I was in the middle of a really good chapter? Or only had one-hundred pages left, and wanted to power through?
Except, oddly, I found that whenever my phone rang, and I picked it up and heard, "Yo, angel face, what are you up to?" I almost always answered with 'nothing' even if I was in the middle of a war and my hero was critically wounded. Yes, even then, I put a bookmark in the page - because I wasn't some animal who dog-eared their precious paperbacks - got dressed, and met up with him.
I will admit that the first trip out or two, or maybe even three, had been a bit awkward. Or, maybe it would be fair to say they were somewhat awkward for me. Cyrus, well, he didn't seem to have an awkward bone in his body. Meanwhile, all two-hundred-and-six bones in my body were straight up awkward as could be. I fumbled for topics of conversation, relying a bit too heavily on book references, and maybe tripping over my words a bit.
Eventually though, and this was likely thanks to Cy's laid-back ease and confidence, things just sort of fell into place.
So far, we had been to The Creamery three times, out to dinner a couple towns over twice as much, to the movies, and several times, to the bookstore.
We hadn't seen each other's places yet though, except him seeing the outside of my apartment building when he picked me up occasionally. That was just not something we even discussed. I think, though he didn't say as much, that he was kind of trying to get me out of the house more, take me places, get me a little more comfortable with social interactions. When we went places, he made sure he struck up a conversation with a person or two, including me with it, coaxing me out of my shell little by little.
And, miracle of all miracles, it seemed to actually be working a bit. Sure, I'd never been some social butterfly. Also, possibly I only ever felt comfortable with it because he was there to jump in if things got awkward or the conversation got stale, but it was still nice to not feel like I was choking on my own tongue when I tried to interact with people outside of work.
It was nice.
An improvement.
Thanks to Cyrus.
We actually didn't have any plans to hang out after work tonight, but he would occasionally drop into the library if he was bored. It was just a short walk from the compound after all.
That was another place that had a seemingly unspoken 'do not enter' attached to it. He didn't invite me, not even when there were parties going on.
I would say I didn't think twice about this. But I thought twice. And thrice. And fifty-millionth.
Why?
Well, that was a good question.
He was my friend.
And friends sometimes went to parties without you. You know, like when it is with other friends that you don't know and possibly might not like. That kind of thing.
It shouldn't have bugged me.
Friends did things like that, and it was no big deal.
See, the problem was, even in my own darn head, when I thought of Cy, I had to make sure the word 'friend' was italicized, emphasized, blown up into huge neon letters, floating over my brain like a city billboard.
Because, well, I was having decidedly not-friendlike thoughts about Cyrus. It was pretty much constantly too.
It was almost innocent at first.
When he smiled, I focused too much on how his face lit up, how his eyes danced. When he laughed, the sound seemed to move through me, seemed to root somewhere inside.
Then, well, it became not so innocent.
Like when he would touch my arm, and it sent off these electric sparks. Or, once, when he was doing this creepy Hannibal Lecter thing and brushed by hair, and a shiver moved through my insides. And, more and more often, when he pulled out the pet names - which he did often - that did this fluttery thing to my stomach.
Then, well, the natural progression was that he was invading my dreams. And that some of the heroes in the books I was reading - ones that had gotten suspiciously more smutty since he came into the picture - his face would pop up on the hero's face.
And maybe - just maybe - at night, when the sexual frustration was so oppressive that it was actually a heaviness on my lower stomach, well, it was him I thought about when I reached into my nightstand for some relief.
I had read enough YA and romance novels to recognize it when it happened.
A crush.
I had a mega, ultra, can't-go-five-minutes-without-thinking-about-him, crush on Cyrus.
I wanted to believe it was simply because he was the only non-family, non-elderly, non-friend-of-one-of-my-brothers men I had been around in, well, almost years. But the longer I was with him, the more I got to know him, the less I felt that way.
It was a genuine crush, not a by-default kind of thing.
Because Cyrus wasn't a typical alpha a-hole biker.
Cyrus actually had some surprising layers.
And he was a genuinely, all-around good guy.
It was hard not to have a little - or epic - thing for that kind of man.
Even if his boots were getting mud on the front of the circulation desk yet again.
"I don't want to dumb down these poor women!" I objected to his comment about giving them what they wanted.
"Eh, so they read one crappy book where her pussy is referred to as 'down there' like some teenager."
"Shh!" I whisper yelled at him, looking frantically around even though it was a Friday night, and literally no one was ever in the library. And he responded in true Cyrus fashion, giving me one of those big, amused smiles of his. Almost as if, I don't know, he found something I said cute? But maybe that was just me projecting my thoughts onto him. "How do you even know that?" I added, knowing I darn sure hadn't used a term such as 'down there' in front of him before, no matter how much he threw around the p-word.
"Maze was telling Bethany about it. Apparently, she read it. And you did too," he added, smirk going downright devilish. "You dirty little smut-reader, you."
Oh, he had no idea.
I had delved deep into smut. I had my daddy doms, my sadists, my May/December, MM, my MFM, my toys, my sex clubs. There wasn't a single more mainstream kink that you could mention that I hadn't read, or at least had saved on my TBR.
"So, what is she reading today, I wonder," he asked, reaching behind him on the desk for the pile I put there.
I thought nothing of it really, thinking I had packed some Charlotte Bronte, having felt a bit in an angsty, melancholy mood that morning, deciding I needed me some star-crossed Heathcliff and Catherine.
So I was looking down at the order form I had on my clipboard, paying him very little attention for a short moment.
That was until he opened his mouth to speak again.
Except he wasn't speaking; he was reading.
A book that was decidedly not Wuthering Heights.
Oh.
Good.
God.
No.
No freaking way did I pack that one.
That one was one of my forbidden ones. You know, the ones that don't ever leave my apartment because they were just that raunchy that I didn't want to be caught reading them. I mean, there was a naked man on the cover. And, no, I don't mean some wind-gusted-my-white-tunic-open-Fabio cover. I mean the bottom of the cover cut off so low that you could see hair and his adonis muscles were practically pointing toward, well, you know.
How could I have possibly put that book out on my desk? Where my coworkers might see! And probably had. Oh, holy, well, shit. This was definitely a time where 'shit' was a warranted word.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
"'With my ass fully plugged, Denver bent me over the desk in my office, admiring his handiwork, the bright red handprints that had to have been marring the pale white skin of my cheeks. I tried to turn my head to look at him, to see his black eyes, the way his jaw got tight when he was imagining fucking me, like I had seen so many times before. But his hand slammed down on the back of my neck, holding me in place. A long, tense moment passed of him just staring at me before, suddenly, his finger flicked the hot pink plug buried deep in my ass, sending an unexpected surge of desire through my system, making my pussy even wetter than it already was, something I didn't even think was possible.
'Tell me you want my cock buried in your wet cunt, Eva,' he demanded, making my hips buck up toward him in silent invitation as his hand moved from the back of my neck to slip into my hair, sliding down the strands until he was halfway down, knowing it hurt more there, knowing how much I liked that. Then yanking hard enough to make me arch as far as my body would allow.
Denver didn't like to be kept waiting.
Or to be disobeyed.
Or even to give me his real goddamn name.
But I didn't need to know his name to know I wanted his giant cock stretching me as I..."
Cy's voice trailed off, his eyes rising from the page to find mine, making him look taken aback for a long moment.
"Baby, I'm going to need you to stop looking at me like that."
I didn't need to question how I was looking at him.
The second he started reading, my breathing got heavy, labored; my eyes got heavy-lidded; my breasts swelled; my clit throbbed.
I was nothing to more turned-on than I had ever been in my life in a matter of seconds.
The scene was hot, sure, but it wasn't just that.
It was Cyrus reading it to me.
It was, yeah, it was effective.
Let's leave it at that.
But I couldn't let on.
I didn't want to ruin what we had.
I had begun to, well, need to have him around.
You know, as a friend.
A friend, I reminded myself.
"Like what?" I asked, hoping that the breathlessness I heard was not as obvious to him as it was to me.
The book closed, but stayed in his hand as he slid off the desk. In doing so, the fronts of his toes touched mine; his body was barely more than a whisper from mine from feet to my head. I swear I didn't sway slightly.
Okay, fine.
I totally swayed.
But only slightly.
"Like you want me to bend you over this desk, grab you by the hair, and sink my cock into your tight pussy."
I climaxed.
Okay. Not really.
But it was close.
It was literally as close as you could get without it actually happening.
That was the kind of reaction this man brought out of me.
I swear it was practically supernatural.
I had never experienced anything even remotely like it before.
And, for once, there was nothing lighthearted, jocular, or teasing about Cy. He wasn't smiling or giving me the wiggly eyebrows he sometimes did when he brought up sex.
No.
His seaglass eyes were deeper than I had ever seen them before, intense and - dare I say it - smoldering?
With a mind of its own, my body responded with a deep, pre-orgasm tightening in my core, strong enough that I felt my eyes get even smaller, my lips parting slightly.
"Fuck," he hissed, shutting his eyes, and tilting his head up to look at the ceiling. It was a long moment before his head lowered again, his eyes open and on mine, and not a bit less promising than they had been a moment before.
My air caught in my chest as his hand raised slowly, as it hovered for a second, then moved outward like he was - swoon of all swoons - going to frame my face with it.
No one had ever framed my face before.
Or did that, grab the chin to angle your head up to kiss you thing either.
All that stuff the hunky dudes did in books that no one ever seemed to do in real life. At least not in my real life.
"Ree!" a voice called suddenly, making my eyes go huge as I jerked almost violently back.
At Cy's questioning look, I reached up to rub a hand over my throat which felt oddly constricted. "Kenzi," I offered, making his face go a bit serious.
See, Cyrus was, well, my dirty little secret.
Why?
That was a good question.
Maybe a part of it, even a big part of it, was due to the fact that Cyrus was a Henchmen, that every single person in my life would flip out over that fact, would pitch a fit, might even go and threaten him or something like that.
The other part, though, was actually almost a selfishness. I wanted to keep him, and the strange, but fully functional, thing we had going to myself. I didn't want outside input. I didn't want to have to tell our stories that were ours alone. I didn't want someone else shouldering in.
I wanted him all to my onesies.
I mean, of course, I couldn't actually have that.
I shared Cy with all his brothers, his friends, his family, his - ugh - hoards of female admirers.
But for me, he was a happy little part of my life I kept fully to myself.
As if somehow sensing this, Cy turned and disappeared just seconds before Kenz came into view.
And, being this was Kenz, she was dressed like she stepped out of a magazine. She had on tight, high-waisted gray-wash jeans with six shiny silver buttons, a tucked in white tee - despite the fact that it was winter outside - six-inch camel-colored booties, and a purse to match. Her hair, makeup, and accessories were as flawless as they always were too, even after a full day at work.
She stopped a few feet away, looking me up and down, as she always did, and shaking her head, again, as she always did.
Kenzi was personally offended by leggings, oversized sweaters, and ballet flats.
Given that her job was fashion, I guess she would know more than I would. She dressed for that, for looks. Me, well, I dressed mostly for comfort. And in whatever hid my butt the best. Hence the long sweaters. I could get away with them in the fall, winter, and spring, leaving only summer the time of year when I struggled.
When her gaze went to my face, though, her brows drew together. "Are you sick, Ree?"
"Sick? No. Why?"
"You're all flushed," she said, going over to take up the spot Cyrus had vacated.
At the thought of his name, a pang went off inside.
Cyrus.
With molten eyes.
Calling me 'baby' which he had never used on me before. It was always 'honey,' 'sweets,' 'angel,' or 'angel face.' Never, ever 'baby.' 'Baby' was for men to use with lovers, right?
And I would swear, swear, he was going to kiss me.
Right?
Then maybe, you know, a whole heck of a lot more.
"Whoa, there it is again," she said, looking concerned as she hopped up, moving toward me, and reaching out to touch the side of my neck. Our mother always tested our temperature there instead of our foreheads. It kind of just stuck. "You're warm, Ree," she said, looking even more concerned.
"I'm just... it's warm in here," I covered, shrugging.
"It's like The Abominable Snowman's balls in here," she corrected, making a surprised snort burst out of me. "Seriously, though. You might be coming down with something. How long till you close up?"
I looked over above the desk at the clock that had been there since the library first opened, an ornate, wrought iron thing that I adored. "Twenty minutes."
"Order some soup to pick up on the way home," she suggested, going for her phone. "Actually, I'll do it. And I'll have them deliver. Want anything else with that?"
An icepack for my lady bits, perhaps?
"From where?"
"Abby's," she supplied, naming a place we had been ordering from since it opened six months before because the menu was a unique blend of just about anything you could want at any given time, and had the distinction in our town of being open twenty-four/seven.
"An apple turnover and some of that hibiscus green tea."
"Okay. Ordered," she said, doing it on the app since it wasn't an actual restaurant. It was delivery only, and serviced fully through an app, which was why I liked it so much; I never had to talk to anyone except the delivery guy who cared more about my tip than any small talk. "Are you stuffy or anything?"
"No."
"Hm. Maybe it's coming. Take some Vitamin C when you get in too," she said as she hopped off the desk. "I am running late to meet Tig, but I wanted to check in on you, see how you're doing. You've been a bit off-the-grid lately."
"Oh, I've just been... going out a bit more," I hedged. "Movies and such," I added, not wanting her to ask with whom.
"Oh, well that's good, Ree. Glad you're not holed up all the time in your apartment. Alright. I will call to check on you tomorrow to see if you're still feeling alright," she said, touching my neck again before running out.
So, okay.
I totally looked for him.
I'm not even embarrassed to admit that.
His departure was abrupt and unlike him.
And, well, I had to walk the library from one end to the other anyway before I closed up.
"You alright, Miss Washington?" Bradley, the sixty-seven-year-old volunteer asked as he found me maybe, well, checking all the already locked rooms.
Of all our volunteers, Bradley was my favorite. He was tall and willowy with a mostly balding head, which he refused to acknowledge, just kept combing over the five hairs he had left to 'cover' it. He had eyeglasses that I'd swear were an inch thick, and made his green eyes look enormous. He was the only volunteer that was willing to work nights, which I rotated with one of the other librarians. And he was fun company, always going on and on about his crazy grandkids and how they talked in tongues (slang) that he didn't understand.
"Yeah, yeah. Fine. I thought I, ah, saw someone come this way, but they must have come back and left without my noticing."
There was no mistaking the sinking feeling in my chest when Bradley - the old gentleman he was - walked me to my car in the half-darkened lot, like his frail self could in any way protect me if there was a threat. It was still unbearably sweet nonetheless. But as I got closer, I realized Cy wasn't waiting for me like I had maybe been hoping.
"Have yourself a lovely night, Miss Washington," he told me as he moved two spots over toward his car.
With a sigh, I climbed into my car and headed back to my apartment, even though I kind of wanted to drive around and mope. I had a delivery man to meet. And an evening to replay over and over and freaking over until it drove me half-mad.
I ate my soup, watching my phone like it might light up at any moment, like he would call or text and be his usual light-hearted self, shrug it off, call it the side effects of a sexy book read aloud in a semi-private place.
But he didn't call.
He didn't text.
Not that night.
Or the next.
Or the next.
My heart started aching somewhere around a week of no contact.
And it didn't stop.
No matter how many book boyfriends I tried to start having a thing with.
Operative word being tried.
I ended up having to quit romance and YA, moving instead to moody attempts to be the 'novel of a generation.'
They distracted.
But not enough.
Nope.
This was one instance in my life when not even fiction helped.