Chapter Thirteen
The tinkle of the doorway bell echoed loudly in the empty bookshop. Clara locked the front door behind her, pulled the key to the back room from its hook behind the counter, then stepped slowly toward the glowing light beneath the red door. In the darkness, the bookshelves loomed over her. She’d nearly reached the door when something collided with her ankle. She squeaked and jumped back, knocking into the cookbooks.
“Mew?” Lulu butted her furry head against her mistress’s leg.
Clara clutched her jacket over her heart and, when she could breathe again, laughed aloud.
“You scared me, Puss-face.” She stooped to pick up the cat, who settled, purring, against her shoulder.
“Harry must’ve left the light on, eh?” Comforted by the cat’s weight and warmth, she inserted the key and opened the red door.
It swung open at her touch, easy, smooth. Still, she hesitated on the threshold. Nothing had changed back here—nothing visible, anyway. The Victorian lampshade Jared found at an estate sale shed a warm pink light, giving the little chamber a womb-like coziness. All she had to do was grasp the fat silk tassel hanging beside the door and tug to turn off the light. No big deal. Yet she froze there lost in memories.
Lulu mewed and rubbed her silky head against Clara’s ear, then hopped down and sashayed over to the S-curved conversation settee. She sprung up onto the seat and sprawled, staring.
“Rrrrowrrrmmmrrrrp.”
“Okay, fine. But just for a minute.” Clara settled onto the other side and reached over the curved seat back to rub the cat’s warm, fluffy belly. She remembered Jared’s chuckle. “This’ll prevent couples from getting carried away by the racy books.” It was true—they’d tried. The conversation seat was far too uncomfortable for acting out fantasies inspired by the erotica collection. Still, the worn velvet upholstery was warm and inviting beneath her hand.
In the capricious way of cats, Lulu hopped down and strolled out of the room.
“I see how it is,” Clara called after her. “Lure me in and then abandon me.”
In a whisper, she added, “Thank you.”
It took a cat’s invitation to help her cross that threshold. And really, staying away from this room was silly. Thanks to the erotica collection, the shop’s reputation spread beyond Eugene, beyond Oregon, even. She really ought to pull on her big-girl panties and make the most of it.
She stood and turned slowly, taking a mental inventory. Despite Nick’s recent purchases, the floor-to-ceiling shelves were still mostly full. Jared cultivated so many connections with collectors and suppliers, new books arrived regularly to replace those they sold.
She walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, trailing her forefinger over the spines of the books, as if tracing the ribs of a lover through his flesh. Letting her sense of touch guide her, she stopped at a thick, leather-bound volume, the gold-inked title nearly worn away by time and handling.
Pick me, it whispered.
She eased the book from the shelf, surprised by its weight. The cover of textured russet leather was worn smooth at the corners from much handling, the title barely legible: Erotic Art of Ancient Greece. She slid her fingers inside and explored the smooth, swirled end papers, tracing the hypnotic whorls with her fingertips. The edges of the pages, velvety from much handling, still glimmered with gold leaf. Someone had crafted this beautiful book with love.
She sat again, kicked off her boots, and curled her feet beneath her. While she slowly turned the pages, the strangest sensation dance over her skin—a warmth, a presence, as if Jared were there looking over her shoulder.
The illustrations were mostly photos of ancient Greek frescoes, amphorae, and urns, painted with images of handsome, well-muscled men and graceful women captured in moments of passion. Here, a slim maiden clambered atop a beardless youth seated on a chair, his erection pointing upward in anticipation. The next image showed a black plate painted in gold. In the center, a muscular, bearded man stood to penetrate a woman sprawled on a couch, her head thrown back in ecstasy, a dildo complete with a pair of balls held aloft in her hand. From behind, he penetrated himself with a similar dildo. A little shiver danced through her at the sight.
A bas-relief sculpture on the next page showed a young man reclining on a couch with a woman stretched atop him, while a bearded man penetrated her from behind. Another urn portrayed a trio of men stacked one behind the other, having a very good time, judging from their half-closed eyes and gasping mouths. And here was a grinning satyr preparing to mount a gazelle, who gazed back at him tenderly.
The images swam before Clara’s eyes. Both fascinated and unnerved, she turned page after page. The room became warm, close. She opened the top buttons of her blouse and let her hand stray inside, remembering how often Jared pulled her into this room for a stolen caress. Her fingers brushed feather-light over the sensitive skin at the top of her breasts.
How long? Though he visited in her dreams, it had been a year since she’d felt Jared’s touch on her body. And even though guilt gnawed her, she longed for that sensation again. Was she ready to bare her heart, or even just her skin, to a flesh-and-blood man? Would she ever be ready?
She let the book slide down and closed her eyes. From the other side of the settee, she sensed Jared’s presence, his breath on her throat, his hand guiding hers over her body, down to her thighs, then back up to brush over her nipples, exquisitely sensitive. She knew she was dreaming, sliding into a heady mix of fantasy and memory, but it felt so real, so good.
“You are more beautiful than any work of art in this room.” His voice rumbled in her ear, a whisper of memory. Her fingertips slid lower, stroking down the tender inside of one thigh, then up the other. She fell back, stretched out against the padded seatback, squirming, and sliding under the memory of his touch. It was as if he were right there with her—his warmth, his weight, the whisper of his breath against her throat.
Her fingers slid over the seam of her jeans, pressing the rough cloth against her clit. A tingling ache was building there, hot and sweet and urgent.
“Give yourself to me, Clara. Let me take you there.” Jared’s shadow moved over her, his strong, muscled arm over her belly, guiding her hand. She slid her hips forward, her free hand still clasping the book’s cover, the soft leather warm like living skin. She tensed her legs, reaching for release, her slick core aching, pulsing, and then…
A hard knock on the shop’s front door.
Too late, she tipped over the edge. Her body convulsed in climax. Electric shivers danced from her center, up and down and everywhere. She had no choice but to ride out the sensation, gasping, biting her lips to stifle her cries of delight. When her breath finally slowed, she listened. The red door stood open just a crack. No one could have seen her back here. And the knocking had stopped.
“Thank God.” In no state to face an after-hours visitor, she rebuttoned her blouse and rose, unsteadily, to her feet.
Just to be sure the intruder was gone, she opened the red door just wide enough to peek around its edge. The front lights were off, as she’d left them, but the streetlight outside revealed the silhouette of a tall man peering in through the glass door. Her heartbeat broke into a fresh gallop.
Nick.
The lights above the entrance reflected in his glossy dark curls, so like the enticing figures in the book she’d just released. He cupped his hand above his eyes and leaned in, searching the interior of the bookshop. The long fingers of his free hand splayed out against the glass.
She couldn’t let him see her like this, disheveled and flustered and flushed. Maybe just stay hidden until he gave up and left? Too late, he’d seen the movement when she opened the red door. He raised his hand to wave.
Caught.
She raked her tumbled hair back into place and took several steadying breaths before striding to the front door in her best imitation of calm and confident. With each step, the seam of her jeans rubbed against her still-tingling flesh, creating little aftershocks of pleasure.
She gulped and pasted on a smile, then unlocked the door. “Hello, Nick. What brings you here so late?”
“I was driving back from Leo’s place and saw your lights on.” He glanced at the slim gold watch on his wrist. “Sorry, Clara. I didn’t realize how late it is.” He took his time pronouncing her name, as if enjoying the texture of it in his mouth. “Are you all right? I’m surprised to find you working so late and—alone?”
His eyes flicked to the red door, and then to her chest. She glanced down and realized she’d mis-buttoned her blouse. For a long moment she stood there, blushing hotly, her mouth opening and closing.
He reached for her shoulder, cupped it gently, his hand heavy and warm though the thin satin.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve left you in peace. I can see you’re tired. See you tomorrow?”
She nodded, grateful he didn’t ask what she’d been doing back there—not that it was any of his business.
“Tomorrow, yes. And you’re right, it’s late. I’d better get home.”
He glanced up and down the street, now nearly deserted. At the corner, a group of grungy teens lounged beneath a street lamp, braying with laughter. One pointed toward Clara’s shop, and a fresh guffaw broke out.
“I’ll walk you to your car if you’ll permit me.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you. I’ll just get my…” She quickstepped to the counter and retrieved her purse.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” A smile across his lips, he inclined his head toward the red door. The light was still on inside.
“Oh. Right. I was just, er, shelving books.” Pivoting quickly to hide her reddened cheeks, she trotted back to turn off the lights and lock the red door.
Nick waited while she shrugged into her jacket and locked up the shop, then crooked his arm, an invitation to slide her hand into the space he’d made for her, just like Jared used to do—a charming, old-fashioned gesture, and a protective one. A twinge of guilt pinched her as she wound her arm through Nick’s. No matter how delicious Jared’s dreamy touch might be, it couldn’t match the warm solidity of Nick’s flesh.
He walked her the few steps to where her Outback waited, now slick with rain. The drizzly evening mist patted her cheeks with butterfly kisses.
He laid his hand over hers, his touch silky, heavy. “See you at seven-ish?”
Bright sparks of pleasure danced up and down her spine at the skin-on-skin contact. “Um, yes. Sure. I’ll see you then.”
She released his arm and slid behind the wheel. Before closing her door, he leaned in close, giving her a clear view of those dark, long-lashed eyes, those elegant high cheekbones, those silky curls, now spangled with mist.
“I’m very glad to have met you, Clara. It’s not often I meet someone who’s so easy to talk to. I hope…” He tilted his head, flashed a soft smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re willing to share your time with me.” And then, with one finger, he brushed her hair just above her ear. When he pulled it away, a drop of water fell onto her jeans.
“Better get home and dry off,” he said. “You’re wet.”