He growled, sounding more animal than man, and then attacked my lips with a vigor that literally electrocuted everything that lived beneath my skin.
He kissed me with a passion I never knew existed. With a possession that almost scared me. The way his lips moved over mine—demanding and rough—promised he would own me when all was said and done.
The hand cradling the back of my head flexed, digging in but not hurting. Delicious pressure erupted inside me. It started in my center and grew, making me moan and reach for him. My chin fell back as his lips drifted down my neck and scraped across my shoulder, which was bare because my dress slid down, exposing my skin.
I tried to get my hands beneath his shirt, but because of the way we were sitting, I couldn’t find the hem. Instead, the back of my hand brushed across the undeniable hardness between his legs. The accidental contact made his entire body jerk and go rigid as a groan ripped from his mouth.
“Fuck, Katie.”
“I-I’m sorry,” I said, my voice low and shaky.
He pulled back, staring down at me with passion in his eyes. “Do it again.”
My eyes widened, and even as my mouth worked to tell him it wasn’t a good idea, my hand moved to do his bidding. This time, instead of the back of my hand, I used the pads of my fingers, brushing down the hard length in one single stroke.
His eyes fluttered closed and breath hissed between his teeth. A shudder moved through his body and in response, his member jerked toward me.
It was an intimidating size and my body stiffened.
Holt drew in a deep breath and then opened his eyes. Surprisingly, he sat me away from him, back onto my stool. He wiped a hand down his face and swore. “You’re going to kill me.”
Did that require a response?
An apology? A denial?
Before I could decide the appropriate way to address that statement, he pushed away from the counter and strode down the hallway, disappearing from sight.
It was kind of a relief.
Sexual tension.
I never gave much thought to the term. I wasn’t the kind of girl to sit around watching romantic comedies. I didn’t read romance novels and I steered clear of Valentine’s Day and everything associated with it. I didn’t date and I stayed out of bars and other places where a man might think I was available. So sexual tension wasn’t something I was familiar with. It wasn’t something I ever thought I would experience.
Until now.
Four days of living with Holt and I was nothing but an exposed nerve, ready to explode at any moment. It was very confusing. It was very frustrating, and it was also kind of scary.
Yes, I’d been around men before. I’d lived with them. In fact, it was my experiences with the opposite sex that confirmed my decision to stay single. Forever. I was going to be one of those crazy ladies with fifty cats, a recliner, and a coupon addiction. Except my cats were going to be books. Books were way less stinky than cats.
But now things were changing.
My world, my view, my feelings were starting to tilt, and it left me feeling a little unbalanced all the time.
I found myself wandering down the romance section of the library, perusing the plethora of covers with shirtless muscle-bound men. All the females were gorgeous, with long legs and looks of desire on their faces. I used to snort at the sight of these books and secretly snicker when I checked them out to the little old ladies that came here for a weekly book club meeting.
But now as I fingered the glossy covers, I wondered what was within the pages. I wondered what kind of role these buff, half-naked men played in the story. Were the heroines of the story just as affected by their leading men as I was by Holt?
Did they lie in bed at night with him just walls away and wonder what it would be like to lie with him in the dark while he touched every inch of skin he could find? Did they breathe in deep every time he stepped near just to get a whiff of the scent that only he carried? Did an accidental touch, the simple brush of a hand or a shared look that lingered too long, threaten to drive them insane?
I cleared my throat and put the book back on the shelf. Clearly, I had enough romance swirling around in my head without reading some book.
He hadn’t kissed me since that first morning.
It seemed he went out of his way to give me some space, to keep a respectable distance between us. He wasn’t distant and cold. He was friendly and open. Every night since I’d been there, we cooked dinner together, laughing and joking in the kitchen while I showed him how not to ruin a pan.
We played cards (I was terrible) and he let me win (because he was a sweet). We watched action movies and made up our own dialogue when we thought what the actors said was stupid. I did his laundry and he washed the dishes, and I continued to sleep in his bed while he remained on the couch.
If I didn’t feel the attraction between us, if I didn’t feel the way it lingered in the air around us, I would have thought he didn’t see me as anything but a temporary roommate.
But I did feel it.
And he did too.
I could tell by the way his voice sometimes turned raspy and by the way he would watch me when he didn’t think I saw. The way he would angle his body so he never had his back to me, so he was always somewhat open to my presence. And sometimes, when I laughed or when I ate, he would watch my mouth and a hungry glint would come into his eyes.
But if I hadn’t noticed any of those things, I still would have known.
Every single night when I told him goodnight and he would whisper, “Sweet dreams,”
I would feel his stare on me until I turned the corner into his bedroom and climbed into his bed.
It was driving me mad.
For a girl who never thought about sex, who never desired that kind of relationship with a man… I sure was making up for lost time.
I knew it was better this way, that I couldn’t act upon my feelings. This was only temporary—soon I would be going back to my life and he would go back to his. There was no use in complicating something that could remain simple.
With a sigh, I pushed all thoughts of Holt out of my head, glancing up at the clock. It was almost six. Closing time. I was tired today. It had taken two days of consistent work to get caught up here at the library. Things had really piled up while I was gone, but I finally managed to finish everything that needed to be done. All I had left was one cartful of books to put away, and then I could lock up for the night.
The last patron had left about an hour before, so I was alone in the building. Normally, I liked this time of the day, the peacefulness of being in a quiet place surrounded by books—of the passions of other people’s minds. I enjoyed being able to be alone with my thoughts, but tonight felt different somehow.
The silence seemed ominous.
The peacefulness seemed disturbed by something unseen.
“It’s just the rain,” I murmured to myself, and as if on cue, the darkened sky lit up with lightning and thunder rumbled above the building. Southern thunderstorms were always a little creepy.
As I wandered down the aisles with my cart, replacing books to their designated place, I thought about what the police told me when Holt and I took them that letter.
Of course they were suspicious of Holt. They didn’t understand why he wouldn’t show them immediately.
Holt held firm, stating he wasn’t about to discuss something that pertained to me until he had the chance to speak to me first. The police weren’t as tickled by this as I secretly was, but eventually they moved beyond it and got to the matter at hand.
Even with an obvious threat against me, there still wasn’t much to go on. The only thing they seemed clear on was that someone wanted to hurt me. They were, of course, going to be investigating. Taking prints off the letter (they didn’t expect there to be any), looking for clues as to who could have sent it. They were questioning people at the WFD where Holt worked to see if anyone saw a person leave this note on Holt’s windshield.
So far nothing.
And there had been no more fiery attempts on my life.
I didn’t know what to think. Had the person given up? Was I safe? Or was the killer merely waiting for an opportunity to strike?
Like when you’re alone in an empty library.
The thought caused me to look over my shoulder. Of course, no one was there, and I laughed lightly at my paranoia. Still, my footsteps quickened as I moved deeper into the shelves of books to finish my task.
A few minutes later, I heard the front door open and close.
Great,
I thought.
Only on nights when I am tired and ready to go home do people come in minutes before I lock up and expect me to stay late.
The little bell on the front desk chimed and rolled my eyes. “I’ll be right there,” I called out, abandoning the cart and stepping down the aisle.
The bell started ringing again. Impatiently this time.
Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring!
Irritation slammed through me. I knew they could hear me. It was so quiet in here, they would have to be deaf not to. Guilt followed the thought. Perhaps it was someone with a hearing problem.
I heard an odd scraping sound, a sound that caused me to pause and listen. It sounded as if someone were dragging something across the tiles that surrounded the front entrance and information desk.
Apprehension crawled up my legs like a long-legged spider, and my skin broke out in a cold sweat. I picked up the thickest, heaviest book nearby and held it out in front of me like a club, and I tentatively moved toward the sound.
I might be scared. But I wasn’t going to run.
The sound of a scraping match echoed through the entire building and caused momentary spots to form before my eyes, blocking my vision. I sagged against a shelf and gave myself a mental pep talk. If it really was what I thought it was, I didn’t have time to stand here and be scared. I had to act fast; I had to get out of the building.
Holding my breath, I turned the final shelf, stepping out into the open, facing the door and front entrance.
And that’s when I saw it.
A cry ripped from my throat as I rushed forward.
The large metal trashcan that I kept behind the tall circular-shaped wooden information desk was now in front of the double glass doors.
And it was bursting with flames.
I have no idea how the flames got so high, so fast, but they were growing by the second. If I didn’t do something, this entire building would go up like a bone-dry forest in California. All the books would be toast in minutes.
I tried not to shriek when I realized the flames were taller than me, and I cringed as the metal can began to distort and twist from the too-intense heat. I rushed past it, over to the wall where the fire extinguisher hung, and reached out to grab it.
But it was gone.
That meant two things:
One, I had to find another one and fast.
And, two, whoever started this fire was still in the building.
As much as I wanted to let fear and paranoia overtake me, I knew I couldn’t. I had to put out this fire. And so I did something I always yelled at the TV for when dumb, big-chested idiots ran up the stairs when a killer was after them.
I ran toward the back of the library.
I knew where the other extinguisher was. It was the closest and I felt I could get it the fastest. I lugged the book as I ran, not willing to let go of my impromptu weapon just yet.
When the extinguisher came into view, I cried out in relief, thankful it was still there. With just a few feet between me and the red can, I lurched forward to grab it, and at the same time a very tall, very heavy shelf of books began to tip…
Everything that came next happened in excruciating slow motion.
I screamed, holding the giant book up above my head as if it would protect me, and turned back, trying to jump out of the way of the falling shelf. Books of all shapes and sizes began tumbling off the shelves, raining paper and hardbacks. I deflected them as best I could, lunging away and using the book like a baseball bat to fend off the biggest that fell.
And then I tripped.