I spent the evening reading over several of his poems, but I found myself going back so often to the poem “A White Rose” that by the end of the evening, the book fell open naturally to that page. I pondered the meaning of the poem, wondered if Abby would have heard of it.
If I gave her a cream-colored rose tinged with pink, would she guess the meaning behind it? Would she know that my feelings were growing beyond what I’d ever imagined I could feel? For anyone?
Did I want her to know that?
Fear pounded through me. It was so new. So unexpected. But as scared as I was, I had to know. Had to know if Abby might possibly feel the same.
In the end, I’d decided to bring a rose to the library with me. I would keep it hidden in my coat pocket. Determine later if I wanted to give it to her.
I stood inside the library for a few minutes, watching Abby work. Her back was to me and she had a stack of books by her side. She worked diligently. A man approached her at one point, and she laughed at whatever it was he said. When he left, her hand trailed absentmindedly to her throat and she fingered my collar.
A wild and shocking spurt of jealousy shot through me.
He’d made her laugh. Had I ever made her laugh? I thought back to our short time together. No, I never had.
With renewed determination, I walked to the front desk.
“I need to see something in the Rare Books Collection,” I said to her back.
She didn’t even turn around. Didn’t even acknowledge it was me. “I’m sorry. The Rare Books Collection is open by appointment only and we’re a little short-staffed at the moment. I really don’t have time this afternoon.”
Maybe she didn’t recognize my voice.
“That’s rather disappointing, Abigail.”
She spun around at my use of her name. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were wide with shock.
“Is this really such a bad time?” I asked.
“No. But I’m sure you have the exact same books at your house.”
Yes, but you aren’t there. You’re here. I thought that much would be obvious.
“Probably,” I said.
“And,” she said, not really listening to me, “someone will have to escort you the entire time.”
Which is my entire point, Abby. I want you and I want to have you in the public library. Right now.
“I certainly hope so. It’d be rather boring in the Rare Books Collection all by myself.” I took a glove off and shoved it in my pocket. “I know it’s not a weekend. Please feel free to tell me no. There will be no repercussions.” You can turn me down. I gave her a weak smile. “Will you escort me to the Rare Books Collection?”
“Ye-ye-yes,” she said, as understanding dawned in her eyes.
“Excellent.”
But she didn’t move. She stood staring at me. Like I’d disappear.
“Abigail, perhaps that lady right there”—I pointed to another librarian—“can work the front desk while you are . . . otherwise occupied?”
I wanted there to be no misunderstanding—if she left the front desk for me, I’d be buried inside her in less than ten minutes.
“Abigail?”
“Martha?” she said, slipping out from behind the counter. “Watch the desk for me, will you? Mr. West has an appointment to see the Rare Books Collection.”
That’s my girl.
We walked toward the stairs. Abby stayed slightly in front of me, and I took a minute to admire her very fine ass.
“Just for my education,” I said, focusing my attention on the curve of her backside, the way it moved as she walked, “does the Rare Books Collection room happen to have a table?”
“Yes.”
Of course it did.
“Is it sturdy?” I asked.
“I suppose so.”
“Good. Because I plan to have more than books spread out for me.”
We reached the top of the stairs and walked down the hall to a set of double doors. She reached into her pockets and then fumbled with the keys she withdrew. Finally, she found the correct one and unlocked the door.
“Oh, no. After you,” I said when she pushed the door open.
I locked the door behind us. While taking off my coat, I glanced around the room. In the middle of the room stood a waist-high table.
That one.
But I took my time and walked around the room, running my fingers over the other tables, pretending to read a few titles. I did everything deliberately, giving Abby more time to think about what we were going to do.
“This one,” I said, pointing to the table I’d picked out. The one standing at just the right height. “This one is exactly what I had in mind.”
Abby had a sly grin on her face.
“Strip from the waist down, Abigail, and hop onto the table.”
She moved quickly, and I watched her bare ass as she climbed onto the table. Damn, I couldn’t wait to bury myself deep inside her. My erection grew just thinking about it.
I unbuckled my belt. “Very nice. Put your heels and ass on the edge of the table and spread those pretty knees for me.”
The sight of her, legs spread and waiting, made my balls ache.
I grabbed the condom from my pocket and slipped my pants off. I took my time, making sure Abby watched everything. Again, very deliberate. I rolled the condom on, resisting the urge to stroke myself.
“Beautiful,” I said, because she was. Because she was beautiful in her submission and beautiful offering herself to me.
I slowly made my way to the table and spread her knees farther apart.
“Tell me, Abigail,” I said, wrinkling my brow, studying our positions as if in deep concentration. “Have you ever been f**ked in the Rare Books Collection before?”
Her body shook with anticipation. I grabbed her h*ps tighter.
“No.”
I looked up at her. “No, what?” I wanted to hear it—either Master or sir. Either one.
“No, sir.”
I pushed forward, entering her slowly. “Much better.”
Her eyes closed when I held still. She bit her bottom lip with a small moan, and I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. I thrust roughly, entering her deeply.
I took her h*ps and pulled her to me. “Lean back on your elbows, Abigail. I’m going to f**k you so hard, you’ll still be feeling it Friday night.”
She leaned back, hair falling to the table as she did so, arching her back and taking more of me inside.
I pulled out and thrust again. The overhead light caught the diamonds on her collar and the stones winked at me.
Mine.
She was mine.
She wore my collar.
Mine.
I thrust again and she lifted herself up to take me deeper.
Maybe I never made her laugh, but I could do this to her—make her needy and aching, then fill her, build her need before finally letting release overtake her. Bring her to the mountaintop and watch as she flew.
“You’re mine,” I growled, thrusting into her again.
She spread her legs wider, taking me farther inside.
“Mine. Say it, Abigail.”
Tell the world.
“Yours.”
I kept a steady pace, thrusting into her as she repeated it over and over.
Yours.
Yours.
Yours.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
She let out a little moan and pushed up on her heels again and I knew she was close. I thrust again and felt her explode around me. I kept driving into her, pressing toward my own release. Then I held still and allowed it to wash over me, coming hard into the condom.
I pulled out of her, pressing my forehead to her abdomen and catching my breath. Sweat glistened on her body. I kissed a drop away.
“Thank you for escorting me on my tour of the Rare Books Collection,” I said, in between kisses to her belly.
She dug her fingers into my hair and I stifled a groan.
“Anytime,” she said.
I kissed her belly one more time, wanting to kiss her lower, but not wanting to tempt fate.
Later this weekend, I told myself. You’ll have plenty of time.
I slowly pulled back and slipped my clothes on. Abby hopped down from the table.
Once we were dressed, she took the condom from my hand. “I’ll take care of this,” she said as we headed out into the corridor.
“I’ll see you Friday at six.” I slipped a hand inside my coat pocket, making sure the rose was still there.
“Yes, sir.”
The front desk was vacant when I reentered the main section of the library. I took the rose from my pocket.
Should I leave it? Would she even get it? I was a man leaving a rose for a woman. It was no big deal.
Except that it was.
“Find everything you needed, sir?”
I spun around. Martha stood before me, smiling.
“Uh, yes,” I stammered. “Everything.”
Martha looked down at the rose and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”
“It’s for Abby.”
“Of course it is.”
Did she know what we’d been doing?
“I was going to leave it right here for her.” I set the rose on top of the books Abby had been working with.
“John Boyle O’Reilly?”
Caught.
It was too late to take the rose back. Abby would know.
But what would she know? That I left a rose? That it matched one described in a poem? So what?
My knees trembled.
I could always play it off. Pretend it was nothing. Unless . . . Unless she wanted it to mean what I wanted it to mean. What did I want it to mean?
Acting far calmer than I felt, I plucked a petal from the rose and winked at Martha. “Of course.”
Chapter Seventeen
On Friday night, Apollo started barking at the sound of the cab pulling up the drive. I shushed him and looked out the window. “Ready to see Abby?”
He cocked his head to the side and whined. I carried the dinner plates to the table and went outside to meet Abby.
I opened the front door and watched her walk up the stairs. She wore a thick brown sweater that matched the brown of her eyes. Her gaze locked with mine and I smiled. Did she get the rose? Would she say anything about it?
Probably not.
But I wanted so badly to know what she thought about it.
“Happy Friday, Abigail.”
Her eyes lit with excitement. A good sign, surely.
I led her inside and pulled a chair out for her. This was her time. Her time to ease into the weekend, to voice any concerns, ask any questions.
She didn’t say anything, but occasionally her eyes would glaze over with a faraway look. What I wouldn’t give to know what went on inside that beautiful head of hers. Maybe one day I’d ask what she was thinking. But for tonight, it was time to move upstairs.
I hated that Abby’s first taste of a spanking from me had been for punishment. Earlier in the week, I’d thought back on our first weekend—to our time in the playroom. She’d thoroughly enjoyed the riding crop. I knew I needed to spank her again. For fun this time—the pillows were already out on my bed.
“How are you feeling today?” I asked. She would take the question one of two ways—she’d either assume I was asking about the accident or that I was referring to my statement on Wednesday about how sore she’d still be this evening.
“Sore in all the right places,” she said, smiling.
Excellent.
“Abigail,” I said with mock surprise. “Have you been a naughty girl this week?”
She blinked at me in confusion.
I looked at her, gaze unwavering. “You do know what happens to naughty girls, don’t you?”
Her mouth opened a bit and she shook her head.
“They get spanked.”
Fear clouded her face. “But I did the yoga and I got my sleep and did the walking instead of jogging, just like you said.” She stopped talking and chewed her lip.