Slow motion. Every second stretched long. His shoulder brushed the back of her leg, his breath warm through the thin fabric of her skirt. She looked down—saw the dark waves of his hair bent toward her, the concentration in his posture, and the subtle flex of his arm.
When the skirt finally loosened, she didn’t step away. She lingered.
And he noticed.
Daniel rose slowly, straightening to face her, his eyes catching hers. There was no misunderstanding now. The way her lips parted, the way she didn’t move, the way her chest rose with quick breaths—every bit of it spoke louder than words.
He reached for her wrist, gently, testing, as if giving her the chance to pull back. She didn’t. His thumb stroked along the soft inside of her arm, heat spreading through her veins. Marianne swallowed, caught between disgust at herself and a rush of hunger she hadn’t felt in years.
“Someone might walk in,” she whispered, though the library was empty.
“No one’s coming,” Daniel answered, stepping closer, so close she felt the press of his body against hers.
The kiss came not as an accident but as an inevitability. His lips crashed into hers, hesitant for only a moment before she leaned forward, deepening it, her hands gripping his shoulders. Decades of restraint broke open in a single sound that escaped her throat, half gasp, half groan.
His hands moved lower, sliding around her waist, finding the curve of her hips. She pressed back against the table, the wood digging into her spine, but she didn’t care. Every touch of his fingers was magnified—the way he dragged them across her thigh, the way he slid the skirt higher, daring, reckless.
For Marianne, the shame and the thrill tangled until she could hardly breathe. She thought of her husband at home, asleep in front of the TV. She thought of her children, of the people who saw her as untouchable. And then she thought of nothing—because Daniel’s mouth was on her neck, his hands everywhere, pulling her closer, making her feel like she was twenty again.
“Marianne,” he whispered against her ear, her name breaking apart in his voice. She trembled, nails digging into his back, robe of control slipping entirely.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even affection. It was pure, unfiltered hunger, the kind that came from years of silence and loneliness finally breaking open. She let him take her right there, in the shadow of the bookshelves, skirt rucked up, blouse undone. Pages rustled on the floor where they knocked a stack aside, but neither cared.
