My heart hammers against my ribs. This is insane. We're in a public place. We could get caught. We could get expelled.
But all I can think about is Asher's mouth, how it would feel, how it would look. The desire drowns out the voice of caution, of convention, of everything I thought I knew about myself.
"I'm sure," I whisper, and with those two words, I step over the line into uncharted territory.
Chapter 8
ASHER STUDIES ME for a long moment, as if gauging my sincerity. Then, without warning, he drops to his knees, the sound of denim hitting the worn carpet impossibly loud in the quiet space.
My brain short-circuits at the sight of Asher kneeling before me, looking up through dark lashes. The reality of what's about to happen hits me with full force. This is actually happening. In the library. Between Ancient Greek Poetry and Medieval French Literature.
A distant part of me, the part still clinging to normalcy, notes the absurdity of the situation. Twenty-four hours ago, I would have laughed at the suggestion that I'd be in this position. Now, I can barely breathe as Asher's hands move to my belt.
He works with methodical precision, unbuckling my belt with ease. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops seems obscenely loud, each soft whisper of fabric against metal making me flinch and glance nervously down the aisle. The button of my jeans comes next, then the zipper, its teeth separating with a sound that echoes among the silent stacks.
"Relax," Asher murmurs, his breath warm through the fabric of my boxers. "No one's coming."
"That's not—" I start, but my words die in my throat as Asher hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls my boxers down, freeing my already hard cock. The admission of desire is right there, impossible to deny or explain away.
The cool air of the library hits me first, making me shiver. Then Asher's warm breath, ghosting over my sensitive skin. My hands scrabble for purchase against the bookshelf behind me, knocking several ancient tomes askew. The spines press into my back, hard edges against my shoulder blades.
Asher looks up at me, a small smile playing at his lips. "Try not to destroy the library's collection, okay? Some of these books are older than both of us combined."
Before I can respond, Asher leans forward and takes me into his mouth.
The sensation is overwhelming—wet heat enveloping me, Asher's tongue flat against the underside of my cock, the slight suction as he hollows his cheeks. My head falls back against the shelf with a thud, my eyes squeezing shut as pleasure courses through me like an electrical current.
It's different from being with a woman—not better or worse, just different. There's a confidence to Asher's movements, a knowledge of exactly what feels good because he knows what feels good to himself. No hesitation, no uncertainty, just pure, focused intent.
I force my eyes open, needing to see. The visual is almost as overwhelming as the physical sensation—Asher on his knees, lips stretched around me, eyes half-closed in concentration. It's filthy and beautiful all at once, and I can't look away.
His hands come up to grip my hips, fingers digging into the flesh just above my hipbones, holding me steady as he takesme deeper. The pressure is grounding, keeping me tethered to reality when I feel like I might float away on waves of pleasure.
A soft moan escapes me before I can stop it, the sound seeming to hang in the air around us. I clap a hand over my mouth, mortified, but Asher just makes an approving sound in the back of his throat. The vibration travels through my cock, sending sparks of pleasure up my spine.
My free hand moves of its own accord, reaching down to touch Asher's hair. It's softer than I expected, slipping through my fingers like silk. Asher makes another sound of approval when my fingers tangle in it, encouraging the touch.
"Fuck," I breathe, the word barely audible behind my palm.
Asher pulls back slightly, swirling his tongue around the head of my cock in a way that makes my knees weak. The sensation is almost too intense—a concentrated point of pleasure that borders on overwhelming. Then he takes me deep again, setting a rhythm that has me seeing stars.
The rational part of my brain—the part that's been screaming at me that this is wrong, that I shouldn't want this—grows quieter with each bob of Asher's head. How can something that feels this good be wrong? How can desire this pure be shameful?
Asher pulls off for a moment, his lips red and slightly swollen, a thin strand of saliva connecting them to my cock. The sight is obscene and intoxicating.
"You taste good," he murmurs, his voice rougher than before. "Better than I imagined."
The words send a fresh wave of heat through me. "You imagined this?"
His lips curve into a smile as he strokes me with his hand, keeping me hard. "More times than I should probably admit."
The confession, casual as it is, hits me like a physical blow. Asher has thought about this—about me—before last night. Has wanted me.
Before I can process this new information, Asher's mouth is on me again, this time with renewed enthusiasm. His technique changes, becoming more varied—sometimes using just his lips on the head, sometimes taking me deep enough that I feel the back of his throat, sometimes using his hand in tandem with his mouth.
I lose track of time, lost in the sensations. The world narrows down to the space between the bookshelves, to the wet heat of Asher's mouth, to the growing tension in my lower abdomen.
A noise from somewhere in the stacks—a book falling, perhaps, or someone walking on another aisle—makes me tense. The reminder that we're in public, that we could be discovered at any moment, should be sobering. Instead, it adds an edge of danger that only heightens my arousal.
