The library was my quiet escape, dim and hushed, with that old-book smell that always calmed me. I was in the romance section, my fingers on The Spark of Dawn by Elena Voss, a story about forbidden love that made my heart race. I was lost in the garden scene—where the lovers are so close but don’t kiss, all tension and want—when I felt someone nearby. I looked up, and my breath caught. He was tall, built like he hit the gym, with dark hair falling into his eyes and a face that could’ve been in a movie. Handsome wasn’t enough; he was the kind of guy who made your brain short-circuit.
He reached for The Spark of Dawn, his hand brushing near mine. “Voss fan, huh?” he said, his voice low, teasing, like he was sizing me up.
My cheeks burned, but I held the book tight. “Yeah, it’s my thing. You actually read this, or you just trying to look deep?” I was half-joking, but my heart was pounding. He was too good-looking, and I hadn’t felt this kind of spark in ages.
He laughed softly, leaning against the shelf. “Ouch, going for blood already? I’m hooked. The rain scene, where they finally admit they’re in love? Gets me every time.”
“No way,” I said, stepping closer, my voice too loud for the quiet. “Rain scene’s overrated. The garden, where they almost kiss? That’s the real deal.” I was flirting, and it felt good, even if my stomach was flipping.
He grinned, his eyes locking on mine. “You’re so wrong, but I like your fire. Bet you’ve got that garden scene memorized.”
I laughed, catching a librarian’s glare. “Maybe,” I said, quieter, smiling like a fool. “Bet you cried at the rain scene.”
“Guilty,” he said, raising his hands, and we both cracked up, trying to keep it down. His name was Ethan, and we kept talking, whispering about Voss, how her words made love feel like a battle you wanted to lose. He loved her poetic style, same as me, and we got into a playful argument about whether the hero was too stubborn. It was so easy, like we’d been friends forever. He was a graphic designer, into indie music, and had this way of tilting his head when he listened that made me want to spill everything. I told him I was a barista, saving for art school, and we bonded over hating bad pop songs and loving late-night coffee runs.
It wasn’t just his looks—God, those broad shoulders, that smile—but how he got me. When he said he’d stayed up all night rereading The Spark of Dawn, I felt this jolt, like we were already something. It’d been over a year since I’d been with anyone, and here was Ethan, making me feel alive just by talking.
“So,” he said, his voice softer, “we could keep this Voss fight going over coffee. Or tonight, if you’re free.” His eyes held mine, and my heart forgot how to beat.
“Tonight works,” I said, too fast, my face hot. “My place? Got some wine, and we can settle this.” I couldn’t believe I’d invited him over, but his grin made it worth it.
“Deal,” he said, pulling out his phone. We swapped numbers, and as he walked away, he glanced back, that smile hitting me again. I stood there, clutching The Spark of Dawn, my pulse racing like I’d just run a mile.
Back at my place, I was a nervous mess, but the good kind. It’d been so long since I’d felt this way, and my last date was a flop that left me done with guys for a while. But Ethan—his laugh, his teasing, the way he got Voss—had me buzzing. I wanted him to see me, want me, and the thought made my skin tingle. I slipped into a black dress, tight, showing just enough to feel bold. I kept my place simple—low music, a bottle of red wine, no fuss. My hands shook as I set out two glasses, waiting for his knock.
When Ethan showed up, he looked even better—same fitted shirt, jeans hugging his frame, and that smile that made my knees weak. “Nice spot,” he said, stepping inside, his voice easy but with a spark, like he was feeling it too.
“Thanks,” I said, handing him a glass. “Ready to lose this Voss argument?”
He laughed, clinking his glass against mine. “Not happening. Rain scene’s still king, and you’re not changing my mind.”
We sat on the couch, close enough that I could feel his warmth, and we fell back into our library banter. We talked about Voss, then music, then dumb stuff like the worst coffee orders we’d seen. It was so natural, like we’d been doing this forever. He teased me about my latte art, and I fired back about his weird band choices, both of us laughing, the wine loosening us up. His hand brushed mine when he grabbed his glass, and my skin buzzed, like a spark had jumped between us.
“You’re trouble,” he said, his voice low, his eyes on mine. “Calling me out in the library, inviting me here… you’re bold.”
I blushed but leaned closer, feeling brave. “Maybe I just wanted to win the argument.”
He grinned, setting his glass down. “Or maybe you wanted to see me again.”
My heart was racing, and I didn’t deny it. He was so close, his knee against mine, and the air felt heavy, like something big was coming. “Maybe,” I said, my voice soft, and I looked at him—his sharp jaw, his eyes that saw right through me.
He reached out, his fingers grazing my hand, warm and steady. “I’m glad you did,” he said, and that was it. He leaned in, slow, giving me time to pull back, but I didn’t. His lips met mine, soft at first, then deeper, and my whole body lit up, like I’d been waiting for this forever. I kissed him back, my hands on his shoulders, feeling the strength there, the heat of him pulling me in. His kisses were confident, like he knew exactly how to make me melt, and I was already lost, desire flooding me like a wave.
We kept kissing, hungry now, and I pressed closer, my hands sliding to his chest, feeling his heartbeat under my fingers. His hands moved to my waist, warm through my dress, pulling me until I was half in his lap. I tugged at his shirt, wanting more, and he broke the kiss just long enough to pull it off, his skin hot under my touch. He was so good—every move deliberate, like he was reading me, knowing exactly what I wanted. My dress felt too tight, and when his fingers found the zipper, I let it fall, my skin tingling under his gaze. I felt desired, alive, like I was the heroine in The Spark of Dawn, caught in a moment I’d been craving.
He kissed my neck, slow, his lips warm and teasing, sending shivers down my spine. Then he moved lower, kissing my chest, his mouth finding my breasts, soft at first, then licking, sucking gently, and I gasped, my hands gripping his hair. Every touch was electric, his tongue flicking over me, making my body arch, desire pooling deep inside. He was so good, so attentive, watching my reactions, slowing when I trembled, speeding up when I pulled him closer. “You okay?” he whispered, his voice rough but sweet, and I nodded, breathless, wanting more.
We stumbled to my bedroom, laughing softly when we bumped the doorframe, the wine and the moment making us clumsy. I pulled him down onto the bed, my hands exploring his chest, his arms, feeling the strength that had caught my eye in the library. He kissed me again, deep, his hands warm, sliding over my hips, my thighs, making my skin hum. I felt wanted, like I was everything he needed, and it made me bold. I pushed him back, climbing on top, my hands on his chest, kissing him as I moved, slow, teasing, watching his eyes darken with want.
He flipped us, his body above mine, and when he entered me, it was slow, deliberate, his warmth filling me, sending shivers through every nerve. I gasped, my hands clutching his shoulders, feeling the heat of him, the way he moved like he knew exactly how to drive me wild. He was so good, every thrust measured, watching my face, adjusting to my gasps, my moans. We shifted, him behind me, his hands on my hips, warm and firm, pulling me closer as we found a rhythm, intense, like the longing in Voss’s novel. My body was alive, every touch sparking desire, making me feel like I’d been asleep for years.
Then I was on top again, my hands braced on his chest, moving with him, his hands guiding me, warm, steady. His eyes never left mine, and I felt desired, like I was all he saw. He kissed my breasts again, sucking softly, his tongue sending sparks through me, and I moaned, lost in the heat, the want. When we moved together faster, it was like a wave building, his skill pulling me higher, every touch—his hands, his lips—making me shiver, making me feel alive. When he finished inside me, it was intense, a rush that tipped me over the edge, my body trembling, clinging to him as the world blurred into heat and want.
We collapsed, tangled, catching our breath. His hand rested on my hip, warm, grounding, and I smiled into the dark, my body still buzzing. He was so good—not just his touch, but the way he saw me, wanted me, made me feel like I was enough. It was like the garden scene in The Spark of Dawn, all longing and fire, but better, because it was us.
We lay there, his fingers tracing my arm, and I felt a quiet thrill, like this was just the start. “Tomorrow?” he asked, his voice soft, and I nodded, my heart full.
“Tomorrow,” I said, and as he kissed my forehead, I knew I’d be rereading The Spark of Dawn, looking for us in its pages.