The poetry shelf

I was on the low bookstool when Evan came back from the poetry shelf with the book I had actually asked for. Rust cardigan. Glasses on. One bare foot on the rung, the other dangling. The shop was closed. I am twenty-four. He is twenty-eight. My boyfriend. I had planned the perch. I wanted him to stand there wanting, and I wanted to choose the second he could put his mouth on me.

Read me four lines, I said. Then you may touch one foot. He read. His voice is steady. I felt spoiled in the best way. When he finished I lifted the foot off the rung and offered it. He held my heel and kissed the toes, then the arch, unhurried because I had told him last time that rushing wastes it. My cunt clenched. I kept my hands on the stool so I would not grab him early. Tease includes teasing myself.

Enough reading, I said. Kneel. He knelt between the shelves. I slid to the edge of the stool and put both feet on his shoulders, light as a shawl. Kiss up the calves. Skip nothing. He did. When he reached my knees I was shaking. Skirt up. I had left my underwear in my bag on purpose. He groaned when he saw my cunt. Ask, I said. May I lick you, he said. Yes. Lick my cunt.

His mouth was hot and devoted on my clit. I kept one foot on his shoulder and the other hooked behind his back. I came with my hand over my own mouth, glasses fogging, the poetry spines watching. Then I got off the stool and bent over the low shelf, the sturdy one. I said, fuck my cunt here. Hold my ankle. He fucked me there with his cock deep, and I moaned into my sleeve. He thrust deep, kissing my calf, saying Paloma like a promise.

Harder, I said. I want to feel that fuck tomorrow when I shelve. He gave me harder without being rough with my foot. I came again, loud this time, and told him to cum in my cunt before he lost the rhythm. He did, pressed to my back, breath wrecked. He handed me my glasses. I fell asleep with my bare feet in his lap, and that was romance too.