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“I made no promises about the A.”
He’s ridiculous. I’m smiling when I unlock the door.
On Wednesday, I lock up at six. He’s still sitting at the far table with the duke book in front of him.
“We’re closing,” I say.
“One more chapter. I want to know if she has thrown anything yet.”
“She hasn’t. I told you, page two hundred.”
“Then one more chapter brings us closer to it.”
“One. Then I’m going home.”
There’s a perfectly good chair across the table from him. I sit on his lap instead.
“You are sitting on me,” he says.
“Is that a problem?”
“No.” His voice drops. “Not for me.”
I open the book and start to read. He hums, and a shiver runs down my back. I lose my place on the first page. His hand slides up the inside of my bare leg, and goosebumps follow it all the way up my thigh. I didn’t wear tights today for the first time in weeks, and I didn’t ask myself why. Now I know what I was hoping would happen.
He stops right before he reaches my panties.
“Hey,” I say. It comes out breathy. “I thought you wanted me to read to you?”
“Yes. Keep reading.”
I let my knees fall open. His fingers slide under the elastic of my panties and find my clit, and my breath catches. I’m already slick, and he rubs slow circles while I read the duke’s proposal out loud. My hips start to rock against his hand, and my voice shakes. I get through two more sentences before the words stop making sense.
“You have stopped reading,” he says.
“Shut up. I’m— oh God, right there.”
I come in his lap with my clit pulsing under his fingers and pleasure rolling through me. He catches the book before it hits the floor and holds it open in front of me.
“You did not finish the chapter.”
I start reading again. It takes me a while.
Chapter 3
On Thursday morning, he isn’t waiting on the steps when I get to work. He’s been there every day since Friday. I look up and down Cedar Street before I unlock the door, and there’s no sign of him. I’m disappointed, and I don’t like how much.
I turn on the lights and tell myself he’s allowed to have a morning to himself.
A little before ten, the kids start to arrive for story hour. It’s Dana Sorenson’s week to stay, and Ivy has brought Moose because Moose comes no matter whose turn it is. I’m helping Wes out of his coat when Yorrel ducks under the archway. He’s carrying a canning jar of dark red jam and a sleeve of crackers. I grin at him and forget what I’m doing, and Wes has to get his other arm out by himself.
“It is bloodthorn,” he tells the children. “It grows on the cold side of the hills at home. I got up early today to make it before breakfast at the Whitaker House.”
“Gundrik let you use his kitchen?” Gundrik is the oldest of the six orcs staying at Elsie’s inn. He took over the cooking in April and hasn’t given it back.
“Gundrik said the jam is a crime with a lid.” He unscrews it. “Then he ate a spoonful.”
“Is it poison?” Mateo asks.
