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The streets of London blurred as I wandered, my latte cooling in my hand, but my mind was a whirlwind of Folie—her teasing smile, that bulge promising so much more. Sex had always been my muse, the tangled sheets and urgent thrusts weaving the romance I poured into my novels.
But this? This raw spark from a stranger felt different, like the start of something unfinished. I couldn't shake the feeling we'd cross paths again, as if fate had nudged us together for a reason. Little did I know, it would happen sooner than I imagined.
A few days later, writer's block still gnawing at me, I sought refuge in the quiet hush of the British Library. The grand halls, lined with towering shelves and the faint scent of aged paper, always grounded me.
I needed silence to chase away the echoes of that café encounter, or maybe to let them simmer into something tangible for my next chapter. Clutching my notebook, I wandered the stacks, fingers trailing over leather-bound spines, when I spotted her.
Folie. There she was, shelving books with that same calm confidence, her tall frame moving gracefully in a simple volunteer uniform—crisp white shirt tucked into dark slacks that did nothing to hide the subtle outline of her bulge. Surprise hit me like a jolt, my heart skipping.
What were the odds? She must have just started here; I'd have noticed her before. She hummed softly under her breath, oblivious at first, her dark hair tied back, exuding that mysterious, sexually charged presence that had haunted my daydreams.
Our eyes met as she glanced up from a stack of novels. Recognition flashed in her dark gaze, and the tension reignited instantly, coiling tight in my chest. My pulse quickened, visible in the flush creeping up my neck, my slender body responding with a familiar ache between my thighs.
She paused, a book halfway to the shelf, her lips parting slightly as if she'd been thinking of me too. The library's quiet amplified everything—the soft rustle of pages nearby, the distant murmur of patrons—but between us, it was electric silence, heavy with unspoken want.
I couldn't hold back. Boldness surged through me, fueled by the days of fantasies where she'd claimed me without hesitation. I approached, my soft curves swaying under my fitted sweater, the air between us thickening.
'Folie,' I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper, testing if I'd remembered her name right from the barista's call.
She set the book down, her confident stance shifting closer. 'Britany, right? Small world.' Her tone was low, teasing, sending shivers down my spine. Up close, in this dim-lit aisle, her scent—clean soap mixed with that musky undertone—wrapped around me, stirring the heat I'd tried to ignore.
Emboldened, my fingers grazed the front of her slacks, brushing the firm swell of her bulge. It twitched under my touch, hardening slightly, and a soft gasp escaped me. The contact was electric, my core clenching with need, imagining how thick she'd feel stretching me open.
'I've been thinking about you,' I admitted, my voice husky, eyes locked on hers. The risk of it—anyone could turn the corner—only heightened the thrill, my arousal building in waves.
Folie smirked, that dominant edge sharpening her features, her hand capturing my wrist but not pulling away. Instead, she guided my touch firmer against her growing erection, the heat seeping through the fabric. 'Naughty girl, touching me here,' she murmured, her breath warm against my ear. With a quick glance around, she pulled me deeper into a secluded aisle, the shadows of forgotten tomes shielding us. Her body pressed against mine, pinning me gently to the shelves, her hard cock now unmistakably rigid against my hip. The pressure made my pussy throb, wet and ready, my nipples peaking against my bra.
She dominated me softly, her presence overwhelming yet tender, one hand sliding up my side to cup my breast through my sweater. Her thumb circled my nipple, teasing it to a stiff point, drawing a quiet moan from my lips.
'You want this, don't you? That spark from the café... it's real.' Her words were a velvet command, laced with the emotional pull I'd craved— not just raw fucking, but the intimacy of shared desire. I nodded, leaning into her, my free hand clutching her shirt as her other fingers trailed down, slipping under my skirt to explore the damp lace of my panties.
Her touch was expert, fingers pressing against my slick folds, rubbing slow circles over my clit that made my knees weaken. 'So wet already,' she whispered, her lips claiming mine in a deep, hungry kiss. Her tongue invaded my mouth, tasting of mint and promise, while her cock ground against my thigh, the friction building her own need. I kissed back fiercely, emotions swirling—curiosity, lust, the spark of something deeper igniting between us. Her finger dipped inside me, curling just right, and I bit her lip to stifle a whimper, the public risk making every sensation sharper.
The library faded, lost to the rhythm of her teasing strokes, her body heat enveloping me. But voices echoed faintly from the main hall, a reminder of where we were, pulling me back just enough to wonder how far she'd take this, how much more I could surrender before we were caught.