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Free erotica novella extract: Start reading Kris Kassady's The Naughty Librarian

Cecily is a reference librarian. She’s a virgin but she doesn’t want to be. Then Winfield walks into her library…

I saw him immediately when he walked in the door.

As before, his first glance was to see if I was sitting at my usual post, and then he quickly averted his eyes. I, of course, did the same.

If we were going to have a contest on who was more shy, I wished him the best of luck. He’d be up against the shyest person in the universe.

I fidgeted and watched out from the corner of my eye as he settled into the seat he’d been occupying for the last two weeks, the one with the perfect view of me. He’d been coming in at about ten and staying until noon every day that I worked. As was his regular routine, he set his laptop on the table with a bottle of water and began typing. He wasn’t taking notes because he had no books or papers visible. Whatever he was writing was coming directly out of his head. And it appeared to be never-ending, because he typed intensely for two hours, the only exception being when he occasionally glanced my way.

On those few occasions when our eyes met, we both instantly looked away, and I felt the adrenaline rush from our cosmic communication.

We’d only had one verbal exchange, on his first day in the library two weeks before when he approached the reference desk. I saw him coming and thought he looked interesting, but nothing more. My infatuation was not yet underway. He was just another library patron. I looked up and smiled. He smiled back and asked where the restroom was. I pointed in the direction of the restroom, and that was it. The whole dang thing. Our one and only epic communication.

The library lets patrons stay as long as they wish during business hours. So we have the homeless, regular visitors, kids, retirees, folks with disabilities, as well as those enjoying the air conditioning in summer, the heat in winter, the comfort of a soft chair, or the newspapers and magazines in the periodical room. But most come for the free Internet, and I assumed that Ichabod, as I called him, fell into that category.

Aside from his focus at the keyboard, the occasional glance at me, and a regular trip to the restroom, his only other ritual was filling his water bottle at the drinking fountain. Both the restroom and the water excursion involved walking past my desk. During the first week, he’d taken care of both on one trip. But a few days into the second week, he’d started separating them. He now went to the restroom at about eleven and to the water fountain a half hour later. When he got up for either mission, I was highly aware but used all my self-control to not stare.

However, two days before, and for the first time, he smiled at me on both passes. Yesterday, he’d given me a little nod of the head like we knew each other. Baby steps. Maybe by the next millennium, he would figure out an excuse to ask me another question. But he had upped the ante with the smile and nod, and I was resolved to respond in kind. I’d been wracking my brain for two days on the next best step, and I’d finally figured it out. As the eleven o’clock bathroom trip approached, my heart rate elevated, and my hands got clammy. I had a plan and was determined to execute it this morning, even if it went against my every instinct.

I was looking at my laptop and pretending to work, praying that someone did not approach my desk. My heart was pounding, and my hands were a mess. But my plan was in place, and I was determined.

I hoped I wouldn’t throw up all over him. That wouldn’t be a good next move, now, would it? I watched the clock slowly tick its approach to eleven. His trip didn’t always occur right on the hour, but it was usually within five minutes either way. The bewitching hour passed, and I grew more unsettled by the minute.

Finally, he stood and started making his way toward me. He was in his customary black tee shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. I hadn’t been able to read the art on his shirt, and I was curious. As he approached, I saw it was St. Vincent, a New York rock singer whose real name is Annie Clark. I knew her music and liked her. She had a small but loyal following. The black shirt had a simple photo of Annie centered on the front. Perfect, we had something in common.

As he approached, he looked at me and smiled, extending a little nod. But this time, I stood to join him in his journey. By God, a lady had to go to the bathroom too. So what if our trips down the hall just happened to coincide. Yes, I’m a very clever woman.

When I rose, he looked at me with surprise. I stepped away from my desk and moved out to his side, smiling at him. I had my line prepared. I was determined that we were going to have a conversation.

Either that or I was going to have a heart attack and drop dead on the spot. My heart was beating against my frail rib cage.

I sucked up all the power available to me and let it fly. “So, what are you working on so hard over there?” I almost choked and hoped he didn’t notice.

He looked at me with a nice smile. He acted surprised but pleased. “I’m a writer. Working on a story.” New York accent. That fit with the tee shirt.

“Wow. A writer. How exciting. You’re very into whatever you’re doing.”

We were walking together and having a conversation. And he was a writer. How cool was that? The restrooms were not far, so we didn’t have much time. Fortunately, I didn’t have high expectations.

My goal had been to take the next step and send a positive signal.

Mission accomplished.

Before he could respond, we arrived at our destinations. My door was first, and I went in as he proceeded to his. I didn’t have to go, so I waited calmly until I heard the toilet flush in the men’s room, assuming it was him. Then I washed my hands to approximate the time he might take doing that. I wanted my exit timed so that we’d get a return walk together. I stood at the door, peaking out a crack.

When I saw him appear, I stepped out, and there we were again, together.

I was prepared to ask more about his writing, but he jumped in with his own question, perhaps to divert from the topic, or perhaps to show interest.

“How long have you been a reference librarian?”

It was a lame question, but he hadn’t had much time, so I took it as good faith effort.

“Five years. I got my master’s in library science and landed this job shortly after. So it’s the only job I’ve had in the field, but I like it here.” I wanted to divert it back to him. “How about you, how long have you been writing?”

I asked the question just as we were arriving at my desk. I’d wanted to get a question out so we would have an excuse to stop and talk. He couldn’t walk away from an open question like that. We stopped at my desk to allow his response.

“About five years too. I got my degree in creative writing, and I’ve been driving Uber to make some money. I write in the morning and drive later in the day. Got to pay the bills, you know.”

A struggling young writer. How romantic. I loved that.

“Good for you.” Before he got away, I wanted to send my final message. “I’d love to hear more about your writing, if you’d like to share.”

His face lit up, and my insides warmed. He liked my suggestion.

“Sure, that’d be great.”

I could tell he was about to get away, so I made one more effort to keep things alive.

Looking at his tee shirt, I said, “Nice shirt. Annie Clark.” There were no words on the shirt that said St. Vincent or Annie Clark, so I was showing off.

“Very good. She’s not that well known out of New York.”

“I saw her play The Moore in Seattle last year.”

“Nice. She puts on a great show.”

Okay, then. A lucky connection. But we stood awkwardly, neither of us able to prolong the conversation, before he finally nodded, turned, and walked toward his table. I collapsed in my chair, a nervous wreck but quite pleased with myself. I had upped the ante. We had an actual conversation. I had learned something important about him. And I suggested we get together. I understood his freezing up at the end. That was probably a lot for him to absorb too. I expect I caught him by surprise. If he wanted to get together, he knew the ball was in his court, and he knew I’d say yes. I really couldn’t expect more than that in one day.

Want to keep reading and find out what this writer and the Naughty Librarian get up to? Click here to order your copy of Kris Kassady's The Naughty Librarian - free for Kindle Unlimited subscribers and just $0.99 to buy.

Cecily is a reference librarian. She’s a virgin but she doesn’t want to be. Then Winfield walks into her library…

Cecily is a quiet, introverted reference librarian who maintains an active sex life. Unfortunately, she’s the only participant in her hot private sessions. At twenty-seven, she’s a virgin, but she doesn’t want to be.

Winfield is a young writer who ghost-writes erotica for a bestselling author while pursuing his own writing. He spends mornings pecking away on his laptop at Cecily’s library.

Cecily has Winfield in her sights but doesn’t have a clue how to seduce a man. Is it possible that he could be interested? How can she get his attention? And does she have the nerve to make a move? Perhaps he’d be interested in seeing her private erotica collection?

If you like smoking hot erotic shorts with plenty of heart and humor, you’ll love The Naughty Librarian. This sexy short story is perfect for a sizzling one sitting read on your favorite couch.



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