Angry rivals in the book stacks

I slammed my hand over Susan’s mouth the second her back hit the shelf, my palm crushing her lips flat while my cock shoved straight into her soaked cunt in one hard thrust. The leaked contract flashed behind my eyes—her name on the email header, the numbers she’d handed to the competing house—and the fury of it drove my hips forward again before she’d even finished clenching around the intrusion. Her skirt was bunched at her waist, my jeans jammed halfway down my thighs, the denim cinching my legs together so tight I had maybe four inches of real movement. Every inch of it had to be earned.

“You fucking sabo—” I didn’t let her finish. I ground into her, short and mean, cutting the word off with a thrust that made her back arch against the wood. She bit down hard on the meat of my palm, and I felt her jaw work under my hand, trying to force sound out around my fingers. I want to hate how wet she is. I do hate it. That’s the part I can’t get past—the hatred and the want sitting in the same place, indistinguishable, both making my cock throb thicker inside her. “—taged the whole—” she got out when I eased up half a second too long, and I clamped down again before she could land the accusation, my palm slamming flat against her mouth hard enough that her head tipped back against a hardcover spine.

I tried to hook my hand under her knee, get her leg up over my hip for a better angle, more depth, something. The skirt gave, but her stance didn’t—her boots were planted too wide already, the hem of the skirt catching under my forearm, and the second I lifted her thigh even an inch the muscle locked and she made a startled noise against my palm, her calf trembling against mine. “Shit,” I muttered, more to myself than her, and dropped her leg back down, settling instead for the only angle that would work—low, tight, grinding rather than driving, my cock dragging along slick walls that clamped down like they were furious at me too. She tried to brace one hand back against the shelf edge for leverage, fingers scrabbling at the wood, but her palm slid uselessly off a paperback spine, knocking three books to the floor with a slap that made us both freeze.

Silence. Just our breathing, ragged through our noses, and the far-off hum of the fluorescent lights two aisles over. No footsteps. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and started again, slower at first, testing whether the rhythm would come back or whether I’d lost it entirely to the terror of Deborah at the front desk hearing books hit carpet. It came back angrier. “You leaked the numbers,” she hissed the second my hand loosened, her voice cracking with need in the middle of the sentence, “to Harrington before we even—ah—” I crushed my palm back down mid-word and thrust hard enough that her whole body jolted up the shelf an inch, spine scraping wood through her blouse.

Sweat slicked the strip of skin where our hips jammed together, my balls pressing tight against her cunt with every shove, the denim biting red lines into both our thighs. I gripped her hip bone hard enough to bruise, using it as the only real leverage the jeans would let me have, since my stance was locked too, feet planted wide but knees only bending so far before the fabric at my thighs went taut and cut the motion short. Every thrust was a fight against my own pants as much as her skirt. I hated that too—hated needing to fight for it, hated that fighting for it made it better.

Her nails dug crescents into my forearm. Her muffled sounds against my palm changed pitch, climbing, wetter, more frantic, and I felt her stomach muscles jump under her blouse, felt her cunt starting to flutter in that specific way that meant she was close and losing the war to stay quiet. “You destroyed everything we—” came out broken, half a syllable at a time between thrusts, and then a sound started building in her throat that wasn’t words anymore, just pressure, just heat trying to escape, and I felt it against my hand a full second before it would have broken loose—felt the vibration climbing toward a cry—and I shoved my palm down harder, mashing her head back against the shelf, my mouth right at her ear. “Don’t,” I said, low, not even sure if I meant don’t come or don’t get us caught, and drove into her three more times, short and brutal, the rhythm stuttering, breaking, my hips losing the count entirely for a second as her body clenched around me like a fist.

Then my hand slipped—an inch, not even on purpose, just sweat and struggle working it loose—and the sound ripped out of her anyway, loud, raw, bouncing off the stacks in both directions before I could recapture it, her whole cunt spasming around my cock in thick pulses that dragged my own climax out of me half a second later. I came with my forehead dropped against her collarbone, cursing her name into her skin like it was an insult, my hips jerking twice more through the denim’s restriction as I emptied into her, my cock throbbing where it was still buried, still trapped, still not fully free of my own jeans wrapped tight around my thighs.

For a second neither of us moved. My cock was still twitching inside her, softening but caught, my jeans refusing to let my legs go any wider to pull back cleanly. When I finally did shift back, the denim dragged against my skin wrong, catching, and I had to reach down and physically peel the fabric off my thigh, wincing at the friction burn already rising there. Susan shoved her skirt down with both hands, smoothing it flat, not looking at me, her jaw tight, a flush climbing her throat that had nothing to do with tenderness. I hauled my jeans back up to my waist, the denim scraping raw skin the whole way, and zipped up too fast—it caught on skin and I bit back a curse.

She looked up first. I’d wanted her to be the one to look away. She wasn’t. “This doesn’t fix anything,” she said, voice flat, wrecked at the edges but flat. “I’m still telling legal what you did.”

“Tell them,” I said. “I’ve got the email chain. You’re the one who forwarded client numbers to a competitor.” My hands were still shaking. I hated that they were shaking.

She didn’t answer. She stepped past me, boots loud on the carpet, and didn’t look back, and I stood there in the stacks with my shirt untucked and the taste of her name still sitting bitter in my mouth, hating her, hating myself more, already knowing this wasn’t the last time either of us would end up back here.