library. Smart, trendy clothes tended to fall victim to messy printer cartridges and broken ink pens, but Gabrielle conceded that the practical outfits had robbed her of some of her feminine sparkle. She tugged at her demure neckline. What kind of man would find her attractive in her stretch slacks and shapeless beige sweater?
Certainly not the sexual dynamo she craved as a bed partner.
The northbound train rumbled into view and pulled alongside the platform with a whoosh of cool air in the underground tunnel. When the doors opened, she boarded with other passengers and, because the library opened and closed later than most business offices, had no problem finding an empty seat.
After settling in, she pulled the book she was reading from her tote and turned to the page marked with a tasseled bookmark. The story was an erotic romance novel about a woman and her sometime lover. Although it was clear to the reader the couple was perfect for each other, the characters had not yet reached that conclusion and were mulling the alternatives while falling in and out of bed with each other. Gabrielle smiled to herself. Erotica writers of centuries past would be pleased to know that book guidelines regarding content and language had relaxed greatly. Readers could now enjoy story lines that reflected contemporary attitudes toward sex, especially where women’s roles were concerned.
Soon Gabrielle was immersed in the characters’ lives and the lush love scenes that left her body temperature elevated and her breathing intensified. She found herself envying the woman whose lover plied her body with unmitigated pleasure. As the woman strained toward climax, Gabrielle’s thighs quickened.
A body settled into the seat next to her. She squashed a flash of irritation at the distraction and kept reading, but the scent of masculine cologne tickled her nose. In her peripheral vision, she noticed the man was well-dressed, his brown slacks neatly cuffed and creased, his camel-colored jacket of good quality. The hand resting on his knee was large and square, the fingers long and blunt-tipped.
And thick.
Gabrielle forced her attention back to her book and reread a paragraph. The man shifted in his seat, brushing his arm against hers, jostling the book she held.
“Pardon me,” he murmured.
When she slid her gaze sideways to take in the stranger’s profile, her mouth went dry.
The big man sported close-cropped light brown hair, a square jaw, and a sun-tinged complexion. The crow’s feet at the corners of his light-colored—hazel?—eyes said he was a sportsman, perhaps in his late forties. Indeed, he had the boxy build and erect carriage of an athlete. Probably football, given the size of the man’s shoulders…and hands.
A hand naked of a wedding ring.
“No problem,” she murmured, then looked back to her book and reread the paragraph for the third time.
He shifted again to retrieve something from the floor. “That must be some book,” he said in a distinctly Texan drawl.
Gabrielle swung her gaze up to his, her jaw set in consternation. “I’m not ashamed of my reading choices,” she chirped. “Besides, it’s none of your concern, sir.” It wasn’t the first time someone had made a comment about the provocative cover of a book she was reading.
“I couldn’t agree more, ma’am,” the man said, then held up her tasseled bookmark. “I only meant that you dropped your page marker.”
“Oh.” She swallowed and took the proffered bookmark that she hadn’t even missed.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Feeling contrite, Gabrielle cast about for conciliatory small talk. “This is my favorite bookmark,” she said, caressing the thin piece of plastic that announced there were too many books, and not enough hours in the day to read them.
“Nice,” he said, nodding. “What do you do?”
Heat climbed her neck. No man’s eyes ever lit up when she announced her occupation.
“I’m a librarian.”
The
Certainly not the sexual dynamo she craved as a bed partner.
The northbound train rumbled into view and pulled alongside the platform with a whoosh of cool air in the underground tunnel. When the doors opened, she boarded with other passengers and, because the library opened and closed later than most business offices, had no problem finding an empty seat.
After settling in, she pulled the book she was reading from her tote and turned to the page marked with a tasseled bookmark. The story was an erotic romance novel about a woman and her sometime lover. Although it was clear to the reader the couple was perfect for each other, the characters had not yet reached that conclusion and were mulling the alternatives while falling in and out of bed with each other. Gabrielle smiled to herself. Erotica writers of centuries past would be pleased to know that book guidelines regarding content and language had relaxed greatly. Readers could now enjoy story lines that reflected contemporary attitudes toward sex, especially where women’s roles were concerned.
Soon Gabrielle was immersed in the characters’ lives and the lush love scenes that left her body temperature elevated and her breathing intensified. She found herself envying the woman whose lover plied her body with unmitigated pleasure. As the woman strained toward climax, Gabrielle’s thighs quickened.
A body settled into the seat next to her. She squashed a flash of irritation at the distraction and kept reading, but the scent of masculine cologne tickled her nose. In her peripheral vision, she noticed the man was well-dressed, his brown slacks neatly cuffed and creased, his camel-colored jacket of good quality. The hand resting on his knee was large and square, the fingers long and blunt-tipped.
And thick.
Gabrielle forced her attention back to her book and reread a paragraph. The man shifted in his seat, brushing his arm against hers, jostling the book she held.
“Pardon me,” he murmured.
When she slid her gaze sideways to take in the stranger’s profile, her mouth went dry.
The big man sported close-cropped light brown hair, a square jaw, and a sun-tinged complexion. The crow’s feet at the corners of his light-colored—hazel?—eyes said he was a sportsman, perhaps in his late forties. Indeed, he had the boxy build and erect carriage of an athlete. Probably football, given the size of the man’s shoulders…and hands.
A hand naked of a wedding ring.
“No problem,” she murmured, then looked back to her book and reread the paragraph for the third time.
He shifted again to retrieve something from the floor. “That must be some book,” he said in a distinctly Texan drawl.
Gabrielle swung her gaze up to his, her jaw set in consternation. “I’m not ashamed of my reading choices,” she chirped. “Besides, it’s none of your concern, sir.” It wasn’t the first time someone had made a comment about the provocative cover of a book she was reading.
“I couldn’t agree more, ma’am,” the man said, then held up her tasseled bookmark. “I only meant that you dropped your page marker.”
“Oh.” She swallowed and took the proffered bookmark that she hadn’t even missed.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Feeling contrite, Gabrielle cast about for conciliatory small talk. “This is my favorite bookmark,” she said, caressing the thin piece of plastic that announced there were too many books, and not enough hours in the day to read them.
“Nice,” he said, nodding. “What do you do?”
Heat climbed her neck. No man’s eyes ever lit up when she announced her occupation.
“I’m a librarian.”
The
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