13. Evie

13

EVIE

T he last guest has left, and the bookstore is finally quiet, save for the soft, lingering notes of Mr. Dupree’s guitar still hanging in the air. I lock the door behind me, the click of the latch sealing us in, wrapping Sasha and me in the intimate silence of the night. My heart is racing, a mix of nerves and excitement thrumming through me, fueled by a couple glasses of wine I’ve already had. Tonight feels different—charged with possibility—and I want to make the most of it.

I glance over at Sasha, who is standing near the shelves, running her fingers absently over the spines of books, lost in thought. How she looks in this space like she belongs here makes my breath catch. I want this night to be special, something more than just an ending to the poetry event. I want it to feel like a continuation of the last time we spent the night together in the bookstore.

I move to the small table near the stage where we’d talked earlier, where our fingers had brushed and lingered, where the unspoken tension between us had been almost palpable. The wine bottle is nearly empty, but there is just enough for two glasses. I pour it carefully, watching the dark red liquid swirl into the glass, catching the light from the dimmed lamps above.

I set the glasses down on the table, arranging them carefully, making sure everything feels just right. My hands are steady, but inside, I am buzzing with anticipation, every nerve on edge. I reach behind the counter, pulling out the old, woven blanket we curled under before. I spread it out on the floor, turning the space into a makeshift little haven.

I look around, taking in the way the soft light touches everything—the gentle glow of the books, the flicker of candlelight I’d set on the counter, the muted shadows that stretches across the room. It is intimate, cozy, exactly how I want it to feel. My fingers trace the edges of the blanket as I smooth it out, feeling the quiet weight of the moment. I reach for a stack of poetry books I’d pulled earlier—some of my favorites, filled with verses that speak of love and longing, hope and new beginnings. I want the night to feel light, easy, but also honest, like the kind of conversation you only have when you’re two glasses deep and the rest of the world has faded away.

I set the books within reach, flipping one open to a page I love, the words dancing in my mind as I imagine reading them to Sasha. The poems are a mix—some playful and light, teasing in their rhythms; others more tender, touching on the quiet moments that make you feel seen. I hope they’ll be enough to bridge the gap between us, to turn this night into something that isn’t just about attraction, but connection.

As I step back to look at what I’ve created, I feel a flutter of nerves. It’s simple, nothing extravagant—just wine, blankets, and poetry. But it’s ours, and that makes it feel meaningful.I catch a glimpse of her, still near the shelves, and I call softly, “Hey, come here.”.

Sasha turns, her eyes meeting mine, and there’s something in her expression—curiosity, maybe, or something softer, more vulnerable—that makes my pulse quicken. She walks over, her movements unhurried, and as she gets closer, I feel the space between us shrink to nothing.

I gesture to the setup, trying to keep my smile casual, though my heart is hammering in my chest. “I thought maybe we could stay a little longer. Just us.”

Sasha’s gaze shifts to the blanket, the glasses of wine, and the stack of poetry books resting within easy reach. Her smile is warm, and it lights something inside me. She doesn’t say anything at first, just taking it all in, and when she finally looks back at me, there’s a quiet understanding in her eyes that makes me feel seen in a way I don’t expect.

“This is perfect,” she says, her voice soft and genuine, and it’s all the reassurance I need.

I hand her one of the glasses, our fingers brushing against each other’s, and we sit down together on the blanket, the night settling around us like a secret. The candles flicker as we sip our wine, and I feel the last of my nerves melt away.

We don’t need to rush. The poems are there, waiting for when we are ready, but for now, it’s enough just to be here and share this space. The attraction between us is still there, humming beneath the surface, but so is something deeper, something that feels like the start of a story I’m not sure how to tell just yet.

But I want to try.

We curl up on the blanket, our shoulders touching as we settle into the small, cozy space. The room feels like it’s just ours now—quiet and intimate. Sasha’s presence next to me is grounding yet electric, and the simple act of being close to her feels like something I want to savor.

I reach for the stack of poetry books, my fingers grazing over the covers until I find the one I’d marked earlier. It is an old collection—well-loved, the pages worn and softened over time. I flip it open to the poem I’ve been thinking about all night, the one that feels right for this moment, with its sensual, lingering lines that speak of touch and connection.

“This one’s always been a favorite of mine,” I say, my voice hushed, the words barely above a whisper.

Sasha looks at me, her eyes dark and curious, and I feel my heart stutter at the way she watches me. I clear my throat, settling the book in my lap, and begin to read, my voice slow and deliberate, each word hanging in the air between us.

We linger in shadows, close and near,

With whispered secrets, soft and clear.

Your breath on my skin, a gentle trace,

The slow, sweet burn of this hidden place.

We speak in touches, fingers glide,

Mapping the curves we’ve yet to hide.

Your lips, a promise, warm and true,

A taste of wine, of me and you.

The night is ours, no rush, no fear,

With every kiss, you pull me near.

A dance of fire, slow and kind,

Our bodies sway, our hearts entwined.”

My voice is steady, but each word feels like an intimate confession, exposing a part of me I haven’t dared to share until now. I can feel Sasha’s gaze on me, the way her eyes linger on my lips as I read, and it makes my pulse quicken, my skin warm under the heat of her attention.

When I finish, the silence between us is thick, charged with the weight of the poem’s sensuality, the quiet promise of something more. Sasha’s lips parts, as if she is about to say something, but instead, she sets her glass down and moves closer, her movements slow, unhurried, like she’s savoring every second.

She doesn’t say a word. She just looks at me, her eyes soft and intent, and I can feel the pull, the magnetic draw of her that has been there from the start. I set the book aside, the pages falling shut, and turn to her, our faces inches apart. I can smell the wine on her breath, rich and heady, mingling with the faint scent of her perfume.

Sasha’s fingers brush the side of my cheek, a light, teasing touch that sends a shiver through me. She leans in, her lips hovering just above mine, and for a moment, we just stay there, the anticipation buzzing between us. I can feel her breath, warm and steady, the closeness of her making my heart pound.

Then she closes the distance, her lips meeting mine in a soft, lingering kiss. It is gentle at first, tentative, as if testing the waters, but it quickly deepens, fueled by the wine and the quiet intensity of the moment. Her mouth is warm and sweet, tasting of the dark, earthy notes of the wine, and I find myself sinking into it, my own lips parting to meet her.

I kiss her back, slowly at first, savoring the way she feels—soft, inviting, every movement a careful exploration. There is no rush, no urgency, just the slow, deliberate pace of two people finding each other in the stillness. I can taste the wine on her tongue, the mix of alcohol and something uniquely her, and it’s intoxicating, heady in a way that makes me forget everything else.

Sasha’s hand slides into my hair, her fingers curling at the nape of my neck, pulling me closer as the kiss deepens. I can feel the heat of her skin, the way her body presses against mine, and it sends a jolt of desire straight through me. I let myself melt into her, my hands finding their way to her waist, feeling the soft curve of her beneath my touch.

The kiss grows hungrier, more insistent, and I lose myself in it, in the warmth of her lips, the taste of wine, the soft sounds of our breaths mingling in the quiet bookstore. It feels endless like time has slipped away and there’s nothing left but this—just us, tangled in the moment.

When we finally pull back, breathless and flushed, Sasha’s forehead rests against mine, her eyes still closed, a smile ghosting on her lips. I can feel the steady thump of her heartbeat, the quiet affirmation that this is real, that we are here, together.

I cup her cheek, my thumb brushing lightly against her skin, and I lean in, my voice barely a whisper, thick with promise and the lingering heat of our kiss and I am brave- I say again what I said earlier. “Later, you’re mine.”

"Later is now," she whispers softly, her voice tinged with both challenge and invitation. The words send a spark of heat straight through me, igniting every nerve with a sudden, urgent need. There is no more room for hesitation, no space left between us for anything but action, desire pulling us closer, pushing us over the edge we’ve been teetering on all night. Sasha’s lips crash into mine, the softness from before replaced by something fiercer, hungrier. The kiss is intense, desperate, as if we are trying to make up for all the moments we hold back, all the things we haven’t yet said. Her hands are on me instantly, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer as if she can’t bear to have even an inch between us.

I can feel the heat of her, the way her body presses urgently against mine, and I match her intensity, my own hands roaming over her, finding the hem of her shirt and tugging it up with frantic, impatient fingers. We break apart just long enough for me to pull the fabric over her head, our breaths mingling in gasps, the cool air of the bookstore barely registering against the fire sparking between us.

My mouth finds hers again, and she kisses me back just as hard, just as needy, her teeth grazing my lower lip, sending jolts of pleasure and pain mingling together. There is nothing gentle about it now; this is raw, messy, and completely consuming. Sasha’s hands are on my waist, pulling me closer, her touch hot and insistent as she slips beneath my sweater, fingers tracing the bare skin underneath.

I shiver at the contact, every nerve alive with anticipation, and I press against her, needing more, needing all of her. My hands fumble at the buttons of her jeans, the urgency between us palpable, like we are both afraid this moment might slip away if we don’t grab hold of it now. Sasha’s breath hitch as I push the fabric down, and I feel her fingers working at my own clothes, pulling at my waistband with the same desperate need.

We tumble onto the blanket, our bodies tangled in a mess of limbs and breathless gasps, the softness of the fabric beneath us barely registering as we reach for each other. Sasha’s kisses are relentless, her lips finding my neck, my collarbone, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Her touch is everywhere, demanding and sure, and I am lost in it, lost in the way she makes me feel seen and wanted and wild all at once.

“God, Evie,” she murmurs against my skin, her voice ragged, filled with a mix of desire and something deeper. “I need you.”

The words are a plea, raw and vulnerable, and they send my heart racing. I hook my leg around hers, pulling her closer, feeling the firm press of her body against mine. My hands explore her, sliding over the curves of her hips, her waist, memorizing every inch like I’ll never get the chance again.

I push her back gently, just enough to meet her gaze, her eyes dark and filled with the same need that’s coursing through me. There’s no time for shyness, no room for second-guessing. I let my fingers trace the line of her jaw, then her lips, and I kiss her again, deeper this time, tasting the urgency on her tongue, the faint sweetness of the wine still lingering between us.

She responds instantly, her hands finding the clasp of my bra, fumbling slightly in her haste but not stopping or slowing down. I arch into her touch, the cool air meeting my bare skin as the fabric falls away, and the sensation sends a shiver of pleasure coursing through me. Sasha’s mouth is on me again, lips and tongue exploring, discovering, and I can barely keep up, my own hands roaming over her in a frantic attempt to give back every bit of the need she’s pouring into me.

Quickly, our clothes discarded carelessly around us. There is no thought, no hesitation—just the relentless drive to be closer, to feel skin against skin, to lose ourselves in this moment that feels inevitable.

We move together, every kiss, every touch frantic and feverish, fueled by the shared urgency that seems to consume us both. I can feel the rough edges of the books around us, the faint scratch of the blanket beneath, but none of it matters. All that matters is Sasha—the taste of her, the feel of her, the way she pulls me in and doesn’t let go.

Our kisses grow messier, more desperate, hands grasping, pulling, nails digging into skin as we give in completely to the pull between us. I can feel the tension building, the sweet, aching need that only intensifies with every touch, every breathless whisper. We are tangled together, a knot of desire and longing, and I don’t care about anything else—not the past, not the future—only this, only now.

Sasha’s lips find mine once more, and the kiss is so full of heat and hunger that it leaves me breathless and dizzy. Her hands grip my waist, pulling me closer until there is no space left between us, until every part of me is touching her, melting into her. We are a rush of heat and want, frantic and wild, and it’s perfect, messy, unrestrained, and everything I haven’t realized I’ve been craving.

As we move together, the world around us fades to nothing, and all I can feel is her on top of me—her thigh pushing my legs apart and pressing into my pussy.

I feel her right hand slipping down between us until her fingers are circling over my clit, sliding easily against me.

“Oh, Evie, you are so wet for me,” she growls in my ear before taking my earlobe in her teeth. I feel her repositioning herself- I think so she can take her own pleasure from grinding against my thigh. I feel her own slick wetness there. I feel her fingers pushing lower, pressing inside of me, opening me up for her and she begins to fuck me.

And fuck me, she does. In and out, increasing in tempo, fingertips pressing into my G spot. I hear my own moans tear through the air with the deep pleasure I’m feeling.

I feel her against my clitoris too. Is it her hipbone? The heel of her hand? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter.

It is overwhelming and consuming, and I give myself to it completely, feeling the tension coil tighter and tighter until it snaps, pulling me under in a rush of heat and sensation of my climax that leaves me gasping and clinging to her.

Seconds later, I feel her grinding hard against my thigh, taking her own pleasure from my body. Her orgasm tears through her with ferocity and she cries out, “Evie…”

My name on her lips as she comes is the sweetest sound before she collapses into me, hot and heavy and beautiful.

We stay like that, tangled together on the blanket, our breaths mingling, bodies warm and slick against each other. The bookstore is quiet around us, the only sound the soft, ragged breaths we share. Sasha’s forehead rests against mine, her eyes closed, and I can feel her heartbeat, wild and erratic, matching my own.