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necessity. I need to feel those unsteady breaths, vibrating through his sinewy body. I want to see him jerk when I touch him – and he does. But he keeps still, then, for the slide of my hand – all the way down that glorious curve to the hollow at the small of his back.
    He won’t look at me. So I just do my business while his back is turned. I slide my hands over his narrow hips and feel him tremble, then go further yet and pass them over the firm cheeks of his arse.
    He makes a little startled sound when I touch him so intimately. His body vibrates with it, but he doesn’t try to escape. So I rub harder, caress him more firmly. I slide my palms over the crease between his buttocks, pressing that tweedy material as deep as it will go.
    He’s taking tight shaky breaths, now. When I squeeze one arse cheek, the breathing gets even tighter, and shakier. He even lets out something that’s almost a wavering moan – though not quite.
    It definitely becomes a moan when I slide my hand around his hip, and go for the parts between his legs.
    My hand immediately encounters the thing that’s making him moan. A rigid erection, thick and pressing out the material of his trousers. It’s so heavy and ready that just a brush of my fingertips makes it clear to me what’s there, and he gasps, for extra clarification. He drops the book he’s still holding, just so I’m sure.
    I think he goes to say something then – something like stop. I can’t. Don’t. But when I finger the stiff shape of him through his trousers, the words trail away. He wants this. He’s too eager for it to let propriety or repression or whatever else it might be stop him. I think about all the nights he must have spent with just his own hand for company, urging himself to lonely orgasms while flowery pages flutter through his head. I think about why he wanted this job, why he must have wanted it.
    Because he’s horny, so horny, even if other things inside him conspire to keep him alone. Just his little breathy sighs and his thick erection tell me how horny he is. Still, I want to hear him say it.
    ‘Do you want me to give you a handjob?’ I ask. Perhaps it’s the wrong thing to do. He glances to the side, briefly – almost looking at me, but not quite. His teeth are worrying into his bottom lip, again, and there’s a high glorious flush on the one pale cheek I can see.
    Finally, he turns his face back to the bookshelf. Puts his hand over mine, suddenly, shockingly. He moans at the extra pressure.
    ‘Yes,’ he forces out. ‘Yes.’
    I think about that point of mindlessness, when suddenly you just have to. When all possibilities open up. I think of him being there, of the book pushing him, of me pushing him, as I slide his zipper down.
    Just the feel of his fingers pressing against my wrist, urging me on, is intensely arousing. My clit aches to be touched and wetness eases between my slippery pussy lips, sensation tight in the pit of my belly and ebbing and flowing with every new move I make. But it’s building, and I want to build it higher. It’ll be sweeter if I do. I want to come with the sounds of him going first in my ears.
    The cotton of whatever underwear he’s wearing is damp. More than damp. So much so that I wonder if he’s already come, until I get my hands beneath the elastic and feel the slick bursting tip of his cock.
    When I finally tug him free of his underwear and his trousers, I’m desperate to look. I need to look around his body and see what I’m holding, because good Christ it feels big. He’s swollen and taut with arousal – of course he is – but I don’t think it’s just him being turned on that’s making his cock a challenge for my circling grip.
    I think of his broad shoulders and his large hands. Of course he’s got a big one. It would be weird if he were small. But this is something, even by those standards. It’s something by any standards – heavy against my palm and straining against my grasp.
    I map him