I never expected my love for smutty romance books to spill over into real life like that. It started innocently enough, or so I told myself. Every evening after work I’d curl up in my apartment with another dog-eared paperback, pages already soft from how many times I’d flipped through them. The stories were always the same in the best way: a woman who thought she knew exactly what she wanted until some man with rough hands and a filthy mouth showed her otherwise. I’d read those scenes again and again, fingers sliding between my thighs while the words burned into me. I never told anyone how wet those books made me, how I’d stop at a particularly explicit paragraph just to savor the ache.
Then I met him at the used bookstore downtown, the one with the narrow aisles and the smell of old paper. He reached for the same copy of a particularly steamy title I’d been eyeing, our fingers brushing. He looked at me with a slow smile and said, “You have good taste.” His voice was low, the kind that made the back of my neck prickle. We started talking about the books we loved, the ones with the scenes that left you breathless and a little embarrassed to be caught reading them in public. He admitted he collected them too. By the time we left the store together, my heart was hammering like I was inside one of those stories.
He invited me back to his place under the pretense of showing me his collection. I knew what it really meant, and I went anyway. His apartment was small, lined with shelves crammed full of the same kind of books. As soon as the door closed, the air changed. He stepped close, eyes dark, and asked if I liked the parts where the heroine got pinned against the wall. I nodded, throat tight. He didn’t waste time after that. His mouth found mine, hard and hungry, and his hands were already under my shirt, palms rough against my skin. I gasped when he lifted me, pressing me back against the nearest bookshelf so hard a few paperbacks tumbled to the floor.
We didn’t make it to the bedroom. He stripped me right there in the living room, peeling off my jeans and panties with impatient fingers while I fumbled with his belt. The moment his cock was free I wrapped my hand around it, stroking the thick length while he groaned into my neck. “You read those books and get this wet?” he muttered, sliding two fingers between my folds. I was soaked, embarrassingly so, and he laughed softly when he felt it. He dropped to his knees and licked me open right there against the shelves, tongue working slow and deliberate over my clit until my legs shook. I came with my fingers tangled in his hair, one of the fallen books digging into my bare foot.
He stood, spun me around, and bent me over the arm of his couch. I heard the tear of a condom wrapper, then the blunt head of his cock pushing inside me in one long thrust. I cried out, the stretch perfect and overwhelming. He fucked me hard, hips snapping against my ass while he held my wrists behind my back. Every stroke dragged over that spot that made my vision blur. I kept thinking about the scenes I’d read, how the hero always talked dirty, and he did too, voice low against my ear. “You like being used like the girls in your books? Tell me how many times you’ve touched yourself thinking about this.” I moaned an answer I could barely form, pushing back to take him deeper.
We moved to the floor after that, me on top, riding him while his hands gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks. My breasts bounced with every roll of my body and he sat up to suck one nipple into his mouth, biting just enough to make me clench around him. I came again, shuddering, forehead pressed to his. He flipped us, pinning my wrists above my head, and drove into me until he groaned and stilled, pulsing deep inside the condom.
Afterward we lay tangled on the rug, breathing hard, surrounded by scattered books. He traced lazy circles on my stomach and asked which scene I wanted to try next. I smiled, already thinking of the dog-eared pages waiting on his shelves. We spent the rest of the night reading aloud to each other between rounds, voices turning hoarse as the words turned into actions. By morning I knew I’d never look at those smutty romance books the same way again; they’d become the map to everything we’d just done and everything we planned to do again.
