The Sexy Librarian: A Lesbian Romance Read online

  THE SEXY LIBRARIAN

  A Novella

  Nicolette Dane

  Copyright © 2016 Nicolette Dane

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All romantically involved characters within this book are consenting adults over the age of 18 and are not related by blood. All rights reserved.

  About The Author

  Nicolette Dane landed in Chicago after studying writing in New York City. She flitted in and out of various jobs until she decided to choose herself and commit to writing full-time. Nico most enjoys writing about young sapphic love. Her stories are realistic scenarios of blossoming lesbian romance and voyeuristic tales meant to give you a bit of a peep show into the lives of sensual and complicated young women. Be sure to check out Nico’s Amazon Author Profile for more lesbian romance!

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  An Excerpt From The Sexy Librarian

  With me sitting on the foot of her bed, Esme stood in front of me and without a word she took hold of the bottom of my sweater and pulled it upwards. I raised my arms to allow her to pull it off and over my head, leaving me in just my grey camisole with the built-in bra, shaking my head back and forth a couple of times to straighten out my messed up hair. Esme then took her own tank top up over her head and let it fall to the ground next to my sweater. Standing there in her purple bra and brown herringbone tights, she grinned and threaded her fingers into the waistband of her leggings.

  “Wanna help?” she seductively cooed.

  “Okay,” I mused, hypnotized by her magnetism. Esme reached out and took my hands, bringing them up to her waistband and nodding her head softly. I pushed my fingers into the elastic, taking hold of the fabric, and carefully sliding it down off of her ass and hips. The fabric clung to her legs as I peeled it off her thighs, pushed it down over her knees and then let it fall to her ankles. Underneath she wore a matching pair of panties, light purple and frilly and ornate. In the low light of her bedroom I could see a small wet spot where the fabric covered her mound. I cautiously moved my eyes upward from her panties, over her slim stomach, up to her voluminous chest, and then to her smiling face framed by that stunning fiery hair. Esme made a kissy face down at me.

  “I showed you mine,” she said. “Why don’t you show me yours?”

  “My heart is gonna beat right out of my chest,” I said aloud, causing Esme to giggle knowingly.

  “Don’t worry, Amelia,” she said. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “All right,” I said almost inaudibly. Moving my hands down to my own black tights, I slipped them quickly over my butt, simultaneously lying back onto the bed as I pushed them down my legs. As I did this, Esme assisted, taking hold of them once they reached my knees and pulled them off of my feet along with my wool socks. I felt exposed, a bit bashful, but I gave in to the moment and was ready for wherever the night took the two of us. While I’d often fantasized about something like this happening, a sexy older woman taking charge in the bedroom, once you’re actually in the scenario it can become a little nerve-wracking.

  “Mmm,” hummed Esme, crawling up the length of my body, hovering over me, her hand dropping down to my panties and lightly running her fingers over my pussy lips through the fabric. I shivered as she touched me, beginning to feel quite humid down between my thighs, knowing that Esme most certainly felt my wetness as she fingered my panties. “You are so gorgeous, Amelia,” she said in a soft whisper.

  Table of Contents

  The Sexy Librarian

  An Excerpt From: Dormitory Dearest

  An Excerpt From: My Writing Professor

  You May Also Enjoy...

  Psst... Look Back Here

  THE SEXY LIBRARIAN

  *

  I LOVE BOOKS. I love the feel of books, lazily flipping through the pages. I love the smell of them, both new and old. And I love how they transport me into a world I never knew before, allowing the author to take me on a journey into their own imagination. So is it really a wonder that I love going to the library? I mean, of course I have my own curated collection of books at home, but the library is such a wonderful place for me to explore books. Whenever I travel to a new major city, whether it’s at home in the United States, or abroad in a place like London or Paris, one of my first stops is always the library. I just like to take it all in, be surrounded by all those amazing tomes, and melt into inebriation that books bring me.

  My name is Amelia. And I’m a total bookworm.

  I’ve always been like this for as long as I can remember. I think it was, perhaps, when I was 8 years old that I first discovered my love of reading. And now at 24 it’s still my favorite preoccupation. I don’t really get into television or movies — which, don’t get me wrong, can be amazing mediums to convey a great story — but I love the printed page because I get to picture the world myself. A book can be different for everyone who reads it and I love being able to interpret an author’s world on my own. When you read as much as I do, you naturally find yourself gravitating towards becoming a writer as well. And that’s what I do. I write. Not professionally yet, but I know that one day I will become that writer that so many people like me love reading.

  One of my favorite writers of all time is the author Marie Beauchamp. A Frenchwoman who moved to the States in the 70s, settled in as a professor at a liberal arts college in the Northeast, and wrote some of the greatest literary masterpieces in English (in my opinion, anyway). I guess she’s not very well-known, although some of her works have been pulled out from her publishing company’s stacks and reprinted by the New York Book Consortium. That gave her a bit of a wider release, though I think she’s still largely ignored. Beauchamp recently passed away and with her death came the trickles of interesting information that a bookworm like myself can’t help but eat up.

  You see, Beauchamp serialized a novella in a literary journal in the 70s that has been since lost to time. It was a small journal and no copy of it exists anymore. Oh, perhaps somebody has the magazines stuffed away somewhere, rotting in their basement, but because of its very limited release all those decades ago, not even libraries have it in their collections.

  That is until Beauchamp passed.

  In her will, Marie Beauchamp bequeathed a copy of this novella, called The Parisian in America, to the university that gave her her start as a teacher before she moved on to the Northeast. That university was the University of Chicago, in my own hometown of Chicago. Once I heard the news I just about collapsed. I had to go to the university library and read it. One of the stipulations of her donation was that the novella could not be released to general public or republished in anyway until 30 years after her death. This was to ensure that the library at the University of Chicago would have a draw of visitors to read the novella at the library itself, under librarian supervision of course. A librarian would watch you read the novella so that you wouldn’t be tempted to make a copy of it and thus take Beauchamp’s novella outside of the library walls.

  If we’re being honest, this particular policy was aimed at super-fans and completists like me. If I was able to go to the library, check out the no
vella by myself for use in the library only, you can bet your ass that I’d scurry over to the copy machine and make my own private copy. I mean, I wouldn’t share it with anyone or let it get out into the wild. I’d just keep it for myself at home, in my own collection. But under the watch of a stern librarian, this desire could never become a reality for me. I would only be able to read the novella at the library. I suppose I could handle that.

  *

  I wasted no time in making my trip to the university library after I read about the news online. Dressed in my thick winter tights, my furry snow boots, a big and well-insulated wool coat, and my hat, I made the trek by the train down from the city to Hyde Park to visit the library and read this story by one of my favorite authors. It was a beautiful snowy winter day in January, the snow freshly fallen and fluffy, and it really wasn’t all that cold for a Chicago winter. It was nice to commute in the late morning, with all the normal commuters already at work. One of the benefits of working from home for myself as a video transcriber. I got to make my own hours.

  I pushed through the front door of the library and smiled to myself, quickly removing my gloves and stuffing them into my pockets. The library was beautiful. Harper Memorial Library. It was something straight out of Hogwarts, at risk of showing my nerdiness. Gothic architecture, huge ceilings, amazingly large windows. As I looked around, I mused to myself that it was simply a travesty that I didn’t make it down to Hyde Park more often to frequent the library. It was magnificent. I felt like I could almost cry it was such a sight.

  Breaking from my geeky reverie, I meandered up to the information desk and waited for a crotchety-looking man to finish what he was doing on the computer screen in front of him. After a moment, he looked up and noticed me.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in a droll voice.

  “Yes,” I said eagerly. “I’m here to read the novella A Parisian in America by Marie Beauchamp that was recently released to the library.”

  “Huh?” he said, furrowing an eyebrow and looking me over. “Oh yes,” he intoned, my request sparking something in his memory. “Go to the other side of the library. You’ll see another information desk. There’s a librarian there, Esme Strong, who can help you with your special collections request.”

  “Thank you!” I beamed, swiftly turning from him and scooting my boots across the tightly woven carpet below. My heart raced with excitement, my usually pale face rosy from the cold outside.

  As I approached the second information desk, as the old librarian up front had instructed, I slowly pulled my winter cap off and stared in a dumbstruck wonderment. Sitting behind the desk was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She had curled and twisted deep red hair, quite natural in color, twirled around and held up in back by a bun. Dark black plastic eyeglasses rested on her nose. Her face was pale like mine, though lightly speckled with vague freckles under her eyes. This woman was lithe and fair, delicate in her mannerisms, with lips colored a deep red and pursed tightly as she deliberated over whatever paperwork was laid before her on her desk. I could tell she was older than me, but how much older I could not say. For a moment, I completely forgot why I was there as I admired this fresh-looking beauty of a woman.

  “Excuse me,” I said to her, feeling totally embarrassed. I pushed my hand through my slightly messy brown locks, fluffing them out and trying to look presentable to this total knockout sitting in front of me. She was even more beautiful up close. She wore a tight white button-down shirt with the top few buttons undone, showing off her ample cleavage. I even spotted some light freckles on top of her chest before she looked up at me and smiled. Her green eyes peered at me over top her black frames. She was playful and happy.

  “Good morning,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a special collections librarian,” I said. “Esme Strong.”

  “You’re talking to her,” said Esme with a joyful grin. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Oh,” I said softly, still taking her in. What a perfect turn of events. How lucky was I that this gorgeous woman would be the one who was to help me find the novella. My heart fluttered with a hint of nervousness, trying not to say something silly or stutter or otherwise make a fool of myself in front of Esme.

  “Yes?” she said, nodding at me, still smiling patiently as I tried to find my words.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, giving myself a light smack on the cheek. “I’m here looking for a novella,” I went on. “Um, A Parisian in America by Marie Beauchamp,” I said, watching Esme as she watched me. “I heard it was recently released and only available here.”

  “You heard correctly,” said Esme. “It’s a wonderful story.”

  “You’ve read it?” I asked with pleasant surprise, quickly feeling embarrassed by my eagerness.

  “Of course,” said Esme. “Beauchamp is one of my favorite authors.”

  “I love her,” I said. “I’ve read everything she ever wrote. Well, apart from this novella,” I said. “I’m so excited to finally read it.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Esme, pulling her glasses off her face and setting them down in front of her. A hint of fire danced in her eyes, a keenness, an alertness.

  “Me?” I said. “My name’s Amelia.” Esme stuck her slender hand out to me and I took it almost automatically, the two of us gently shaking.

  “Esme,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet another Beauchamp fan. Honestly, I don’t meet very many,” she said with a soft laugh.

  “I feel like she’s a writer I can truly relate to,” I said, looking down slightly, feeling a bit awkward. “Her themes really resonate with me.”

  “Sometimes it’s difficult being…” said Esme, mulling it over, looking off slightly as she searched for her words. “Who we are,” she said finally, giving me a knowing smile. “I mean, in Beauchamp’s time it was even more so. We’re very fortunate today.”

  “Yes,” I admitted, flattening my lips and bowing my head. I could tell Esme knew what really drew me to Marie Beauchamp. I could tell she knew who I was just by finding out how much I loved this author. And I could tell that she was admitting to me that she felt the same way.

  “So if you’re unaware,” continued Esme, her face bright as she looked up at me from behind the desk. “You may only read the story here in the library under librarian supervision,” she said. “The story cannot leave the building.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “It was Marie Beauchamp’s wishes,” said Esme. “It cannot be republished until 30 years after her death.”

  “That’s what I read,” I said. Even though I knew what Esme was telling me, I have to admit that my mind still tried to figure out ways to get the story out of the library. Perhaps I could bring a blind person into the library under the guise that I was going to read them the story, all while secretly recording my voice on my phone as I read. Or I could wear some sort of trick glasses that had a built-in camera, snapping pictures as I turned each page. I knew these thoughts were wrong, and I hadn’t even read the story yet, but I knew I wanted it for my own personal collection.

  “How old are you?” asked Esme suddenly, lifting a brow, her face serious yet impish. It was certainly a strange question to ask and caught me a little off guard.

  “Me?” I said. “I’m 24. How old are you?” I said and then quickly regretted it. What a strange conversation to be having with a librarian. But, hell, she started it.

  “Hmm,” said Esme, brushing her hand over the paper on her desk as though the question didn’t make sense to her. She pursed her lips and scribbled a little something on the paperwork with a pen. “I’m a bit older than you,” she said after a moment.

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, you don’t look much older.” She laughed gently to herself, dropped the pen, and looked up to me.

  “I’m 37,” she said. While it took me a moment to realize what was going on, it soon became apparent as I watched Esme’s face. This librarian was flirting with me.
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  “You don’t look 37,” I said, reiterating my compliment. “30 maybe,” I said.

  “You’re very sweet, Amelia,” she said, her lips curling into a devilish smile. “You’re going to love the novella,” she said, bringing our conversation back to my reason for being there. “It’s very much a Beauchamp story.”

  “So how do we do this?” I asked. “I’m so excited to read it.” Esme pushed herself back from her desk and stood up, showing off that she was wearing a thin black pencil skirt and black tights to go along with her slim-fitted white button-down. She fiddled slightly with the two chopsticks pushed through her hair bun and smiled at me.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  *

  Sitting at the desk in a small, private reading room, I turned to the last page of the novella, my eyes glued to the pages. Esme sat across from me in the corner, perfect posture in her seat as she delicately filed her nails without making a sound. Looking up from the story for a moment, my eyes met with Esme’s and she gave me a gentle smile, pushing her black glasses up her nose before she returned to her filing. I returned to reading but felt a little uneasy, a little flustered, a little excited that Esme and I were so close together in this small room.

  As I finished the last page in the novella, I smiled happily and closed the binder that housed the story. I looked up to Esme and she furrowed her brow questioningly.

  “Finished?” she asked.

  “Mm hmm,” I said. “It really was spectacular. I’m just amazed that it was never republished before her death.”

  “I believe the journal it was originally published in held the rights,” said Esme. “But then they went under in the late 70s and it was just a strange legal mishmash. Thankfully we get to read it now,” she said with a smile.