I
Blair Lancaster unabashedly loathes Mr. Styles.
He always licks his slender index finger before flipping the weathered pages of a romance novel. She internally sympathizes with whoever is doomed to take home the book that had been in his filthy grasp.
He loudly clears his throat in the hushed space of the library far too often for her liking. She is beginning to wonder if he caught the fatal consumption disease and has a secret scheme to spread it across the city.
He viciously studies her and the other women like a predatory bird hunting its unguarded prey. She compares his calloused hands to the talons of a hawk and his blatant staring to their beady little eyes.
Perhaps Blair does not entirely loathe him. The feeling is more akin to a deep-rooted dislike for the man who supervises the alcove filled with women crammed around a small, oval table. No seats are provided, leaving them to stand on their aching feet for an unsuitable number of hours.
At the public library in Boston, New York, women are strictly required to segregate themselves from the men by sitting in the alcove if they wish to read books or write letters. Reading, however, proves rather bland when they are all given books about how a lady should properly act or ones that revoltingly mock their intellect.
Yet there is a more covert reason why they are confined to the alcove.
Library loafers is the coined term. Women have only recently been allowed access to the library, and there is a concern that they may be in danger from the men who lurk and loiter around the bookshelves and desks, leering at young ladies who just want the freedom of absorbing printed imagination.
The hickory walls are decorated with paintings of foreground femininity, yet the intended purpose is a façade.
See, the nook is still visible to other sections of the library. It resembles a shadowbox for the male gaze or a stage of sorts so they can observe the moral spectacle of well-behaved women. That is why Blair Lancaster detests the man sitting on his chair, more like a throne, flicking through pages of a far more exciting story than the one she holds. Mr. Styles is the one who polices their behavior, making sure no one is stepping out of line or provocatively reading something they are not supposed to.
Well, Blair enjoys pushing that limit every once in a while out of sheer apathy.
Whenever the book she reads starts to bore her to death, she ponders ways to aggravate him. In the past, she sighed dramatically after turning each page for ten whole minutes until he had to snap his fingers, warning her to stop. She has also pretended to fall asleep with her head on the table, purposely reaching her arm out to knock the book onto the floor with a loud thump, resulting in him huffing and picking it up for her. In one instance, she purposely gave herself a paper cut and dripped blood onto the first page of the book she was given so it would have to be thrown out. She could tell by the look on Mr. Styles' face that he knew she had only done it to be a pain in the neck.
Today, she decides to clear her throat every time he does. Only four other women are in the room, and Blair knows they like it when she breaks the quietness to bring entertainment to the dull atmosphere.
"Enough," Mr. Styles commands after her third act of mimicry.
She smirks and continues reading the same sentence repeatedly until she becomes bored. After a few minutes pass, he clears his throat again, and she does the same.
"Ms. Lancaster, may I have a word with you?"
Blair subtly rolls her eyes. She hates it when he treats her like a schoolgirl in detention, lecturing and speaking down to her as if she is inferior.
"What is it, Mr. Styles?" she asks as she walks over to him, feigning innocence to pester him even more.
He stares at her intensely. "Do you fancy being expelled from this library?"
"I think there is something in my throat," she says with a dramatic pout. "The book I was given is quite dusty."
He hums monotonously. "I must say, that was a terrible fib. I expected a better excuse from you."
Blair's lips twitch as she fixes the collar of her dress. "I do not fib, Mr. Styles. Allergies are dreadful this time of year, have you not heard? Or maybe you and I have caught..." She leans forward to theatrically whisper, "The consumption disease."
"Your hands fidget when you lie." With an unimpressed look, he jerks his chin toward the table. "Behave. Otherwise, you will be kicked out."
The conversation, if it could even be called that, dies quickly as Blair returns to her spot. Her remaining time in the alcove causes drooping eyes and raw, bitten nails. There is nothing she can do to make time pass any faster, so she watches the grandfather clock until it chimes when the small hand ticks to the number twelve. Blair promised her father she would be home for lunchtime, so she sets the book she only read two pages of in the wooden bin, then gives Mr. Styles an icy glare before leaving the library.
On her stroll home, she reminisces about every encounter with him today. Every facial expression and unspoken word told with each glimpse. She buries the invasive thoughts that dangerously cross the streets of her mind. However, at dusk, he creeps in her brain's crevices like noxious venom. When her satin curtains are drawn, and the burning sun says its farewell, Blair cannot help but think about him after she blows out the candles beside her bed.
His eyes of marjoram green that cast her discreet glances only she noticed. She wonders if she will ever get close enough to find specks of gold in them or if they crinkle when he laughs, lighting up with radiance that has never been revealed to her. There is a chance they soften when he reads a particularly romantic line in a novel, perhaps of a private touch or confession of love.
His long fingers that flip through the worn pages of said novels. Blair wonders how they would feel slowly trailing along her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, or how they would feel in her mouth, the pad of his thumb erotically settled between her teeth. There is a possibility they would stretch inside another part of her body so deeply that her entire soul would ache with pleasure.
His pink lips that pout and glisten in the sunlight filtered through the clerestory windows of the library. She wonders how they would form around certain words or if they feel as soft as they look, pillowy and sweet if she were to taste them. She will not taste them, but it is nice to dream about the flawless physicality of a man such as himself.
Mr. Styles may be unbearable and shrouded with arrogance, but that does not dismiss his obvious allure. He is nothing but a pretty face that haunts her at nightfall, hung high in the gallery of her mind like the moon in the starlit sky.
He is a complicated façade.
II
A spring thunderstorm has blown over the newspaper stands and matted down Blair's curls as she traverses up the slippery brick steps of the library again. Violent rain hits the cobblestone streets, which are filled with umbrellas over heads and coats over the less fortunate as they all maneuver to the closest shelter.
Blair has forgone any protection from the storm, so she passes through the familiar threshold with a saturated dress and dripping strands of blonde hair that appear a shade darker due to their wetted state. As she looks around, she finds the library completely barren of townsfolk except for a stout man who bustles up to her and huffs a displeased breath when he sees the puddle of rainwater forming by her feet. She hopes he overlooks the trail of muddy footprints she left behind.
"Good evening, Ms. Lancaster," he greets with a formal cap tip. "The unfortunate weather has sprung a leak in the alcove ceiling, so you will be relocated to the main room for the day."
Blair nods, attempting to hide the eager smile that threatens to pull at her freckled cheeks. It will be alleviating to not have to tolerate being confined in a stodgy room with Mr. Styles. She prays she will have the whole room to herself so she can conceive a plan to sneakily grab a horror fiction book while the thunder rumbles outside.
She follows the man who, if she remembers correctly, is the chimney sweeper usually found by the stone fireplace, soot dusting his forehead and coughing up a storm stronger than the one currently shaking the bookshelves. Speaking of which, the first thing Blair notices when she enters the candlelit room is that the bookshelves are all locked up with hexagonal metal cages. The flickering flames dance off them menacingly.
She furrows her eyebrows when the man's presence is no longer felt beside her. Then, she feels someone else's burning gaze. A sudden flash of lightning conducts her attention to the other side of the room and simmering rage immediately courses through her veins.
Mr. Styles is sitting on the windowsill with his legs crossed over one another. His jeweled fingers delicately hold a book as relentless rain pelts the windowpane behind him. He wears a silk shirt with small, puffed sleeves the color of ballet slippers—or perhaps the shade of the blush that spreads across his cheeks when Blair catches his not-so-subtle glance at her pebbled nipples under her soaked dress.
Blair's first step toward him creates an echoing creak on the wooden floor. "What business do you have here?" she asks bitterly.
He smirks before licking his index finger and flipping the page of his book. "Have you forgotten that this is my place of work?"
She swallows down disgust. "I would rather sit in the alcove and let the leakage slowly drown me than be here with you."
He looks up amusedly, running his eyes across her figure. "From how you look like a sopping mess, it seems as though you already have."
"A bit preposterous coming from a man with puffy princess sleeves."
A hummed and humorless laugh sounds from his closed lips. A cup of tea is steaming on a porcelain saucer next to his thighs. The sight of the brown liquid coats her throat with warmth.
Blair is quiet as she treads closer and walks her fingers along the top of the leather couch. The popping and hissing of the nearby fireplace fill the dead silence, its blazes of orange releasing glowing embers that beautifully fizzle out on the kindling.
"I presumed you would be the only one here today," Mr. Styles mentions after an elongated and intimidating pause.
Blair stands next to the fire, hoping it dries her dripping dress. "Yes, well, a thunderstorm is quintessential weather for reading. Is it not?"
"I will not argue with you there." He stands, replacing his book with the saucer. "This tea is for you. I figured since you will be stuck with me in this room, I shall attempt to make it as pleasant as possible."
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You made tea for me?"
His throat bobs. "Walking here in the rain is the quickest way to become ill, Ms. Lancaster. You should know better."
"Is it poisoned?"
The click of Mr. Styles' boots becomes muffled once he steps on the oriental rug she stands on. "No. I am not as cynical as you make me out to be in your head."
She pushes her wet bangs away from her forehead. "Do you know what is cynical?"
"Divertis-moi, ange de la pluie."
Blair ignores his French, which she does not understand. She has heard him use the language countless times before if any immigrant women are misbehaving in the alcove. His fluency and intelligence spark envy, but she will never admit it to his face.
"It is cynical that I come here every day and do not have the freedom to read what I desire," she says firmly. "Some days, I do not want to read in my dreary bedroom, so I seek serenity in a library that does not even respect me. How cruel, yet I still come here for a view other than my pathetic lawn!"
All Mr. Styles does is clear his throat while setting the tea down on the fireplace mantel. Blair wants to pour the scalding liquid down the back of his neck.
"What am I supposed to read if all the books I yearn for are locked away?" she adds defeatedly.
He twists his rings and bobs his head to a red book on the couch. "I was instructed to provide The Scarlet Letter."
Blair examines the chipped spine and faded cover. "I have not read that one yet."
"Veiled misogyny is what fills the pages. I find Hawthorne to be glorified as an author to a ridiculous degree."
"How promising," she mutters. "I suppose it is better than reading about everything I should do for my dutiful husband when he returns from war."
Mr. Styles looks at the floor and scrunches his nose before asking, "You have heard of Jane Austen, yes?"
"What?" Blair blurts confusedly. "Of course, I have. No one captures blooming romance quite like her."
"And did you see anyone else in the library when you arrived?" he questions further while taking a step closer.
"N-no," she stutters, scanning the empty room. "Only the chimney sweeper."
"Then follow me."
In the blink of an eye, Mr. Styles is halfway up the spiral staircase in the corner that leads to a place Blair has never been allowed to discover. She carefully grabs the tea and a stray candelabra, then catches up to his long strides. Eventually, she is led to the top and down a dark, narrow aisle where books upon books line the walls. Some are even stacked high on the floor.
Mr. Styles takes a silver key from his trouser pocket and unlocks a shelf on the left. He briefly peeks at her. "It will be our little secret, hmm?"
Blair marvels at the various romance and gothic titles that reveal themselves when she raises the flame. Wuthering Heights, Little Women, and Vanity Fair appear to have been gracefully worn over time and through use.
"I was once told by the owner that there was nothing important up here," she tells him as her fingertips trace the spine of Persuasion. "I never quite believed him."
Mr. Styles stands behind her. She can feel his steady breaths on her neck. "I apologize on behalf of him. He is not a charming man, that one."
Clark Bennett is his name. A tall, middle-aged rich man who set the misogynistic rules in place. She sees him roam past the alcove on rare occasions, silently inspecting the women through his monocle. Never one to initiate conversation, yet always the one to give disapproving glances. It angers Blair how someone could be so despicable. The other women are too afraid to speak out about the abhorrent environment he has created.
So, Blair turns around and looks at the man she despises but is the only one who seems to care about what she has to say.
"Mr. Styles," she begins, lifting the candelabra to light his face, "I feel unbearably suffocated in a place meant for comfort. As a woman, I cannot even read in this library without arbitrary rules that bring me unfathomable misery and rage. Having to sit and read sentences with no emotional attachment to me is torturous. Surely, I do not sound ludicrous."
"You can call me Harry," he responds.
She scoffs at his blatant disregard. "Did you listen to a word I said?"
He nods. "Yes, Blair. I realize this world hinders your ability to prosper as a woman, but I cannot change the rules. I do not have the authority, so please accept my offer of letting you read something other than shameful, discriminatory novels. Is that all right with you?"
She takes a sip of the herbal tea, now lukewarm, before saying, "Is this a trick to get me in trouble? I will not be fooled, Mr. Styles."
"Harry," he corrects. "And no, I am not a scoundrel. There is no reason for me to con you."
"There are plenty of reasons. Money and praise can make a man do evil things."
"Do you take me for a man who would do evil things?"
"Yes." She takes another sip. "I take every man for a schmuck. You are no exception."
He leans his head against the bookshelf and smiles handsomely. "A schmuck?" he repeats humorously.
"A cretin," she continues, enjoying herself very much. "A muttonhead. Personally, I like to call men ratbags."
Harry's eyes crinkle when he lets out a loud cackle. So they do crinkle. What a sight to behold!
Blair blows a strand of hair out of her eye. "This is not a laughing matter."
"Oh, but it is." He pushes his body off the shelf and towers over her. "You fascinate me with your unwavering temerity."
"Is that why you stare at me in the alcove so often?" she daringly inquires. "Because I fascinate you?"
Harry inhales slowly and deeply. In French, he says, "I stare at you because of your ethereal beauty. I cannot help but count the freckles on your cheeks or watch your eyelashes flutter as you flip through the pages of those terrible books. Does this answer your question, beloved blue eyes?"
Blair blinks twice, shaking her head. "You are speaking nonsense to me. I do not know any French."
"I spoke the truth. That is all you need to know."
She sets the tea and candelabra on the floor before smoothing her dress. "Anyway, I would very much like to read Jane Austen. There is only so much time in the day, yes?"
"Of course," he whispers. "You seem particularly interested in Persuasion."
"Is it good? I have not gotten around to reading it yet."
Harry takes the book and offers it to her. "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope," he quotes from memory. "That alone should convince you."
Blair absentmindedly nods, becoming distracted by the gold necklace he wears. The pendant is a cross symbol, one relating to Christ. Her curiosity grows as it glimmers from the quivering candle flame beside her feet.
She lays the cross on her open palm and asks, "Are you religious?"
His sloped nose almost touches hers from their proximity. "Moderately. I sin, but I see no redemption in asking for forgiveness. I suppose you can interpret my level of religion however you may."
She stares at his lips a second too long before meeting his eyes. "What sins do you commit?"
He covers her hand with his own. Blair feels his calloused thumb brush over her knuckle. "My sins are sensuellement privé."
"What does that mean?"
"It means they are done in private, curious girl."
Her skin grows warm. "Very well, then. I will not ask further questions."
He removes his hand and locks the shelf as Blair picks up her tea and sets it on the flat surface of her new book. He clears his throat, but it does not bother her as much this time.
"Let us read, shall we?"
III
The field of jasmine flowers is in full bloom, as is the month of May.
Budding dogwood trees sway under the cloudy sky as Blair walks to her favorite open patch of land to sit against the tree trunk and read a book like she does every Friday afternoon. The bottom of her white dress skims the dirt path weaving throughout the flourishing meadow. Her lace parasol shields the top of her head in case the sun peeks out.
She has been coming to the serene area for months, sometimes needing an escape from the four walls of her bedroom. She can bring the books she has received on her birthdays. Although she prefers to read in the library, she is slightly fonder of nature's quiet atmosphere.
Once she arrives at her signature spot, where the line of dogwood trees provides the perfect amount of coverage over the jasmine bushes, she stops when she sees someone already there.
Her blood boils. Mr. Styles, now known as Harry, is sitting against the gnarled trunk of her favorite tree with his ankles casually crossed while he reads from the book in his lap. He wears a ruffled, cream-colored blouse with a black vest over the silk fabric, and his matching flared trousers are provocatively tight against his muscular legs.
His eyes shoot up from his book when a twig snaps underneath her feet. He then raises it to block his face, and Blair almost laughs at the childish action. She is seething with rage because how dare he invade the only place she can get much-needed peace and quiet?
"What are you doing here?" she interrogates, a slight growl in the back of her throat.
"Reading," Harry replies flatly, still not showing his face.
"Yes, but why here? This is my spot."
"I usually only come here on Wednesdays when I do not work, but I was told my help was not needed at the library today. So, here I am."
Blair grinds her teeth. "Can you go elsewhere?"
He sets his book down and glances behind each of his shoulders. "Did I miss a sign on my way here that said: Blair Lancaster's Designated Reading Spot?"
She gives up arguing and sits against the prickly bush across from him. She is thankful he is not talkative, so finishing her book in his presence should not be a problem.
After a few minutes of unpleasant silence, she feels his gaze on her, but when she looks up, his eyes dart back to the pages before him. She subtly tries to read the title, but his attractively large hand envelops the front.
"The Portrait of a Lady," Harry murmurs as he noisily turns a page.
Blair quirks an eyebrow. "Pardon me?"
"The book in my hands," he says, finally showing her the cover. "It is the new novel written by Henry James."
"I did not ask."
He exhales a laugh through his nose. "Well, you keep looking at the cover, so I thought it would be gentlemanly to save you from straining your eyes so much. Getting cataracts at a young age would be no fun."
Blair brushes off his sarcasm and opens her book. Harry immediately leans forward and snatches it straight from her loose grip.
"Give me that back!" she exclaims, her mouth parted in shock.
He lifts it above his head and opens it. "What does the brash Blair Lancaster read when she is not provided chauvinist books in the alcove?"
She stands and puts her hand on her hips. "That is nothing of concern to you."
"Venus in Furs," he reads from the spine with a drawl and growing smirk. "This is quite an erotic choice, chérie."
Her cheeks redden as he flips through the pages filled with risqué words of desire and submission. "Give me my book back, or I will scream until the flowers wilt."
Harry ignores her as he dramatically reads, "And every man — I know this very well — as soon as he falls in love becomes weak, pliable, ridiculous. He puts himself into the woman's hands, kneels down before her. The only man whom I could love permanently would be he before whom I should have to kneel."
Blair takes the opportunity to yank her book from him while he is distracted by his immature ways. "I truly pity your wife and children for having to live with your irritating nature," she says exasperatedly.
"I do not have a wife nor children, so you are wasting your time pitying the foolish illusion you have created in your head."
"Well," she says with a bitter laugh, "it is no surprise that you are not married. I think I would burn myself alive if I had to share a life with you."
"For someone who speaks so ignoble of me, you think about what it would be like to be around me quite often," he responds smugly.
"You are an insufferable man, that is all."
"Menteuse."
Blair draws her lips back in a snarl. "It is a terrible shame you have a handsome face that is nothing but a façade for who you actually are."
Harry slowly stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. "And who am I, Blair?"
She exhales and looks up at the wispy sky. "A lonely man who sits in the alcove and makes sure the women there are miserable. A boring man who does nothing but be a nuisance to everyone around him."
Harry steps forward and jerks his chin up like he's desperate for a challenge. "Go on."
"I detest you." She leans in close so he hears every word. "Every dratted thing you do or say gets under my skin."
He quickly glances at her mouth. "Do you use such foul language around your mother, Ms. Lancaster?"
She clenches her jaw and turns around, beginning to walk down the path she came from. "You make me furious!"
His footsteps in the weeds get closer, so she speeds up. Even the sound of his boots stomping on the plush grass aggravates her. The way he can never let her have the last word, or how his eyes tell a different story than what comes out of his pretty mouth, will be the death of her.
Blair thinks she is far enough away from him, but suddenly, two large hands clasp onto her hips and stop her in her tracks. Her book falls to the ground, and she is left breathless.
"If I make you furious," Harry murmurs deeply in her ear, "then you make me a fucking madman."
His chest is pressed against her back as they inhale and exhale heavily, butterflies flying around the flowers and hidden cicadas chirping in the meadow.
"You test my patience, and I pretend it provokes me," he continues, flexing his hands. "It does the opposite, Blair. It makes me lust for you."
She lets Harry's confession seep into her skin like pleasurable poison. "I... you are reprehensible. I cannot stand it when you tell such insolent lies."
He presses his nose into her neck. "You render me weak. I think about you until I ache."
Blair swallows roughly when his damp lips trail along her pulse point. "Every word that leaves your mouth is concocted to debilitate me."
"Your blue eyes are an ocean I would gladly drown in."
Her knees almost give out, but she persists. "I will stuff my book down your throat if you do not stop blathering."
"You would like that, I reckon."
"Jesus wept, I hate you!" she shouts as she releases herself from his spell and continues walking.
He grips her wrist and spins her around. "Look at me when you say you hate me."
"I hate" — Blair points her finger at his chest — "you."
Harry takes three of her fingers and brings them up to her bottom lip. "These," he whispers, eyes locked onto her mouth. "I could write endless poetry about them."
"Stop it this instant."
He moves one of her fingers to trace the freckles dotting the apples of her cheeks. "The most marvelous constellations should be envious of these."
Her eyes soften, much to her distaste. "Please," she says, not knowing how she intends the word to come across.
"Tell me what you want, mon rêve céleste."
"I want you to shut your mouth."
His knuckles brush her collarbone. "Do you? Or do you want me to use my mouth for something else?"
Blair steps away from him. "How dare you assume that!"
"Quit looking at my lips, then."
"I am not! Quit analyzing me!"
"Your cheeks are pink. Why is that?"
She feels like fire is encompassing her. "Because..."
Harry bends down slightly to be at eye level with her. "Look at me, Blair."
Her walls crumble at that moment when she sees nothing but lustful hunger in his eyes. She gives in because if she goes down, let it be in a blaze of flaming desire. She cannot bear the thought of not touching him at least once in her lifetime, as much as she hates to admit the fact.
Blair unclasps the button by her cleavage, never breaking eye contact with him as his posture straightens and his prurient gaze gradually lowers. She maneuvers the dress over and down her shoulders, letting the loose garment pool at her feet. Harry drops to his knees before her, pulling down her chemise and gently removing her ivory-colored slippers.
"Lie down," he commands gruffly.
She obeys, the budding flowers surrounding her naked body as her blonde hair fans out on the grass.
Harry spreads her legs open and places his forearms next to them. "How do you need me, Blair?"
"Your fingers," she responds. "Please. I need them inside of me."
He tuts mockingly. "Not even a minute ago, you were telling me I was reprehensible, but now you beg like a whore."
She should slap him for his degrading language, but it only fuels her internal fire. Her hips desperately lift to meet his knuckle running along her inner thigh, and he moves it up even further until it reaches the coarse hair growing around her pelvis. She is already dripping with arousal. His fingers are so close to where she needs them most.
"Harry," she says breathlessly, her body writhing when his mouth brushes her clit. "God, just touch me. I beg of you."
"Say my name like that again, and I will do whatever you ask of me, darling."
"Harry," she moans while arching her back.
His fingers finally stretch her open, two knuckles deep in her pulsating walls, creating a burning sensation throughout her body. She had dreamed about how deep they would go, curling and thrusting to bring her inconceivable pleasure. It feels better than she imagined, and she sees stars as his thumb applies pressure to her clit.
"Blair." Harry uses his free hand to grasp her jaw. She opens her eyes and gets lost in his fervent gaze. "Who else has touched you? Hmm? Tell me."
He hits a particularly deep spot that has her whining like a pleading idiot. "M-many others, however, they all left me empty and unsatisfied."
"Did they make you wet?" He presses his warm hand against her lower stomach. "Did they leave you with a lingering ache right here?"
"No, but do you know why?" she responds, the pressure of his hand unraveling the knot of her forthcoming orgasm.
"Tell me all your secrets, flower."
"They never used their mouths," she admits. Harry looks up with impure eyes and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "Fingers can only provide so much pleasure, but a pair of pink lips like yours could make me fall apart completely."
"Is that right?" he breathes out.
She bites her lip with a blissful smile. "There is only one way to find out, yes?"
"I suppose so."
He takes his fingers out and spreads her thighs further open, her arousal sticking to her sweaty skin. The second his tongue licks a long stripe from her opening to her clit, Blair cries out for all the birds and bugs to hear. He laps up her wetness like sweet syrup on a delectable dessert. He kisses and nips in all the right places like he has known her body for ages, latching and sucking her most sensitive areas until she is clenching around nothing. Low, guttural groans and whimpers leave him when she grants him a raspy moan and hooks her legs around his body.
"I need— I have to release, Harry. It aches."
He hovers over her and rubs slow circles onto her lower stomach. "Let me see your eyes while you fall apart from underneath me."
Blair looks at him as his words push her off the edge. She releases, her body trembling and twitching from the strength of it. Harry sits back on his knees, untying the frilly bow from his blouse and using it to clean the remaining arousal around her inner thighs. After that, Blair stands on shaky legs, panting with tingling skin as Harry grabs her chemise and dress and helps her put them on.
"Do you still hate me?" he whispers in her ear, clasping her buttons gently. Blair can hear the smug smile in his voice.
"Maybe a bit less than yesterday."
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. "What if I did this?" She is taken aback when he kisses her deeply, holding the sides of her neck and making her stumble a bit from the forceful passion. "Blair?" he says as he pulls away. "How do you feel now?"
"I dislike you." Another kiss, one that sends heat spreading across her entire body as butterflies go wild in her stomach. She pulls away this time and tries not to show how fond she is of him. "All right, I tolerate you."
One more long kiss, ending in several pecks until she lets a smile take over her flushed face. "Je changerai d'avis un jour." (I will change your mind one day.)
Blair groans. "Will you ever tell me what you are saying?"
"No need." His thumb strokes her cheekbone. "I can always teach you."
"Pardon?"
"At the library," Harry elaborates softly. "I give French lessons every Monday in the study room. There should be some time slots open if that is of any interest to you."
She contemplates briefly before saying, "I think it would be an adequate way to spend my day rather than in the alcove."
Harry whistles and looks around incredulously. "Is Blair Lancaster admitting she would not mind spending time with me? Am I dreaming? Have I lost my bloody mind in this meadow?"
"Enough," she mutters. Her protest ends in a squeal when Harry slightly nips at her neck. "Stop it! That tickles!"
He grins like a fool and bends down to pluck a jasmine flower from the cluster surrounding her feet. He then grabs Venus in Furs and flips through it for a minute until he stops at a specific page toward the end. Blair watches him lay the flower horizontally, the thin stem acting as an underline for a quote.
~
You have corrupted my imagination and inflamed my blood.
~