Disclaimer: Don’t own Ezra, but the smut is mine, all mine. Just don’t send flames, por favor.
Something about the weather always sparked his memory of her, the most beautiful girl in the world. He sat, sipping his whiskey, lost in thought, as the Denver wind blew outside his window, rustling the leaves.
Twelve years ago, somewhere on the East Coast…
Quarter to midnight…
It was the kind of place no one was at on this hour of a Saturday night. No one with a life, that was. Well, she had no life to speak of, just her cold impersonal books and notebooks, lap top and pen. As students went, she was atypical. No drinking or wild parties for her. She bought into the theory that to get ahead, you had to work twice as hard as everyone else. So that was why she was alone in one of the collection rooms at her colleges library, close to midnight, reading through books in an effort to finish her grant proposal. She sighed as she jotted down another note about the details of women in the Middle East.The sound of the door creaking caused her to look up from the book irritated that someone had deigned to invade her sanctuary. She couldn’t really see the person in the darkness. She liked to work with just a dim desk lamp, and her invader was outside the circle of golden light she sat in. "Can I help you?"
"I saw the light in the window," the soft, southern tenor said. The woman felt a shiver run her spine. "I needed to do some research. Do you mind?"
There was no way she could say no to that voice. "Sure," she said, her alto slightly sultry from the tiredness that had been invading her consciousness. "Feel free to put on the light." It flicked on, and she drew breath quickly. He had beautiful hair, this wonderful auburn chestnut color. His eyes were like jade fire, sparkling, yet oddly guarded. She sensed someone had hurt him, and he had built a wall around himself, trying to protect his emotions. It was a little like looking in the mirror. She shuddered to remember the last person she had let get into her comfortable world and the pain it had paid her with.
The young man took in the sight before him with a mixture of awe and desire. He had walked past the library every night for a week and seen the light on in the window. He had wondered who it was, so tonight, he had stood behind a tree on the quad and watched as a shadowy feminine figure arrived at nine, almost like a ghost. She had entered the building, and a few minutes later, the light had gone on. He was intrigued by the mystery, and decided to go up later to see who his ghost was. He had sat reading for a few hours, until it was nearly midnight. The witching hour seemed the perfect time to go hunting for apparitions.
She was better than a ghost. She was a goddess. He had always imagined Athena, goddess of wisdom and warfare to look a little something like this. Rich dark brown hair fell about her back in a series of braids meant to keep it out of her face, but creating an intriguing puzzle he wanted to get his hands on. Her eyes glimmered golden brown from the light tan and the soft light of the lamp. Her body was curvy, with full breasts evident under her light gray button up sweater. He could see them move gently as she breathed. Her lips were slightly full, and her face free of make-up, naturally radiant. He realized he had stopped breathing for a second, and took a deep breath. "Thanks," he said. He made his way over to the archive in the room and began looking around, a little lost. He had made up the research as an excuse, and now he didn’t know what to look for. This was the Eastern studies collection, after all.
She watched him, amused. She knew he wasn’t really here for research. She personally knew everyone in the Eastern studies department, and he wasn’t one of them. She didn’t particularly know what he had come her expecting to find, or why he seemed to want to stay, and they made her curious. "Help you find something?"
"Um," he said, his mind searching for something that sounded right. "The Kama Sutra?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he blushed bright red. Had he really just said that?
"Good book," she said honestly, sensing his embarrassment. She was sure it was the first Eastern sounding thing that came into his mind. The poor guy looked a little mortified before a poker face slammed down over the expression. She stood up and made her way over to the stacks.
He had been ready to bolt, but the image of her standing, walking, froze him. She moved with the grace of a cat, her jeans hugging the contours of her body. What she was doing was seductive, and the power of it was magnified by the fact she was being natural. That much he knew. She wasn’t very tall, but she carried herself with purpose. He watched as she stopped in front of the stacks, and moved with the knowledge of someone who knew the contents by heart. She stopped at the third case and bent over. The contours of her ass caused a wave of fresh desire to wash over him as he watched her pull two books off the shelf.
She straightened up and turned, walking towards him. "There are two translations of it," she said. "I wasn’t sure which one you’d want." She handed them to him, causing their hands to brush ever so slightly. A jolt of electricity hit her, causing her to feel lightheaded and let her hand linger against his for a moment. "I should get back to work," she said, starting to turn away.
"So you’ve read it," he said. Her head jerked back to face him.
"What?" she said. She knew she had more notes to make, but suddenly they were the farthest thing form her mind.
"You said it was a good book," he replied. "I assume you know it." The double meaning inherent on that statement was enough for her to feel a flash of heat shot through her, settling in her core.
"Yes," she said. "I know it well." She turned from him and walked not to the desk she was using, but door. She pulled out a key ring and inserted one into the lock on the door. She again turned and faced him, grinning softly. He looked at her in confusion. "Wouldn’t want anyone to disturb research, would we?" she said.
For the first time, he realized he had never told her his name. "I’m Ezra," he said.
The woman looked up at him for a moment. It was an unusual name, almost as strange as her own. "Rhiannon," she replied. He grinned at the name, Welsh for witch. She certainly was bewitching. She moved back towards her desk, and for the first time, he took in the Eastern Collections room for the first time. The bookcases that held the more recent and less valuable books line two of the walls, floor to ceiling, with ladders to reach the high shelves. Against the back wall of the room were two large, locked cases that held the rare and valuable collections. In between then was a large tiled fireplace with a beautiful green marble mantle that held various objects in glass viewing cases. Towards the door stood a set of rich tables, with study carols on top to afford users some measure of privacy. Closer to the fireplace was a pair of large and comfortable end chairs and a huge overstuffed couch.
"Your name is beautiful," he said. She looked up from her books, realizing he had moved almost silently to stand beside her seat. He leaned over her shoulder; his arm brushed hers as he looked at the book she was reading.
"My mother was Welsh," she said. "Ezra is unusual."
"My father was a minister once," he said, the tone brokering no more comment from her. He set the books she had given him down on the table of the next carol. "I didn’t come here for a book."
"I know," she said. He looked at her. "I’ve been in this program since I started school, Ezra. You aren’t in Eastern Studies, and no one who needs something from the collection outside of the program ever comes here, they just file a request with the main circulation desk. So why are you here?"
"You," he said. "I saw the light on every night from street as I walked across campus, and I wondered who could be working that late. So tonight, I waited to see who entered the library when the light came on. I saw you, looking like a ghost, and I waited to follow you. The idea of someone in here every night intrigued me."
"And am I as intriguing as you thought I’d be?" she asked, using her free hand to shut the book cover. She leaned back just a bit, so her sweater covered arm brushed gently against his.
"More than I even imagined," he said, letting his hand drift over to one of the braids. His fingers worked gently against the hair tie holding it until it came undone. He tossed the tie idly on the desk and began unraveling the hair. "Your hair is so soft."
"Moving kind of fast here, aren’t we?" Rhiannon asked.
"Do you want me to slow down?" Ezra responded, letting her hair fall to trace the line of her jaw with his fingers. He felt her gasp gently.
"No," she replied. "Why do you think that I locked the door?" Standing up, she turned to face him and reached out, running her own fingers down his face. The kiss that followed began tentatively. It was the kiss of two strangers in the night, finding a solace in each other. However, as soon as their lips brushed together, a feeling of fire seemed to ignite in them. Her hand circled up, drawing his head closer to hers and parting her lips ever so slightly in invitation. He took the suggestion, and took the time to explore her sweet mouth.
She felt herself lean against the table at her back, and realized just how uncomfortable that was going to be. Breaking away from the kiss, she smiled languidly at Ezra. "Think we could move this over to the couch?" she asked. "I think it might be a bit more comfortable."
He grinned back at her, and taking her hand, lead her carefully towards the plush couch. He reached up and quickly removed the last of the hair ties, throwing them aside and working the hair out of the plaits. It fell thick and dark, cascading over her shoulders. Her scalp tingled at the sensation being lavished on her. She found herself purring gently. "You like that?" he asked. As he gently pulled her down on the couch with him, his hand brushed her breast through her sweater. She gasped and arched against the touch as another bolt of lightening shot through her.
"Yes," she breathed. She reached out and began undoing the buttons on his polo shirt with shaky fingers. He reached down and pulled the shirt from his trousers, pulling it over his head. She let out a frustrated sigh at the sight of an undershirt, before reaching out both hands and yanking it up and over his head. "Much better." She ran her cool hands over his chest and was rewarded with a soft groan in his throat and a bulge in the crotch of his nice trousers.
"Your turn," he said. His hands made quick skilled work of the buttons on her sweater, and soon the cashmere was laying puddle on the floor next to the couch. Underneath, he found a lovely black lace bra. "You know what they say about women and black underwear," he said, using one hand to unclip the hook holding her breasts in. The two perfect orbs came free easily.
"Why do you think I own it?" she asked, devilishly.
He began to kiss her chin, then down to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, alternating between gentle kisses and little nips, reveling in the sounds of her moans. His hands found their way to her breasts and he used his fingers to abrade the already sensitive and hard nubs there. While he did that, she worked on the button of his jeans, having a little trouble as her hands shook at the sensations he was causing. She managed to undo the button and his fly, slipping her hand inside to caress his already hard arousal.
He gasped as he felt the movement of her fingers on him there. They were light and barely grazed him through his silk boxers. He groaned as he felt himself grow even harder. He adjusted his breathing to try to regain control and not rip the rest of her clothes off of her. Instead, he used his strength to roll her under him, before kissing his way down her neck to her breasts. Choosing the right breast, he replaced his fingers there with his tongue, swirling it lightly around the hard nub of flesh.
"Ooooohhhh," she moaned hard. Her hands fell away as he lavished attention on one breast, then the other, and back again. Her hips began to squirm and buck against him as he straddled them, and the friction of denim on khaki. He pulled away from her and listened to her groan her disappointment. He quickly undid her jeans and pulled them off of her, not surprised to find the black silk panties soaked. They too came off, and laid out before him was his goddess, looking flushed with desire.
"You are beautiful," he said.
"You probably say that to all the girls," she replied, but something in her voice spoke of a long ago hurt, something not quite healed.
"No," he said. "I don’t. You are beautiful, Welsh witch." He kissed her softly on her lips, and then each of her eyelids. Then he quickly removed his khakis, leaving only the tented black silk boxers on. Rhiannon looked up at him, her eyes shimmering slightly. "Don’t ever believe anything but that you are truly beautiful."
"Do you know why I really wear black underwear?" she asked softly. She sat up a bit, and he realized he wanted to know. When this had shifted from a simple, mutual seduction between strangers into something else, he didn’t know. He moved near her, sitting down and drawing her back against his strong, smooth chest. She seemed to take that as a cue to continue. "I’m in mourning."
"For who?" he asked, his hand gently stroking her hair. She leaned against him, the unconscious movement a sign of trust he didn’t expect.
"My heart," she said softly. "It died a long time ago."
He felt the anguish inherent there, so much like his own. "I understand," he said. "I think my heart was there too."
She turned to look into his eyes, the jade seeming even more like dancing flame. The veil of protection was gone, showing only a deep-seated pain to match her own. She didn’t know what, not sure she wanted to know. All she knew was that she had been mourning far too long, and so had he. Time to put away all signs of mourning black. Slowly, she turned around, and slid off of him.
"The people who wrote the Kama Sutra were Hindu," she said.
"So?" he asked, watching her.
"So, Hindus believe in reincarnation," she said. "I think it's time we were reborn."
She slowly and sensually pulled the black boxers off of him, freeing his quivering member. Her hands brushed him gently, rewarding her with a guttural groan.
"Rhiannon…please…" he whispered.
"Shhhh…" she said. She pulled him to his feet, moving them to the thick, plush Oriental rug in front of the fireplace. She pushed him down to lie beneath her, and then straddled him. He could feel her moist opening so close to him; he arched unconsciously towards her, the head of him brushing against her expectant clit. She let out a soft moan, and he brought his fingers up to her there, using his thumb to brush against the little bundle of nerves. She bucked against him as he slid a few fingers into her opening, finding her hot, wet, and ye gods, was she tight. Her muscles clenched on him hard, drawing the fingers into her as far as possible. Her own hands were divided, one playing with his nipple, one with one of her own. The sight was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. She rubbed against him again, and he knew that things need to progress if they were both going to last.
"I need to be inside of you," he said, his accent thickened by the pent up frustration and desire he felt.
She smiled and lifted herself off his fingers, settling her wet folds right over the head of his cock. Suddenly, unexpectedly, and with more force than he had imagined, she slammed down onto him.
The guttural cry ripped from their throats filled the air; bring the very animalistic nature of the act into focus. They were still only seconds before they began to move, rising and slamming into each other like the tide into the shore. His fingers continued to work her clit, while she played with her breasts. He loved to look on her face, her deep eyes seeming to bore into his soul as they locked onto his, the passion and the fury of the act inherent in them. She was drawn into his eyes, into the jade fire that was consuming every part of her. When he changed the angle a little, he hit a spot in her just right, and she came, suddenly, and hard. He wondered briefly if he had hurt her, and slowed to a stop as she rode out the waves, silently mouthing his name as she felt into the pool of his eyes. Her eyes fluttered briefly closed, and he took the interlude to change the position entirely, bringing her under him.
"Please don’t stop," she whispered, her voice raw and smoky from the intense sensation she had just endured.
He smiled and kissed her, deeply, passionately, as he began a smoother, easier rhythm. This was about nothing but the other person, and she let him know that as she kissed his chest, his neck, nibbled his ear, all the while working her hands all over him.
She could tell that he was getting near, and she felt the wave building in her at the same time, even more intense then the first time. She gently increased the speed and the pressure of her hands. When she knew they were both so close it was sweet agony, she nipped hi ear one more time, before saying in a sultry, bedroom voice, "Take me there, now."
He was glad to comply, drawing almost fully out of her one last time, and then slamming back in. Stars collided and exploded around them, and the world turned over as the two waves came together, throwing them about on a sea of pleasure and ecstasy. They clung to each other, rocking to draw the sensation out, finally coming down softly to time and reality on the rug. The clock on the mantle began to chime.
"My witching hour," he said huskily.
"That was the most interesting research I’ve done in a long time," she said. "I hope we can do it again some time."
"Oh, I think I might just have to switch majors," he replied. "This is much more interesting than Russian studies."
She giggled, and caught the look of light in his eyes. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel naked, or regretful, or grieved. She felt fulfilled.
"Thank you," she said. He looked deep into her eyes, then kissed her again, drawing her tight against him.
"Thank you," he said. "My beautiful witch."
Present Day…
They had lost touch after they graduated. They were a solace from the storm, a place of calm. She had gone on to be an archaeologist. He heard through an old professor, years later, when Dr. Rhiannon Campbell, on summer holiday from her professorship at their alma mater, running a dig in Israel, was caught in the tragic conflict of Jerusalem. She had been buying new boots when the suicide bomber had struck. He hoped she hadn’t felt it, hadn’t suffered the shock and pain of the burns a bomb can cause.He watched the trees outside the window, and raised a glass to the wind. "I miss you, Welsh witch." He fingered a worn copy of the Kama Sutra and smiled. The wind seemed to laugh as it continued on through the night.
THE END
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