The books fell from the shelves as he slammed her back into them forcefully. His fingers gripped the sides of her head, pulling into her hair as he yanked her forward towards his waiting lips. She was ready with gasping breaths, taken aback by his sudden action. She did not wait a moment to force his lips open and accost her tongue to his. He could feel his inner heat rising. His breaths became ragged.
Her hands reached up to his hair, to feel the thick, curly dark masses that were on his head. He stifled a moan of pleasure, and she knew she had found a weakness. She tugged his head away from her lips, directing his mouth to the crook in her neck, which was also beginning to get hot.
He gently blew on her neck, causing her to shiver in the heat of the summer evening. The aged spines of Tolstoy and Hemingway looked down dispassionately upon them from the nearby encased book shelves, while the unlucky copies of Twain and Tennyson peered upward at the pair.
They had not spoken a word since he had dragged her into his uncle's precious library. It was a place of hallowed ground for him, and for his uncle. Within this library, ancient copies of documents were no doubt stashed behind the trick shelves, while still old and rare copies of classics found repose alongside one another.
He remembered the library from days of old, his uncle admonishing him not to touch certain sections, to stay off the ladder, to keep the curtains shut to keep out the light. But this was foreign ground; to besmirch the names of these authors, to taint their very air with the lust that was running rampant in the room at this very moment. The two lovers had not a care in the world when the books fell, but were careful to be quiet. To be caught would have been the end of them.
