Page 2 of Raw & Vulnerable

Down his left arm crawls a snake, coming to an end on his hand, out the mouth of an ivory skull, midnight bullets at his wrist. Nothing is in color, only pristine black ink, shaded ominously. She shivers, watching him, a thrill of danger walking down her spine.

Minnie wonders what that would be like, to be the object of desire for a man like this. She wonders, then dismisses it.

These types of men don’t really see her, which is perfectly fine, actually. She’s bookish. A little sharp tongued when prodded, but mostly unremarkable. She hides large chocolate eyes behind big plastic frames and she wears her sunny blonde hair in a messy bun. Her clothes aren’t exactly enticing. Which is by design.

She doesn’t want to be noticed.

Her sister always had boyfriends in high school. Minnie…not so much. The popular boys and girls teased her and her quiet nature. They even threw in the occasional bullying tactic, because her backbone was stronger than they liked and she never really found any interest in their petty lives.

She’s a stuck-up know-it-all. Which, also apparently makes her a B-I-T-C-H.

She’s not about to deny it, but the word is rather vulgar and classless in her esteemed opinion.

There’d been one fumbling experience in college. A nice, very safe boy. He’d had no idea about what to do with Minnie, just like she didn’t know all that much about doing anything with him. He’d been more nervous about it than her, which is probably the only reason she agreed to it in the first place. The experience had been lacking in merit and Minnie quickly found that she had better results by herself.

The ease of it, lying on her back, legs spread, pressing adjustable vibrations against her heated flesh. Her own mind provided better fantasies than actual boys provided mind-blowing pleasure. It was simple, fast. Almost effortless. The little vibrating bullets are fabulous inventions.

Better yet, she has complete control when it’s just her.Safe. No risk involved. No messy emotions. No mistakes. No being scared that she might get physically harmed and overpowered.

She doesn’t indulge herself often, but occasionally something will spark her imagination. Like, one day when she was walking to work and passed by a group of men working on the road. Hard hats, dirty jeans, tanned arms bulging with strength.

Dirty, rough, crude men. She’d thought about that one night, much to her chagrin. Something about men that work with their hands, their bodies. Perhaps it’s a morbid fascination on her part. Danger and risk are things that she avoids like the plague. Yet, somehow the idea of it gives her a thrill, heating her on the inside with guilty, shameful pleasure.

Fear and thrill seem to mix together all too well. The sensation is almost the same; heart racing, rough breathing, adrenaline running high.

She’s ogling the newcomer as he wanders about, looking at different shelves. His worn boots are loud as he walks and he’s got a certain swagger, confident, aggressive. Maybe even egotistical. The silver chain hanging on his jeans catches the light and the keys on his hip jingle audibly.

The frown on his face comes and goes, sometimes replaced with an expression of male boredom. She places him somewhere in his thirties, examining the strong fill of his body and the way he holds himself. His face is hard, sharp, giving off the aura that he’s completely capable of doing terrible things. A strong jawline, a face that reminds her of a hawk; predatory.

Good-looking, if one is into men that look like danger, the kind that probably like a rough screw.

“Hey, Minnie. Did you take your lunch break yet?” The senior librarian, Colleen, taps her on the shoulder, pulling Minnie from her thoughts.

Minnie flushes, as if caught doing something she shouldn’t. “I didn’t. I mean, not yet. I’ll go soon.”

The older woman gives her a fond scowl. “You’ll go now. We have to make sure you eat, you’re like a bird! I swear, all you do is drink tea.”

Sighing, Minnie takes one last glance in the direction of the man that has graced their library, wondering what sort of girls catch his eye.

Probably not her. Definitely not her. She goes on lunch, tells herself to not think of him, because this is a fluke, she’ll probably never see him again, even if his intimidating form is burned into her retina, reminding her of things that happened long ago.

Chapter 2

The next day starts just like any other. She’s carrying a stack of books, racing around the second floor in her soft slipper flats. Mornings are nice. Peaceful. Quiet. Just how she likes them. Minnie gets a lot done during these luxurious hours of calm.

She loves the scent of books, along with the comforting taste of green tea on her tongue.

It’s a beautiful, two-story library. She’d spent many hours here as a girl, in sheer awe of everything available for her to read. Never did she ever imagine she’d end up here, being its caretaker.

Minnie is about to reach the shelving area for the group of books she’s carrying when her path is unexpectedly impeded. She hits a wall where she shouldn’t with an embarrassingommphfand a squeak, the tomes in her hands falling inelegantly to the floor in a loud clatter. Her glasses go completely askew. Only two books remain in her hands. She looks up in surprise, a hint of indignancy in the lines of her brow. She rights her glasses with a huff, looking upward. Then-

Oh, goodness.

Finding herself gazing into hazel eyes, full of bright greens and autumn golden browns, Minnie finds herself stricken into shocked silence, her muscles freezing up. Her mouth moves, but no words come out. He’s towering over her, like a statue of intimidation and ink and all she’s doing is clutching some books to her chest like a school girl.

The scent of sweat, faded cologne, and male musk hits her nose in a wave, enveloping her. His warm hands are heavy weights upon her small, delicate shoulders. He’d kept her from falling down, it appears. His nose is strong, proud, but a slight bump hints at a past break. There’s a pale scar through his right eyebrow and she wonders if it’s from an injury or a past piercing.

“You alright?” He drawls, eyes taking in her nervous, flustered demeanor. His voice is a low, rusty baritone.

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