The Valentine's Script
Chapter 1
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Ivy Lane lived between the shelves at St. Jude’s—quiet, brilliant, and invisible—until one miscalculated moment in the library turns private ink into public leverage. Her diary, a map of desire and the soft fissures in a Golden Boy named Aramis Walcot, is pulled from the shadows and into his palms. He isn’t the polished figure everyone assumes; he’s a boy suffocated by expectation who recognizes the same ember of hunger in her that she’s written about on paper.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa School First Oral Sex Safe Sex
In her prose, there was only the Muse. There was no scholarship girl with ink-stained fingers writing about her secret love interest, Aramis. Not the heir to the Walcot fortune, but the man beneath the veneer.
His fingers are callous-rough against the silk, she scrawled, her handwriting sharp and urgent. He doesn’t look like a king here—only a man starving at someone else’s table.
Ivy paused. She had stripped away the golden armor his parents had welded onto him, leaving him beautifully broken. She wrote of his eyes—usually an impenetrable, cold blue. But they darkened to the color of a turbulent sea when he finally stopped performing for the crowd and actually looked at her.
He kisses not to take, she wrote, the nib digging into the cream milled paper, but to ask a question he’s too proud to speak aloud.
A shadow elongated across the desk, severing the fantasy.
Mr. Henderson drifted down the center aisle, a most unpleasant man. The brass keys at his hip jangled with the subtle warning of a jailer.
“The stacks are closing, Miss Lane; it’s time to take your dreams elsewhere.”
Ivy flinched but didn’t close the book. The ink was wet; if she shut it now, the words would bleed into a Rorschach test of her own humiliation.
“I just ... I need a minute,” she whispered.
“Three minutes,” the librarian croaked, “then I lock the doors—with or without you.”
He shuffled away, the keys singing their discordant song. Ivy exhaled, looking at the diary. It was the only place she could write without the reality of who she really was. Here, she was powerful.
Then, the oak doors groaned.
A gust of cold air swept through the library, followed by the brittle laughter of the untouchables.
“It’s a tomb in here,” Chloe Vance said, her voice cutting through the stillness. “Why do they even keep the lights on?”
“For the scholarship ghouls, Chloe,” Marcus Thorne replied, his voice a booming baritone that lacked any sense of library etiquette. “They thrive in the dark.”
Ivy ducked behind a stack of chemistry textbooks as her heart hammered against her ribs. The “Golden Group” wasn’t supposed to be there, not now.
She peered through a gap in the books, watching the group move down the central aisle with practiced ease. Marcus strode in the lead, shaking a damp umbrella with total disregard for the parquet floor. Chloe followed, her white coat pristine, her eyes scanning the room with a critical sneer.
And then, there was Aramis.
He trailed them, his hands buried in the pockets of a charcoal wool coat. The collar was turned up against the cold, framing a masculine jawline. Aramis stood still; too still, like someone waiting for permission he would never ask for.
As he neared, the library’s dust was replaced by his scent: sandalwood and expensive, crisp rain.
He paused near the circulation desk, the mask of the Golden Boy slipping for a fraction of a second. Ivy felt an attraction so strong it was dizzying, almost forcing her to walk out and tell him she knew he hated his life and loved the music. But she was the girl who blended into the drywall.
“You! In the back!”
Henderson’s voice cracked like a whip as he pointed a gnarled finger directly at Ivy’s alcove. “Pack up! Now!”
The silence that followed was absolute. Ivy saw the three heads turn in unison.
“Is there actually someone back there?” Marcus grinned, stepping toward her. “I thought it was a ghost.”
“Probably just a mouse,” Chloe sighed. “Let’s go, Marcus.”
“No, wait; I want to see the creature of the deep.”
They were coming. Panic hit—hot, white, and too fast for her to think. If they saw the diary—if Chloe read even a single sentence—it would be a social execution.
Ivy scrambled, her hands reduced to useless, trembling claws. She shoved her pens into her bag, sweeping loose notes into the pocket.
The footsteps grew louder.
“Come out, come out, whoever you are,” Marcus called, a mocking lilt in his voice.
Ivy stood, knocking an encyclopedia over, and it hit the table with a crash. She grabbed the diary, its leather cover warm from her palms, and shoved it toward her bag.
In her haste, she miscalculated.
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