The Valentine's Script
Chapter 5
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 5 - 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
Transitioning from the music room to the library was less like walking through a house and more like crossing a continental divide. The air in the hallway was significantly cooler, stripping away the residual heat of the piano performance and leaving Ivy’s skin prickling beneath the thin, midnight-blue silk. The fabric, once a comfort in the dressing room, now seemed like a liability—a second skin that was too sensitive.
Aramis didn’t look back as he moved with a predator’s silent grace. The heavy oak doors of the library yielded to his hand as if recognizing their master, swinging open to reveal an abyss of dark wood and shadowed gold.
Ivy stepped past him, her breath hitching.
The scent hit her first, a dry, intoxicating haze of dust, vellum, and binding glue. It was the odor of preserved time, of a thousand thoughts trapped in leather and ink. Underneath it lay the sharp, modern note of Aramis sandalwood and the promise of rain. It was the scent of her own undoing.
The library was a cavern. Floor-to-ceiling shelves created a labyrinth of shadows, the spines of thousands of books absorbing what little light remained. The silence there was distinct from the music room—it wasn’t the silence of a pause; it was the silence of a vacuum.
Ivy’s heels clicked on the floor, the sound instantly swallowed by the sheer volume of paper surrounding them. She stopped near the center of the room, her eyes drawn to the mahogany desk.
It was a monstrosity of Victorian craftsmanship—vast, dark, claw-footed, and polished to a mirror shine. Ivy kept her distance from it, her hands clasping her elbows, the silk of the dress slippery against her palms.
Aramis moved to the desk. He didn’t sit, but stood on the opposite side, sliding the leather-bound diary from his jacket pocket with a slow, agonizing deliberation. He placed it in the center of the mahogany surface.
“I memorized the entry numbers,” Aramis said, his voice low, scraping against the quiet. “Entry forty-two, ‘The Desk Scene.’”
Ivy’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Seeing the diary there, bathed in the amber light of the library she had only ever imagined, caused a strange vertigo. The lines between the ink she had spilled in the safety of St. Jude’s and the reality of this moment were blurring into a single, terrifying truth.
“It was just ... writing,” Ivy managed, though the words sounded thin.
“Was it?” he challenged. Aramis walked around the edge of the desk, every step deliberate, closing the space between them until the heat of his body radiated against hers. He didn’t touch her—not yet; he simply existed in her orbit, massive and unavoidable.
“May I?” Aramis asked.
Ivy nodded her consent.
Aramis reached past her, his hand brushing the curve of her hip—a touch that felt like a brand—as he gripped the edge of the desk behind her. His chest pressed her against the table.
“This is where you imagined me as you were pressed against the wood, surrounded by the words of better men.”
The quote from her diary hung in the air, spoken in his voice, stripping the fantasy of its safety. Ivy looked up, meeting his gaze. The blue of his eyes had darkened until they were almost black, the pupils blown wide with a hunger he could no longer mask with boredom.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Aramis didn’t hesitate; he gripped her waist, his hands large and firm, his fingers digging into the silk. With a singular, fluid motion, he lifted her.
Ivy gasped as her feet left the ground. She landed on the desk, the cold, polished mahogany searing through the thin layer of her dress. The sudden change in elevation shifted the dynamic. She was now eye-level with him, her legs dangling, the silk skirt bunching high around her hips, and exposing the pale skin of her thighs to the library’s chill.
“The script calls for field notes,” Aramis murmured, stepping closer, wedging himself firmly between her thighs, and forcing her legs to part. The friction of his trousers against her bare skin sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. “You wrote that you wanted to know if I felt as cold as I looked. May I confirm that?”
Ivy nodded.
His hand moved.
Aramis didn’t grab; he traced. His fingertips, calloused from years of piano keys and lacrosse sticks, grazed the outside of her knee. He moved upward, painfully slowly, dragging his nails lightly over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
Ivy’s breath hitched—a jagged, broken sound.
The reality of it was overwhelming. In the diary, she had controlled the pacing, had skipped the awkwardness. Here, every second was elongated. The scent of old paper was dizzying, and the fog pressing on the windows made the library resemble a capsule, isolated from time and consequence.
“Your pulse is visible,” Aramis noted, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that vibrated in Ivy’s own chest. His gaze was clinical, intense, tracking the flush rising on her neck. “Right here.”
He pressed his thumb against the hollow of her throat.
Ivy leaned back, her weight resting on her hands behind her. The angle arched her back, pressing her chest forward. The midnight-blue silk draped loosely over her torso, hiding nothing of the reaction happening beneath.
“Is this accurate, Ivy?” he asked, his hand inching higher up her thigh, teasing the hem of the dress. “Is the pacing correct?”
“Aramis...” she started, but her voice broke.
“Tell me,” he commanded softly.
“It’s ... slower,” she admitted, her head falling back as his fingers brushed the lace of her panties. “Agonizing.”
“Good.”
Aramis maintained eye contact as his hand moved fully beneath the silk. He didn’t fumble; there was an arrogant competence in the way he found the center of her heat, cupping her through the damp fabric of her underwear.
Ivy choked on a breath, her hips bucking involuntarily at the sensation; it was sharp, visceral. The cold wood beneath her, the heat of his palm—it was a sensory overload that no amount of writing could have predicted.
“Don’t look away, Ivy; you’re the one who wanted this. I’m just following your lead.”
His voice was a lash, commanding her attention, and Ivy forced her eyes open. Aramis was watching her with a focus that bordered on devotion. He wasn’t looking at her like a conquest; he was studying her like a complex piece of music he was determined to master.
He hooked his fingers into the lace and pulled it aside.
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