The Valentine's Script
Chapter 6
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 6 - 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
Moving from the library to the private lounge was jarring, akin to stepping out of a storm and into a mausoleum. The silence there was heavier, weighed down by centuries of Walcot history. The library had been a place of high-stakes friction, but this room held a stale, amber warmth, preserved by the dying embers in the granite fireplace.
Ivy walked on unsteady legs. The aftermath of what had happened on the mahogany desk still thrummed in her veins—a residual current. The dress that had seemed like armor now clung to her like fragile skin. Every brush of the fabric against her hips reminded her of his hands, of the reality that she had stepped off the page and into the fire.
She watched Aramis move through the shadows. He didn’t stride with his typical captain-of-industry arrogance; he walked slower than usual, his shoulders lowered, the arrogance gone. He stopped at a crushed velvet ottoman near the fire. In his hand, the leather-bound diary looked like a dark relic—the catalyst of every terrifying and electric moment of the last few hours.
Ivy held her breath, her chest tight. She waited for him to open it — for the next instruction, the next scene of their act.
Aramis didn’t open it.
He tossed the book onto the velvet cushion, where it landed with a dull, muted thud that echoed with finality.
Ivy stared at the book. It sat there, closed and harmless, yet the absence of it in his hands made the air leave her lungs. The script was down; the prop was gone. Without the text to guide them, they were standing in the middle of a blank page.
Aramis turned his back to her and walked to the fireplace, resting a hand on the mantle, staring down into the orange wreckage of the logs. He used his other hand to loosen his tie, pulling the silk knot free with a jagged, frustrated motion. The silence stretched.
“The next scene,” she started, her voice sounding thin and reedy in the cavernous room. “It takes place in the—”
“Stop.”
The word wasn’t shouted, but it arrested her completely. Aramis turned, the firelight casting deep shadows in the hollows of his cheeks, making him look older, stripped of the polished veneer he wore in the hallways of St. Jude’s. His eyes were dark, searching, and entirely devoid of the playful malice he’d worn in the library.
“I don’t care what you wrote three weeks ago, Ivy; I want to know what you want right now. No script, no acting, no ‘Valentine’s Script’ to hide behind.”
Ivy faltered, her hands clenched at her sides, her nails digging into the silk of the dress. The dress was her costume, and the night was a play. Without the diary, she was just Ivy Lane—the girl who bought her sweaters at thrift stores to hide the fact that she was always cold. The girl who ate lunch in the library to avoid the noise of the cafeteria.
“I ... I don’t understand,” she managed.
The articulate, seductive narrator of the diary had vanished, leaving behind a girl who stumbled over her own syllables.
’For someone who writes such compelling dialogue,’ she thought bitterly, ’I am remarkably bad at actually speaking it.’
“The agreement,” she pressed, trying to find her footing on the shifting ground. “The blackmail. You said we had to verify the entries. I’m just doing what you asked; I’m fulfilling the contract.”
“I am done with the verification,” Aramis said, his voice dropping to a gravelly low that vibrated in the floorboards. He took a step toward her, but stopped, respecting the invisible barrier between them. “I don’t want the character, Ivy. I’m tired of characters. We spent the entire evening wearing them. I want the person who is standing in my lounge, terrified and brave and breathing.”
Her stomach twisted. She hated how exposed she felt. This was worse than the desk. In that moment, she had a role to play. He was asking for something she didn’t think she had the right to give. He was asking for the parts of her she deemed unworthy of paper—the mundane, lonely, ordinary parts that didn’t fit into a dark romance.
She looked at the diary again because it was her shield. It was the only reason a boy like Aramis would ever look twice at a girl like her; without those pages of beautifully crafted fantasy, she was invisible.
“You don’t want that,” Ivy said, her voice hardening with the instinctive defense of the marginalized. “I’m sure you think you do, but you don’t. You’re a Walcot, the heir to a kingdom built on optics.”
Aramis tilted his head, his eyes narrowing.
“Tell me what I think, then.”
“You want the siren,” she said, the words spilling out fast and sharp. “The girl who takes control, the girl who knows exactly where to touch you to make you forget who you are. It’s a fantasy, and you want the fantasy because your real life is boring, suffocating, and full of people who only want you for your last name. You only like me because of that book; if you hadn’t found it, I’d still be a ghost to you.”
Ivy braced herself for his mockery. She expected him to laugh, to pick up the book and quote another line to prove her right. She expected him to confirm that she was just a temporary diversion, a personalized muse brought to life for a good time.
Instead, Aramis flinched.
It was a slight movement—a tightening of the jaw, a slight recoil as if she’d physically struck him. The hunger left his eyes, replaced by a profound, exhaustion-laced regret. He looked down at the Persian rug, running a hand through his hair, destroying the perfect coif he’d maintained all evening.
“Is that what you think?” he asked softly. “That this is about sex?”
“Isn’t it?” Ivy countered. “You cornered me in a lab, locked the door, and threatened my future. You brought me here to act out scenes you stole from my private thoughts.”
“I brought you here because I couldn’t think of any other way to get you in the same room as me without you running away,” Aramis said. He looked up, and the intensity of his gaze pinned her in place. “I didn’t need the book to see you, Ivy. I’ve been seeing you for months. The book was just the only way I knew how to talk to a girl who hides behind a library stack like it’s a citadel.”
Ivy stood paralyzed.
“Months?” she whispered.
Aramis walked back to the fireplace, resting his forehead against the cool stone of the mantle for a second before turning to face her fully.
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