The Valentine's Script
Chapter 9
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 9 - 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
The grandfather clock in the hallway below chimed three times, the sound muffled by the thick expanse of the Walcot estate’s stone walls and the heavy velvet draping the corridors. It was the blue hour—that strange, suspended bridge of time between the wreckage of the night and the inevitability of the morning. It was the hour when the world holds its breath, when secrets are either buried forever or etched into the soul.
Ivy Lane lay at the absolute center of the massive bed. The mattress was a vast island of white linen and down, large enough to drown in, yet she had never felt more anchored or more secure. Beside her, Aramis Walcot slept, his presence a steady, radiating heat that chased away the shadows of a lonely childhood.
She shifted slightly, the high-thread-count silk sighing against her bare legs. It was a sound of luxury she had only ever imagined when writing in the cold, drafty alcoves of the St. Jude’s library. But imagining the touch of silk was nothing compared to the reality of it. The fabric was fluid, like water, a stark contrast to the hard, solid muscle of the man beside her.
Ivy propped herself up on one elbow, disregarding the chill of the room that nipped at her exposed shoulder. She needed to look at him, to imprint this reality onto her memory before the sun rose and threatened to turn everything back into a pumpkin. In the wash of moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Aramis looked less like the “King of St. Jude’s” and more like a man resting between battles. The harsh, guarded lines that usually bracketed his mouth had smoothed out. His breathing was deep, rhythmic—a heavy, sated cadence that vibrated through the mattress and into Ivy’s own ribs.
For eighteen years, Ivy had defined herself by the space she didn’t take up. She was the gap in the conversation, the empty chair at the table, the silhouette in the background of everyone else’s photos. She had written herself as a ghost because she believed she was one. But ghosts didn’t leave marks on silk sheets; ghosts didn’t feel this glorious, heavy soreness in their muscles—a physical testament to having been thoroughly, undeniably seen.
Ivy sat up fully, the sheet sliding down to her waist. Her gaze drifted to the nightstand on Aramis’s side of the bed. There it sat, the leather-bound diary.
Seeing it there gave her a jolt, a phantom echo of the panic she’d felt in the biology lab just twenty-four hours before. The leather was battered, the corners soft from years of being shoved into her messenger bag. In the pristine, curated perfection of the Walcot mansion, it looked like a jagged artifact from another world.
But looking at it now, the terror failed to materialize. That book had been her cage, a repository for all the desires she was too ashamed to speak. Aramis had taken that cage and broken the lock. He hadn’t mocked the words inside; he had used them as a map to find her. The book was no longer evidence of her crime—it was the receipt of her victory.
Aramis stirred; the rhythm of his breathing hitched, then deepened. He didn’t wake fully, operating on that primal instinct that sensed her movement. His arm shifted, sliding across the cool sheets until his hand found her thigh. His palm was hot, calloused from lacrosse and piano keys, and the weight of it grounded her instantly.
“Ivy,” he mumbled, his voice a rough scrape of gravel and sleep.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
Aramis didn’t open his eyes, but his grip tightened, his thumb stroking a lazy arc against her skin. He pulled her down, not forcefully, but with a steady, unyielding gravity. Ivy allowed it, sinking back into the warmth of his orbit, curling her body against his side. The contact was electric, sparking that low-grade fever that hadn’t really left her since she had stepped into the library hours ago.
“I thought you’d left,” he murmured into her hair, his nose brushing against her temple.
“I can’t leave,” she said, the truth of it surprising her. “My car’s buried in four inches of Walcot snow.”
“Good.” He exhaled, a long sound of contentment, and tangled his legs with hers.
Ivy turned her head toward the windows. The storm had finally broken. The snow remained untouched—a pristine white blanket that smoothed over the sharp edges of the hedges and the dark scars of the driveway. And the tall iron gates were closed, sealing them in.
“It’s almost morning,” Ivy observed.
Aramis groaned, a protest against the concept of time. He opened his eyes then—in the moonlight, they were heavy-lidded, his irises dark, and his pupils blown. He blinked the sleep away, focusing on her face with an intensity that made her breath catch.
“Not yet,” he said. “The sun isn’t allowed to rise until I say so.”
Aramis shifted, propping himself up against the pillows. He reached out and picked up the diary, the motion reverent. He held the book not like a collection of secrets, but like a holy text. His thumb brushed over the gold-leaf initials stamped into the leather: I.E.L.
“We missed a page,” Aramis said softly.
“We finished the chapter,” Ivy argued.
“Not the last one; not the one in the very back.”
He opened the book to the back flyleaf. The handwriting there wasn’t the neat, practiced script of Ivy Lane, Scholarship Student. It was the jagged, frantic scrawl of a girl burning alive, the sentence she had written three days before, late at night, in a fit of honest despair.
Aramis’s eyes tracked the words. He leaned in close, his face inches from hers. “Read it,” he commanded softly.
“I can’t,” Ivy whispered, the last bastion of her old shame trying to build a wall. “Aramis, please. I can’t say that one out loud.”
“Then I’ll say it for you.” He dropped his voice to a register that vibrated at the base of her spine. He looked strictly at her, his blue eyes refusing to let her turn away.