Chapter One

 

I think I noticed the bare feet first. He didn't bother wearing shoes inside or out. The odd shop he owned was just up the street from the library where I shuffled books around and dreamed of writing one myself someday.

I just stared at his feet when I first saw them.

"Can I help you?" I heard him say.

Startled, I looked up and saw his face. Everything about him was unremarkable, from the bare feet, plain blue jeans and faded blue sweatshirt, to his pleasant bearded face and the long brown hair he tied in a simple ponytail. Everything was unremarkable but his eyes, and those were stunning, filled with a odd light that was earthy and ethereal at the same time. I'd never seen any eyes quite like his.

"Help me?" I was just a little flustered. "I guess I'm just browsing."

"If there's anything I can help you find . . ." he said.

"Thank you." I nodded and smiled pleasantly.

I figured him for nearly thirty, though there was a certain agelessness about him. I think it was the beard that suggested he was far beyond youth. I noticed then how his body moved gracefully, as if he was one with the ground, attached by some cosmic force. It was an odd thought for me; I'm not given to seeing cosmic forces in people. I wondered if perhaps it was just the music playing in the background of the shop, something so resonant and calming that I felt swept into a strange altered state.

He went back to sweeping leaves out the back door, as I continued to inspect the shop.

I knew very little about the barefoot proprietor, except that he'd taken over the old stone cottage where there was an enormous garden behind. I suppose he sold things he loved, because the shop had that kind of look to it. Everything seemed tied to some general theme, though that theme eluded me. There was handmade pottery, plants, incense, books on Tai Chi, wild flower seeds, dried flowers, baskets, and CD's of music with strange sounding names and curious pictures on their covers. In every corner I found something to be amazed at. All together in one place, I wondered what inspired this man. What was inside him to create this distinctive blend?

The shop made great sense in a quaint resort town like Shelter Bay, where artists and their patrons flock to do business. The town had attracted me, though I was hardly an artist. At least I've never thought of myself that way, in spite of the arty things I often did.

I poked about the shop for at least a half hour, and then noticing the clock, I was about to leave, my lunch time over.

"You're the librarian, aren't you?" he said, as I was moving to the front door. I was surprised by his voice, and the way it caressed me with its gentle resonant tone. I turned to see his warm smile.

He moved toward me, and reached out to pull a lock of my hair off my face as if it was bothering me. Such a familiar gesture for a stranger. And yet, it was done so honestly, I was awed by the tenderness that passed between us with the simple act. "I just wanted to see your eyes better," he explained.

"That makes sense," I said without thinking.

"Why's that?" he asked curiously.

"Because yours are . . . " I paused, thinking how foolish this must sound. "Your eyes are startling."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he returned.

"Please do." I waited for him to say something in the awkward moment that followed, but he just stared at me. Only once in a while am I taken so off guard by a man, and this one had me totally dazed. "Yes, I work at the library," I told him.

He nodded, and I remember thinking as I slipped out the door, how much I'd like to sit and gaze at his face for hours.

 

There was a fluttering in my tummy and a burning sensation between my legs, whenever my mind wandered back to him. I sat on my stool at the library pressing myself into the cushion, squirming all afternoon. The picture of his face kept reappearing in my mind, that smile, those eyes, his hand with its simple caress. I could almost feel it again against my face.

By four thirty, I thought my body was going to burst apart. I locked the door of the library nearly ten minutes before the hour, not really caring that I was closing early. I had to get home. I might have walked by the cottage, but I avoided that. A strange obsession gripped me, so that I'm sure if I'd seen him, I would have blushed madly, and trembled, and said something completely stupid.

Why was I, now in my late thirties, having such thoughts for a man at least seven years my junior? I had resolved sometime ago, that I needed an older man, someone, graying, mature and stable, even though that sounded rather boring. Here was an artist/potter/landscaper, a latter day barefoot hippie, and my skin was crawling, my body ready to jump from its boundaries.

At home I looked in the mirror at my eyes and the tiny crows feet around them; and at all the other imperfections I was so quick to find. They aren't too bad I thought. I dye my short hair a soft reddish blonde, and it looks stylish. I refuse to dress in "librarian" clothes. The long broomstick skirt did cover my legs; but the shimmery silk tank I wore with it was cut low enough that a sexy cleavage showed, for those that bothered to look.

I would often play a game with myself at the library, counting the men that noticed my chest when I was sitting on my stool at the front desk, and who would look down the front of my top when I leaned over. I had most of the men in Shelter Bay pegged as shameless voyeurs, though some were more direct than others with their gazing.

Now, even with my bra on, I could see my nipples poking softly through the silk fabric. I once claimed them my curse, though nipples are suppose to be in style now.

As I viewed my reflection, I pressed my hand to my groin and moved on it. I'd planned to talk myself out of this obsession with one look at myself in the mirror, seeing all the signs of age I always noticed so readily, glaring out at me. Yet, it didn't turn out that way. The woman I saw reflected back was youthful, sensuous and aroused. The more I watched her move, the more she excited me.

I closed my eyes to imagine the young man approaching me from behind, with that smile and those eyes, with his hand reaching out to take charge of me and play with my heated body.

I slowly shed my clothes down to my cream colored panties and bra. The little lacy things made me look even better than I often imagine my body to be. What would my young man think if he was really here? My imagination was soaring. I could feel his hands on my breasts, fondling them with those decisive fingers. They would move to my abdomen, and then run between my legs. His hands would join mine playing there, where he'd rub me in the soft wet pink places, just as I rubbed myself. Those deft hands of his had a way of finding the most sensitive sexual spots, for I couldn't imagine him as anything but a very skilled lover.

Even when I peeked out, opening my eyes to see my gently swaying form in the mirror, I thought I could see him behind me - the smile, the eyes, the compact muscled body I imagined underneath his clothes. He moved against my back so I could feel his rising cock press against my rear end. The sensuous pulsing had the strangest effect. Darts of energy shot through me, where I could feel it deep between my legs, and in my cunt that pulsed madly with the provocative need quickly mounting.

When my head fell back, and fantasy fell away, I rocked against my hand, as a sharp grabbing jolt shook me. And then relaxing, it let go in a shower of sensations that poured from me, all around my body. I opened my eyes to see myself flushed, feeling almost as if I was floating, and then I collapsed back on my bed, letting the satin bedspread cool the heat.

 

I thought of him constantly. Daily he seemed to take up an ever present vigil in my mind. And I didn't even know his name, until my girlfriend, Beth, stopping by the library answered my question.

"Oh, I know him, he's Kurt Cezant. You don't have your eye on him, do you?" she blurted out much too loudly for the library, except that I was used to her.

"No. I was just in his shop. It's kind of interesting. Have you been there?"

"Yeah, he's okay, a little earthy for me."

"Yes, you like your men well washed," I reminded her.

"And don't you?"

"Depends. I'm not being choosy right now," I said.

"Not choosy, you? I didn't think there was a man alive that could fit your picky qualifications."

"I don't really think it's that. I'm just doing a lot of considering," I told her, laughing.

"Well if Kurt Cezant is your choice, your tastes are certainly changing."

"I didn't say I was interested in him," I replied defensively.

"You didn't have to," Beth replied with an all knowing tone to her voice.

 

When Beth left, I resumed my careful attention to Kurt's picture in my head, thinking mostly of his eyes penetrating me as they had in the shop, his smile making my defenses melt, and his hands in small gesture raising my body heat with their touch. It was a common lust, because it couldn't possibly be love. But I could accept that. I wasn't sure I was even looking for love, coming off another relationship so recently. Todd had been gone three weeks, and I was happy about that. Still, I was getting horny.

I could kick myself for being so juvenile with a pattering heart, and so brazen with the throbbing between my legs. Even so, I refused to walk by his shop again, too afraid that this school girl crush would get the better of me, and I wouldn't know how to handle myself.