The adrenaline was a physical weight in the room, thick enough to choke on. Ezekiel stood over Eve, his chest heaving as the last of his release settled on her skin. For a moment, the world was just the two of them—the thief and the librarian—bonded by the scent of ancient vellum and fresh spent heat.
Then, the reality of the situation crashed back in. A heavy thud sounded from the hallway, followed by the distinctive clack-clack of a flashlight hitting a doorframe.
“Oscar,” Eve whispered, her voice still raspy from her climax. She scrambled off the mahogany desk, her bare feet hitting the Persian rug with a soft thwump. “He’s right outside the door.”
Ezekiel was already moving. He was a creature of habit, and his habit was survival. He grabbed his pants, stepping into them with a fluid, silent motion that spoke of a thousand narrow escapes. He tossed Eve her black bodysuit.
“Dress. Fast,” he commanded, his eyes darting toward the heavy oak door. The doorknob jiggled.
“Locked,” Eve breathed, pulling the spandex over her hips. “But he has the master key.”
“Not for this room,” Ezekiel countered, his voice a low, focused hum. “I jammed the lock from the inside when we tumbled out of the dumbwaiter. It’ll buy us two minutes, maybe three if he’s as dim as you say.”
Eve zipped the bodysuit up to her throat, her fingers trembling slightly. She looked at the side table. The Canterbury Tales sat there, its 14th-century binding looking strangely mundane under the moonlight. She grabbed it, sliding it back into the waterproof sleeve.
“Where to?” she asked, her auburn hair falling out of its braid in wild, messy loops.
“The window,” Ezekiel said, pointing toward the floor-to-ceiling glass. “There’s a stone ledge that leads to the ivy trellis. It’s a forty-foot drop to the grass, but the ivy is old growth. It’ll hold.”
“Forty feet?” Eve hissed. “Ezekiel, I’m a librarian, not a mountain goat!”
“Tonight, you’re both,” he grinned, that impish spark returning to his chocolate eyes. He grabbed his vest, checked the pockets for his tools, and slung the bag containing the Poe manuscript over his shoulder. He took the Chaucer from her and tucked it securely into his own harness. “Trust me, beautiful. I won’t let you fall.”
The sound of a heavy shoulder hitting the door echoed through the office. Thoomp. Then again. Thoomp. “Eve? You in there? I heard… I heard noises!” Oscar’s voice was muffled but panicked. “I’m callin’ the real cops, Eve! I mean it!”
The Descent
Ezekiel slid the window open. The cold October air rushed in, smelling of pine and impending frost. He stepped out onto the narrow stone ledge without a hint of hesitation, his boots finding purchase on the weathered masonry. He reached back, his large, calloused hand open for her.
“Come on,” he urged.
Eve took a breath, looked at the dark silhouette of the Central Pennsylvania mountains in the distance, and stepped out. The height made her head swim, but Ezekiel’s hand was a mountain in itself—steady, unyielding.
“Don’t look down,” he whispered. “Look at me.”
She locked eyes with him. They shuffled along the ledge, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy. When they reached the thick, gnarled veins of the ivy, Ezekiel went first, testing the strength of the vines. He moved with a rhythmic grace, descending the side of St. Huxley’s like he was part of the architecture.
Eve followed, her muscles screaming as she gripped the cold, waxy leaves and the thick wooden stalks. Halfway down, a branch of the elm tree nearby snapped, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet night.
“Keep moving,” Ezekiel hissed from five feet below her.
They hit the grass just as the blue and red lights of a police cruiser began to flicker through the trees at the edge of the campus.
“They’re coming from the main gate,” Eve panted, her heart hammering against her ribs. “We can’t go to my apartment. They’ll check there first.”
“I have a car,” Ezekiel said, grabbing her hand and pulling her into a sprint toward the darkened faculty parking lot. “A nondescript sedan parked near the maintenance shed.”
They ran, shadows among shadows. As they reached the black sedan, Ezekiel fumbled with the keys for a split second—a rare sign of nerves—before the locks clicked. They dived inside just as a second siren began to wail in the distance.
The Safe House
Ezekiel drove like a man possessed, navigating the winding mountain backroads with the headlights off until they were miles away from the university. He eventually pulled into a small, dilapidated hunting cabin tucked deep into a ravine.
Inside, the air was stale and smelled of cedar. Ezekiel didn’t turn on the lights. He lit a single candle, the flame casting long, flickering shadows against the log walls. He set the bag containing the stolen treasures on a scarred wooden table.
“We’re safe,” he said, turning to Eve.
The silence of the cabin was a stark contrast to the chaos of the last hour. Eve stood by the door, her bodysuit torn at the shoulder from the ivy, her face still bearing the faint, drying marks of their earlier encounter on the desk. She looked at him—the man who had ruined her quiet life and made her feel more alive than any book ever could.
“You really did it,” she whispered. “You stole the Chaucer.”
“We did it,” he corrected. He walked over to her, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached out, his thumb brushing over her cheek, erasing the last of the dried salt.
“You were brilliant, Eve. The way you handled the nitrogen… the way you moved in the dark…”
The tension in the room shifted. It wasn’t about the heist anymore. The adrenaline that had been fueling their flight began to transmute into something much hotter, much more urgent.
“I’m covered in sweat, stone dust, and… you,” Eve said, her voice dropping to a low, sultry vibration.
“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” Ezekiel growled.
He didn’t wait. He grabbed the front of her bodysuit and pulled the zipper down. He peeled the fabric down, his eyes dark with a hunger that the stolen gold of a thousand manuscripts couldn’t satisfy.
The Fifth Act
He lifted her onto the small, firm cot (and a large, firm cock) in the corner of the cabin. The springs creaked, a rhythmic protest that Ezekiel ignored as he stripped his own clothes off. He was magnificent in the candlelight—all hard angles muscle.
He came down on top of her, his skin hot against hers. This wasn’t the frantic, rushed encounter in the office; this was slow, possessive, and deep. He kissed her with a ferocity that made her world tilt, his tongue claiming her mouth while his hands explored every inch of her auburn-tufted curves.
“I want to feel every bit of you,” he murmured against her neck.
He entered her slowly, his massive manhood stretching her, filling her until she felt like she might burst. Eve gasped, her legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper. He began to move—long, pleasuring strokes that hit the very back of her perfect pussy.
“Ezekiel,” she moaned, her head thrashing against the thin pillow.
The friction was incredible. Every time he slid out, she felt a vacuum of longing; every time he plunged back in, she felt a spark of electricity. He was relentless. He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and faster.
Eve felt the familiar tightening in her gut. She was close—so close. She watched his face, the way his jaw was set, the way his eyes were blown wide with focus.
“Harder,” she pleaded. “Please, Ezekiel. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He lunged forward, his hips slamming against hers with bruising force. He felt his own climax building—a tidal wave he couldn’t hold back. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he prepared for the end.
“I’m… I’m going to…” he gasped.
“Do it inside me,” Eve cried out, her own orgasm beginning to flow through her. “Fill me up!”
He let out a guttural, primal roar as he delivered one final thrust. He buried himself to the hilt, his entire body locking as the first surge of his love hit her.
The force was staggering. As he pumped his hot, thick life into her, the sheer pressure of his internal release, combined with the rhythm of his final thrusts, triggered a secondary, even more intense orgasm in Eve.
It was a total of five for her tonight—a number that seemed impossible just hours ago. Her body buckled, her internal muscles clamping around him in a vice-like grip that only made him come harder. She screamed into the quiet cabin air, her vision going white as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.
They collapsed into each other, a tangle of limbs and sweat. The candle flickered and died, leaving them in the blue-grey light of the pre-dawn mountain air.
“What now?” Eve whispered into his chest, her heart slowly finding its rhythm again.
Ezekiel held her tight, his hand stroking her messy auburn hair. He looked toward the table where the Canterbury Tales lay waiting.
“Now,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face in the dark, “we go to Europe. I hear the Vatican has a very poorly guarded collection of Virgil.”
Eve laughed—a genuine, scoundrel’s laugh. “I’ll pack the nitrogen as long as you pack my pussy one more time.”
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