Read Between the Lines - Short Story

This week’s short story might make you look at your local bookstore a little differently…

Read Between the Lines is a flirty, spicy, secret admirer story set in a small-town shop filled with steamy paperbacks, locked display cases, and one very determined delivery guy. Penny wasn’t looking for love—definitely not between the pages of her store’s filthiest titles—but someone’s been watching her, leaving notes that blur the line between fiction and fantasy.

And when she follows the trail?

Let’s just say the back room isn’t just for unpacking boxes anymore.

Blurb:

She thought it was just another anonymous email—until it led her to a trail of dirty notes tucked inside the bookstore’s spiciest romance novels.

Each one is filthier than the last.

Each one written just for her.

And the man behind them?

Yeah… he’s not hiding anymore.

Read Between the Lines

Penny

I don’t usually check the store email before I’ve had coffee, but this morning, the subject line grabs me.

To: PennysBooks@bookstore.com

From: anonymous@papertrails.com

Subject: For the girl who blushes at Chapter 12

I stare at it, blinking. I should delete it. I should flag it and move on. But instead, curiosity gets the better of me, and I click.

The email is short. One line.

Try “Heat Stroke” by Sawyer Quinn. Page 122.

That’s it.

My hand hovers over the keyboard, then types the title into the system before I can second-guess myself. One copy in stock. Romance shelf, third row from the front.

I make my way over, scanning the spines until I spot the cover, neon pink with gold foil and flames curling up the edge. I flip it open to the page mentioned.

And there it is.

A neatly folded slip of paper, tucked like a secret between the pages.

She let him drag her into the kitchen, spread her out on the counter, and lick every inch like he was starving.

That’s how I think about us.

Every time you tuck your hair behind your ear.

Every time you bite your pen and forget you’re doing it.

Every time you wear that damn sundress.

I want your legs on the counter and your taste on my tongue.

Want more? Try “Rough Draft.” Page 201. You’ll know when you’re there.

I clutch the paper, looking around like someone’s going to jump out from behind the shelves and shout Gotcha! But the store is quiet. One older man is reading in the armchair by the window. Two teens whispering near the fantasy display. No one is paying attention to me.

No one obvious, anyway.

My heart beats faster as I slide Heat Stroke back onto the shelf and search for Rough Draft.

…………

It’s right where it should be, bottom row. I crouch down, pull it out, and flip toward the back. A note is wedged between Chapter 18 and the edge of the book jacket.

She gasped when he grabbed her hips and pulled her back against him, skin to skin, breathless and begging.

That’s what I want.

Your back to my chest.

Your lips parted.

Your hand gripping the shelf to stay upright.

I wonder if you’d let me pin you to the stacks in the back room.

Still reading? “Dark Intentions” is next. Top shelf, page 245.

I swallow.

My bookstore is small. Not quite-library-small, but small enough that I know every regular, every tourist, every Thursday delivery guy by name. And now I’m thinking of all the men who’ve passed through here in the last few months, who’s seen me from this angle, crouched like this, cheeks burning, breath shaky?

…………

The ladder creaks beneath me as I reach for Dark Intentions. The top shelf always requires a stretch, which feels risky given how wobbly I am right now.

I grab the book and descend slowly, clutching the spine like it might burn me.

The note inside is longer this time. On thick, cream cardstock.

He bent her over the desk, one hand on her throat, the other between her thighs, whispering everything he planned to do.

I’ve had that fantasy since the day you corrected me on the difference between romance and erotica.

(For the record, I got hard when you said the word “smut.”)

I’ve been imagining your hair splayed across the desk, your legs shaking around my waist, and your voice going breathless when I tell you what I’m going to do next.

One more clue.

Check the locked display case.

I blink.

That case is behind the register. It holds collector’s editions, signed hardcovers, and first prints. I’m the only one with a key. I don’t remember putting anything new in it this week, but I cross the room and unlock the glass anyway.

There, front and center, is a leather-bound copy of Flesh and Fire. Limited print. Unread.

Except it’s clearly been opened.

There’s a black envelope inside. No name. No seal. I slide it out with shaking fingers and open it.

She opened the door expecting a stranger.

Instead, it was the man who’d watched her all along.

The one she wanted.

And the second she saw the look in his eyes, she knew, he’d written every word just for her.

Turn around, Penny.

My spine tingles.

Turn around?

I hesitate, then I do.

And he’s there.

Ryan Morgan. My delivery guy.

The one who brings my book shipments every Thursday. The one who has a quiet smile, strong hands, and a laugh that always makes me look up from the register. The one I’ve seen in a dozen subtle moments, pulling his sleeves up, adjusting a box, catching my gaze and looking away.

He’s leaning casually against the nearest shelf, watching me like he’s been doing it for a long, long time.

“I wasn’t sure you’d read them,” he says, voice low.

I’m still holding the envelope. “All of them.”

“And?”

My lips twitch. “I’ll never be able to shelve Heat Stroke with a straight face again.”

He laughs under his breath and takes a slow step forward. “Good.”

Another step. “Because I meant every word.”

I arch a brow. “Even the one about pinning me to the stacks?”

His smile turns wicked. “Especially that one.”

The air between us tightens. There’s still distance, but the kind that invites crossing.

I nod toward the back room. “It’s unlocked.”

His brows lift slightly. “Are you inviting me in?”

I let the silence stretch before I answer, heart pounding.

“I think you already started the story,” I say, then glance over my shoulder toward the front desk. “Maya, I’ll be in the back going over that delivery. Don’t disturb me unless someone’s on fire.”

“Got it,” she calls back without looking up.

I turn and walk toward the back.

The footsteps behind me don’t hesitate.

The back room smells like paper and cedar, a little musty from the last shipment I haven’t unpacked yet. Boxes line the walls. The overhead light flickers once before settling into a soft hum.

I stop just past the doorway.

And I wait.

The door clicks shut behind me. The air shifts.

“You sure about this?” Ryan’s voice is low, deeper than it usually is when he’s chatting about book releases or teasing me for alphabetizing by author’s first name.

I turn to face him, heart pounding. “You started it.”

His mouth curves. “Yeah, but I was trying to be subtle.”

I laugh, breathless. “You left me a note about pinning me to the stacks.”

“Okay,” he concedes, taking a step closer, “so maybe not that subtle.”

Another step.

Then his hand lifts, fingers grazing my cheek before curling around the back of my neck. He doesn’t kiss me, not yet. He just watches me like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. I don’t.

I tilt my chin up. “Do it.”

His mouth crushes mine.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s weeks, hell maybe months of tension unraveling in a single moment.

His hands roam. One wraps around my waist, dragging me against him. The other slides down, gripping the curve of my ass and lifting just enough to press me into him harder. I gasp into his mouth, and he groans like he’s been waiting for that sound.

“I wasn’t kidding about the desk,” he murmurs against my jaw.

“Then stop talking.”

He laughs, low and dangerous. “Bossy.”

And then he’s backing me up until I bump into the back counter, solid wood, waist height, mostly used for sorting returns.

His palms flatten on my hips. “You’ve been driving me insane. Every time you bend over. Every time you look at me like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I didn’t,” I breathe. “Not really.”

He lifts me onto the edge of the counter like I weigh nothing. Steps between my legs. “You do now.”

His fingers slide up my thigh, under my dress. He finds the lace. Hooks his finger through it.

Pauses.

“I want these,” he says, voice like gravel.

My lips part. “Then take them.”

I lift my hips just enough to help. The panties slide down, slow and teasing, until he tucks them into his back pocket like he’s collecting a prize.

And then his hands are back on me, one steadying my thigh, the other sliding up my side as he kisses the edge of my jaw.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with heat.

“You think that’s going to stop anytime soon?”

He laughs quietly, and this time there’s something darker behind it. His mouth brushes the shell of my ear.

“Next time I’ll make you read it out loud. Every dirty line. Every scene I want to act out.”

I shiver.

He presses a kiss just below my ear. Then another, lower. His fingers move slowly back down my torso, a slow tease, not to explore but to remind. To pick up where he left off.

“Starting with chapter twelve.”

By the time his hand slides between my thighs again, I’m already on edge. His fingers stroke exactly where I’m sensitive, where I’m throbbing from the first time he touched me, and my whole body tightens.

I gasp, clutching his shoulders, and he groans into my neck.

“You’re so fucking responsive,” he mutters.

“Then don’t stop.”

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against my collarbone.

“You haven’t given me a reason to stop.”

He presses two fingers inside me and I moan, clutching his shoulders. The stretch is perfect. Deep. My body clenches around him as he moves, curling just right.

His mouth brushes mine. “Next time I’ll take my time.”

“This isn’t slow?”

He chuckles darkly. “You haven’t seen slow yet.”

“Bookstore foreplay,” I whisper, barely able to speak. “Apparently it works.”

He laughs low in his throat, then grips my hips like he’s already claimed what’s his.

“You know what I want.”

I lift my hips in response. No teasing. No hesitation.

He slides his hands up my thighs, fingers teasing the same spot he left throbbing minutes ago. His touch is slow, teasing, but there’s purpose behind it now.

I shift against him, breath catching.

He leans in, mouth brushing mine, his voice a wicked whisper. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.”

I blink up at him. “You’re a very patient man.”

His smile turns sinful. “Not anymore.”

He drops to his knees in front of me, his hands gripping my thighs to keep them spread.

And then… God.

His tongue drags a slow, unhurried path over my center, and my head slams back against the wall with a thud I barely register.

He licks me like he’s memorizing me. Like this is the scene he was referencing in whatever book was tucked into that first damn email. My fingers scramble for something to hold, finally twisting in his hair when he groans into me like he can’t help himself.

Every swipe is confident. Every flick is practiced. And when he sucks on just the right spot, I gasp and nearly come undone right there.

“Ryan—”

“Yeah, baby. Say it again.”

“Ryan… fuck.” My hands find his head and tangle in his hair.

He doubles down, gripping my thighs tighter, his tongue relentless, and I fall apart for him, clenching around nothing, every nerve lit up and raw.

When I open my eyes, he’s already standing again, his mouth wet, his expression smug and filthy and wrecked in the best way.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says, voice rough.

“Do it again later,” I breathe.

He grins. “Count on it.”

Then he unbuttons his pants, pulls them down just far enough, and pauses. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this.”

He doesn’t ask again.

He pulls a condom from his wallet, tears it open with his teeth, and rolls it on in one practiced motion, like he’s been ready for this since the first note.

The moment he pushes into me, my body tightens, the stretch deep and perfect and better than anything I imagined when I was reading those notes, trying not to fantasize about the man who delivered them.

We move together fast, frantic. His hips thrust into me, the counter jerking with every push. His grip is bruising, his mouth hot and open against my throat.

“I thought about this every fucking time I walked in that door,” he grits out.

“Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve wanted you for a while,” I say, breathless. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”

He groans. “You have no idea how bad I wanted to hear that.”

His rhythm stutters when I clench around him. I’m close again, my second crashing toward me with no control. He slides a hand between us, rubbing tight, fast circles over my clit until I’m gasping into his shoulder, my body shaking as I clench around him.

And then he follows with a deep, shuddering moan, his hips slamming into mine as he comes hard, holding me tight like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

We stay there for a long moment, both breathing hard, bodies tangled, dress wrinkled, bookshelves rattled.

Eventually, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my temple. “So, chapter twelve.”

I laugh, completely wrecked. “What about it?”

“Pretty sure it ends with her calling him sir.”

I lift a brow. “Then maybe we should start chapter thirteen.”

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix