The Man in the Coat

I first encountered him at the New York City public library branch where I worked. I won't say I met him then, nothing as intimate as that. He was a quiet, serious patron, one of those obviously there on business, not pleasure. He strode purposely in, head down, enormous leather satchel on one slouched shoulder, already fumbling in the pockets of his long coat for pen and notes.
My first impression from across the room was of a much older man; the posture, the glasses, the scattering of gray at his temples, the conservative, careless manner of his dress. But as he passed my desk, I caught a glimpse of his face, and realized he was closer to my own age. And strikingly handsome. Even the high collar, unkempt hair and hopelessly outdated glasses couldn't hide that from anything but a distance.
I was immediately intrigued. I watch people. I play at trying to deduce or, lacking that much information, guess their nature and situation. He was a challenging and interesting subject I thought. And I admit, I found him inherently interesting for other, less academic reasons as well. I am not, as a rule, a lascivious woman, not your stereotypical repressed librarian, but something about him reached out and grabbed me by the throat as he rushed past. Sometimes it is just that simple and raw.
He headed directly and unswervingly for the reference section, and began pulling books as quickly as easily as if he were at his own bookshelf. He'd obviously used this library before, but it must have been previous to my employ; I would have noticed and remembered him. He carried several large volumes to a table and deposited them there, along with his satchel, and began flipping through pages and taking notes. While he didn't appear in need of any assistance, I soon found the chance to make my way to the area, on the pretense of reshelving a few items.
"Finding everything alright?" I asked from behind him. He looked up, over his shoulder.
"Yes, thank you," he said, and went back to his task, dismissing me from his attention. No, that's wrong; I was never in his attention. His response was merely distracted and automatic.
He visited several times a week after that, some days for hours on end and others for only long enough to check something in one volume and leave. Over the next few weeks, I had the opportunity to interact with him a bit more than I had that first time. Not much more, he being so focused on his research and I so obligated to do my job, but enough to pique my interest to the point of obsession.
It was quite ridiculous, I knew, but every time he was there, I would watch him circumspectly and long for some small satisfaction. For instance, on some visits he removed his coat, on others he left it on. It seemed that in both cases, the action was more absentminded than intentional. On each visit, I would silently will him to remove the coat, to grant me more of him than was discernible underneath the long, loose garment. Mind you, what he wore underneath wasn't much more revealing or interesting; his slightly baggy, worn suit looked as if it might have once fit him well, but he'd lost some weight since and never bothered to replace it. Regardless, it was a game I played, and I counted it a victory everytime he took off the coat and tossed it over the chair-back next to him.
One evening, he lingered late, until he was one of the last few patrons and we were already beginning the routine of shutting down for the night. He appeared to be having some difficulty locating whatever it was he needed, his frustration growing evident as he scanned the shelves and removed and replaced books. I closed down my terminal and went to him.
"Could I perhaps help you find something?" By this time, we were nodding aquaintances, and he took the time to focus fully on me, looking up at me from his seat before he spoke.
"I doubt it. I don't think it's here."
"Well, we have a great deal of other materials in the stacks. I'm afraid it's too late for you to look today, but next time you come, I can let you check."
His gaze was steady and, as always, serious. I had never seen him smile, as if his expression wore a long, gray coat too. His eyes dropped to my legs and made their way back up my body slowly, clearly taking in my hips, my ass, my breasts and throat before coming to rest on my eyes again. There was no apology or shame in them, only a frank consideration. I saturated my panties, but didn't break eye contact. After a long moment, he did, the faint trace of a smile finally on his lips.
He turned away and removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes and sighing. "I've had enough of this for now anyway," he said, and began gathering up his things. He looked up again and asked, "Do you drink?" It was such an odd question, so personal and seemingly apropos of nothing that I hesitated. He continued, stuffing his papers and books into his bag as he spoke, "I'm going to have a drink after I leave here. Would you care to join me?"
This time, I didn't hesitate. "Yes, I would. I get off fifteen minutes after closing. Can you wait?"
He stared at me, suddenly solemn and considering again. "Of course."
My heart was racing, but I managed to go about my duties in those next twenty minutes as if it weren't. I could see him, standing and smoking just outside the glass doors. He seemed calm and relaxed, in no hurry to get anywhere or do anything. It was the first time I'd seen that side of him.
The bar was a small, respectable one a few blocks away. We sat at the bar and he ordered a whiskey on the rocks. I had a white wine. There was surprisingly little small-talk for a first date, if that's what it even was.
"So, what is it you're researching?" I asked after my first sip. He took a drink, set down his glass, and looked me steadily in the eyes. "I don't think that's what you're really interested in." What could I say? I felt a flush of heat, but not from embarrasment.
We had another drink, not speaking, watching one another. When he pulled out his cigarettes, I gestured for one and he lit it for me, cupping my hands in his, the contact soft and intensely stimulating. We both knew where this was going, so it was neither unclear nor awkward when he said, "Where should we go?"
"My apartment is just across the park," I replied. As we walked, there was no need to make offers of coffee or allude to coin collections or any of the other pretenses usually involved. We were going to my place for sex, pure and simple. It was oddly refreshing. And insanely exciting. I'd never done this sort of thing before. I can't say I don't know what came over me. I do.
I led him inside and switched on a lamp. I hung my purse on a hook and when I turned, he was there, putting his hands on me. He kissed me, very tentatively at first, waiting for me to demand more. His hands moved gently over my arms and up to the back of my neck. I was already so aroused, his touch set me to trembling. His lips brushed and pressed softly on mine, sucking my lips gently, until I gave him my tongue. He sucked it into his mouth and caressed it with his own before penetrating deeply.
The kiss grew into something harder and deeper, and his hands roamed to my breasts, their gentleness giving way to a barely restrained urgency. I slid my arms around his waist, under the coat, and then down to his ass. When I did, he pressed into me, large and hard on my stomach.
"Take off your coat," I gasped, and he did, slipping it off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. I undid his belt, and he kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the pants while I stripped him of his suit jacket. While I unbuttoned his shirt, he found the zipper of my dress and slid it open, then coaxed the dress down, me pulling my arms free one at a time, until it pooled at my feet.
He was almost too lean underneath his clothes, and his erection was tremendous through his boxers. I reached down and slid them off. The skin of his cock was hot and velvety in my hand. He moaned when I touched him, and reached up to unhook my bra.
"Leave your panties on," he said gruffly, and leaned down to kiss my breasts. After a time I pulled away and led him to the bed, walking backwards, stroking and tugging his cock softly as he followed. He wore his most serious face now, his eyes dark, possibly dangerous. So far he'd been tender, but what I saw now was the threat of violence. It both frightened and aroused me. Do not tease me, that look said, I am well beyond that now. I felt a second of panic; what did I actually know of this man? This stranger? Only that he had a library card and the free time to use it frequently. Come to think of it, I didn't even know that much; he'd never checked anything out to my knowledge.
When we reached the bed he pushed me backwards onto it and stood over me looking down. He moved his eyes over my body in the semi-darkness, settling finally on the triangle of dark lace between my thighs. I lay there breathing heavily, my desire mingled with fear. Then he reached out and slipped his fingers up my inner thigh and into my panties, stroking and spreading me so softly that I opened and arched toward him with a groan, all trepidation forgotten. I looked up at him and saw he'd closed his eyes. For some reason, it was at that moment I realized I didn't know his name. For some reason, it seemed at that moment to matter.
"What's your name?" I whispered. He continued moving his fingers on me, in me, bringing me closer and closer to not caring, until I decided he wasn't going to answer.
"Dean," he sighed. "Dean Corso." With his free hand he removed his glasses and set them on the bedside table. He moved closer to the bed and used one hand to raise my ass, the other to pull the crotch of my panties aside. As his slid his cock into me, I orgasmed and began rocking and thrusting; the sensation, the situation, the dark lust in his eyes, it was all too much!
His hand squeezed my ass hard and the other rose to seize my breast. He began thrusting deep, rough, his breathing growing faster, louder. I could feel the edge of my panties, moving on my pussy as he fucked me, could imagine how the wet lace felt rubbing on his shaft with every movement. There was something incredibly erotic about it, as if he were violating my most hidden place without permission, the stretched fabric a reminder of the illicitness of our act. Perhaps it was that way for him, too, because he kept moving his fingers over my ass, over and under the cloth of my panties, then up between my legs, feeling where we were joined and of the material there. It seemed to incite even greater excitement in him, causing him to moan and curse softly and plunge into me desperately, again and again. I am not usually very vocal during sex, but this was not my usual sex.
"Ahhh! Ohh, oh TAKE me! God, YES!" He grunted loudly and I felt him beginning to come deep inside me. His spasms triggered mine, and I came with him, clawing at his shoulders and hair and crying out.
When we were both spent, he fell off me to one side and lay there panting. I felt dazed, the aftershocks still coursing through me. I wanted to tell him how incredible it had been, but I stopped myself; it would have been redundant and he didn't seem inclined to chat.
He left me shortly after that, retrieving his glasses and dressing in the entryway. He returned to the bedroom, leaned over, and kissed me before he went, though.
"See you tomorrow," he whispered. "Maybe you can help me find what I'm looking for."
"Maybe," I murmured, already dozing. "What is it you're researching?"
He just smiled broadly, caressed my cheek, and left.