all-nighters

"Two co-eds working on their theses indulge in some stress relief in the stacks."

He kisses you like he loves you. That is the bitter, brutal part of it that will keep you awake at night for weeks after this. He kisses you frenzied and deep but somehow gentle, his breath shivering and startled against your mouth as he pulls away to steady himself. It is dark in this section of the stacks, the fluorescent light a few rows over flickering with exhaustion, and his face is mostly in shadow but you can still read the awe and tension in his features. His eyes have long since shuddered closed, his brow furrowed. A calloused hand is tight at your thigh, bracing you against a shelf, and your fingers tangle in his hair and hold on for dear life. You dimly wonder in that lust-addled way if you will knock over the metal structure, if it can even be knocked over, but his hips rock forward and dusty spines dig into your back and you groan and stop wondering about the shelves or the noise or the thirty pages due at the end of the week because his fingers are delving under the hem of the skirt rucked up around your waist and you want him to fuck you finally finally.

It took seven weeks. Seven weeks of poorly concealed glances over the divider between your work spaces, seven weeks of increasingly intentional games of footsie under the table, seven weeks of chatting about these damn all-nighters am I right? He is in your major but somehow you never met him before the Olin gods assigned you attached thesis desks and you became fixated on the hard slope of his broad shoulders as he dropped his backpack to the dirty carpet every night. Mark, he introduced himself at some point in February when you started writing and working here became a ritual. His handshake was firm and warm, his eyes clear as he leaned over the divider. By April a sooty layer of scruff overtook his previously clean-shaven jaw and you began to concoct stress-induced schemes of seduction between paragraphs. Hey can you help me reach this book I need from the top shelf I can’t quite get it and I-

In the end it was him who invented some bullshit excuse about needing help carrying books from the far end of the stacks and you didn’t bother pointing out he had long since finished the research portion of his thesis. It wasn’t long before you were crushed up against his chest, his hand cupping your chin to find your lips in the half-light. It does not surprise you how quickly it escalates. What does surprise you is how tender his touch is as he drags your sleeve down your shoulder to press a kiss against your skin, not with hunger but with reverence. Your head falls back against the shelf and you are grateful to be pinned between him and the sturdy weight of Olin when your knees threaten to give out. He kisses you like he loves you and it scares you more than the possibility of getting caught.

He buries his face in your neck, breathing hard as you fumble with the button of his jeans. The fabric gives under your shaking fingers and he hisses as you curve your hand around the hard length of him.

Inane thoughts flit through your mind while you familiarize yourself with the smooth texture of his cock: I never do things like this I don’t know your last name I have wanted this for months. You vocalize only the last, somehow finding breath to stammer, ‘I- I want-’ before your voice cracks and the pad of his thumb rubs against the slick silk of your underwear.

There is a muted crinkle as he tears open the condom wrapper but you are not paying attention, focused instead on how you can feel the blood rushing along your lifeline when you clench your fist, fingertips pressed to palm. Or maybe that’s your loveline etched deep into your skin, supposed futures written across your hand. Then he hitches your leg around his waist and the air leaves your lungs as he guides himself into you, torturously slow.

Your teeth shred into your lower lip in the struggle to swallow the moan building in your throat. He stills once he is thrust to the hilt inside of you, giving you both an opportunity to breathe and adjust, and for a moment there is nothing, just sensation and relief and the wholeness you can never get used to. But then he hisses, strain written into his shoulders as he tries not to move until you are ready, and you turn your head to find his lips with your own. The kiss is barely more than a tentative brush because then he is moving, your back grinding against the shelves with each drawn out thrust. One of your hands gets lost under his t-shirt and he covers your mouth with a sweaty palm to catch the whimpered exclamations you cannot rein in. As much as you thought of this happening you never imagined it would taste so sweet, ache so much. A quick fuck in the stacks maybe, rushed and rough, but not borderline intimate, not with his lips humming against your neck, voice breaking as he stammers something about how good you feel, how gorgeous you are. You knew you wanted him, you just didn’t know you wanted him like this.

He is kissing you again when you cum and you cry out against his mouth, every muscle in your body tensing like a stretched spring only to be released and fall and shudder and melt between his body and the bookshelf, your mind white noise, static shock, absolute divine silence. And then there are details, his forehead creased, a hand trembling as he hoists you up the shelf again, and you wish you could hear him groan your name, announce to all of the fucking library that he is close and it is all because of you. You nip at his lower lip and he growls, sweat dripping from his hair onto your nose, before he driving into you with an uncoordinated urgency he had kept under careful control. For a fraught second you worry he will drop you but then he finishes hard, his sturdy weight writing you to the stacks as he smothers a yell against your neck. You find yourself messing with his hair but you aren’t sure when you started.

Seven weeks down, two weeks to go.