We walk through the stunning reading rooms where nearly every available seat is taken. Students look like they’ve moved in and have no intention of sharing their precious studying spots. Our footsteps garner a few dirty looks, but for the most part, the kids have headphones on.
Weston struts to the stacks. The stacks! And calls the elevator. I stand beside him and hold the backpack to my chest for dear life. I think I might be shaking, I’m so excited. There are a good six inches between my shoulder and his, but the distance is electrified like a high-voltage security fence. The minute the doors ding closed, Weston reaches across me and pushes the stop button. Then he’s on me like spreading fire, stubble, teeth, but mostly, demanding tongue. His hands roam my body like they’re pilfering, and I surrender to his touch.
“In the elevator?” I rasp. I can’t imagine this small white box that fits one cart full of overdue books as my deflowering chamber.
“The stacks, Crosby. I just wanted to kiss you first. Holy shit, your heart is pounding.”
Weston yanks my sweater, the one with the wide V neck in the front and the back, over my shoulder. I arch my back as he pulls me forward, away from the wall. Coaxing my breast out of my bra, he rolls his tongue over my pebbled nipple before sucking it into his mouth. I gasp at the pleasure which seems to heighten at the prospect of getting caught. He strokes the other until my panties are drenched in anticipation.
After another kiss that takes so much from me, I’m disoriented when we finish. Then his fingers are in my pants, pulling my underwear away from my abdomen. Fingers inside me, deep, stretching, and probing. Weston latches on to my nipple again while he pumps his fingers in and out of me. The sensation is mind-numbing, spine-tingling goodness. My whole body purrs as it rocks into his rhythm.
“Oh my God, I’m going to come,” I squeak. I can barely speak. He stops and I cry out. I’m chasing the sensation so hard that the sudden departure of his fingers feels criminal.
He pushes the stop button, and the old, clunky elevator chugs to life again. We rise high, to the top floor of the building. Weston straightens my clothing, while I try to gather my wits and inhabit my brain again. The buzz is still alive, singing under my skin. Every muscle seems to burn with tension as West pulls me down rows of endless books, this time holding my hand. The hardcover spines go by in a blur as slanted rays of golden-hour light come through the shelves at choppy intervals. The drizzle has stopped, and soon the sun will set.
He knows exactly where he’s going, and it makes my stomach feel like a big ball of nerves. He’s going take my virginity in the stacks. I can’t imagine a more perfect scenario. I’m pretty sure this will be one for the books.
Weston
At some point, my feet can’t take us there fast enough. I slam her up against a shelf and yank her arms above her head, crushing her lips in a kiss that’s full of a lifetime of pent-up emotion, lust that I’ve buried under pretenses of obligation. She kisses me back just as fiercely and erases any trace of guilt. Crosby meets me toe-to-toe on all the reasons we both should and shouldn’t do this.
She grabs my dick through my pants, and I almost lose it. I thrust my tongue into her mouth and slip my hands under her bra. Her nipples are hard, and I stroke them with my thumb until she grinds her pelvis into my straining cock.
“Come!” I whisper, but there’s never anyone up here. This part of the library is records, and it’s all been moved to digital archives in the last couple of years, rendering this floor entirely obsolete except for clandestine encounters.
There is a study nook with armchairs and windows that look down over campus, and that’s the corner I’m headed toward.
When we get there, the way the golden light glints through heavy old leaded windows makes the room look like heaven, some sort of magical bedroom reserved for only the most passionate of lovers. When I turn to Crosby, she’s enchanted too, reddish-blonde hair lit up like a sun flare, her whiskey-colored eyes burning bright with desire. I’ve never loved her more. I back her into one of the armchairs and suspend myself above her, bent at the elbow. Her kiss is sweet nectar. Crosby is a delectable fruit that had been ripening to this moment of honeyed perfection. I’ve watched her mature for years into the stunning woman she is now, laid bare beneath me.
I remove her clothes with reverence, and she doesn’t flinch, even kicks her clog across the room without reserve. I’d thought she’d be nervous about getting walked in on. But gutsy Crosby doesn’t care—she slips off her black cotton panties and drops them to the floor without a second glance.