Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
T uesday night found me making my way across campus at a much later time than I was used to. The library was open until 11, luckily, and the sun had already gone down by the time I made my way through its high, ornate doors. The library was the oldest building on our campus; it had been there before the school itself. It had always struck me as the type of place that would attract witches, or where mysterious cults would meet in chambers hidden behind bookcases.
Adrian was waiting for me on the 4th floor. There were dozens of reading rooms on the 1st floor, but Adrian had chosen a secluded table for us near the Poetry section, or so he had told me. I couldn't see him at first when I exited the elevator. But after wandering past several shelves I spotted him at the far end, seated near the wall at a dark wood table. He had several books stacked on the round table, and already had one open before him. I paused for a few moments before alerting him to my arrival, admiring the way he rested his chin upon his open palm, his face strangely innocent, utterly absorbed in his reading. The light from the old, yellowy bulbs gave the place a warm, romantic feel, and I was glad he had chosen this spot over one of the newer, fluorescent-lit reading rooms.
Romantic . . . what the hell is wrong with me? For some reason, seeing him here was putting me dangerously close to something akin to feelings: a giddy, childlike excitement that made my mouth go dry as I looked at him. It's not supposed to be like that, Cass. You're not ready for that. Don't get feelings involved here.
I sighed, shook my head, and started towards him. He heard me coming and glanced up, giving me a little wave.
"Well, well. I was worried you wouldn't find me back here," he said. I pulled out the chair opposite him, setting down my bag beside my chair and pulling out my textbook.
"You're kind of hidden," I said. "It's nice up here though. Quiet."
He smiled. "I enjoy the solitude. Not many people are interested in 15th to 16th century poets, even at a school this devoted to the English language." He glanced at the rows of old volumes surrounding us. "I like the smell of the older books too."
I nodded in agreement. "That smell of dust. History. Old, worn paper touched by dozens of hands across centuries." He looked at me in surprise, an unusual expression in his eyes. It wasn't the lust I was used to seeing from him, but it was something similar. Something that gave me goose bumps nonetheless.
"Exactly," he said. "Makes me feel like a part of something . . ." He cleared his throat, breaking the spell.
"Shall we go back to Frost?" he said, tapping the page in front of him. I could see the page number he was turned to, and I quickly flipped through my textbook. It was Robert Frost's, Acquainted with the Night .
"I have been one acquainted with the night," Adrian began to read, softly, but his voice carrying a melodic quality that made me stare in amazement. "I have walked out in rain—and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light." He glanced up at me over his glasses, a crooked smile on his face.
"You're staring," he said, amusement in his voice. "Aren't professors supposed to read to their students?" I just nodded, afraid he would stop. Luckily he looked back down at the page and went on.
"I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat. And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain."
"It's so lonely," I said, making him pause.
"It is. I think most writers are a little lonely."
"It's been quite a while since I wrote anything," I replied. I had used to jot down poetry every night, thinking of verses in the simplest things like the shadow a tree cast or a girl in a flower dress. But after a while that had faded. I hadn't found poetry in things anymore. I'd found disappoint in the mirror, jealousy in beauty. And yes, loneliness.
"You should start again," he said. "Writing has been better therapy than my money has ever bought."
I laughed, disbelieving. " You've been to therapy?"
"I hide my problems well." He pushed his glasses back up his nose, so that they caught the light and hid his eyes for a split-second. "Like I said, most writers are lonely. Loneliness can be comforting, or it can be sad. Sometimes very, very sad. I had to learn to make it comforting, instead."
It made my heart hurt to think of him that way. He seemed so confidant, so sure of himself. How could a man like this have any shortage of friends, or companionship? Then again, loneliness didn't have to come just from being alone. After all, I had felt my loneliness the worst before Ethan had left me.
"I understand that," I said. "At least you got help for what you felt. It's a lot better than what I've done so far."
He leaned forward in his chair, regarding me curiously. "And what have you done so far?"
"Ignore my problems. Pretend I don't see really obvious red flags. Drown sadness in wine and boxed macaroni and cheese."
He laughed. "That sounds . . . extremely dramatic. And unhealthy."
I shrugged, giving him a sassy little smile. "What you see is what you get. That's what you get for going home with a really drunk girl at a frat bar."
"As your professor," he said, mockingly serious. "I don't feel qualified to give you advice on your mental health." He paused, and then added. "As your friend, however, I will give you unsolicited advice as often as I feel is needed, and insist that you follow it. So we'll come back to this topic again."
My friend. The simple comment made me feel stupidly warm and fuzzy inside. But it also made me feel anxious. Anxious because it didn't quite feel like enough.
We mulled over Frost for nearly an hour, flipping back and forth between his poems for comparisons. Adrian finally told me what "sound of sense" was, and it had nothing to do with him spanking me. As the night wore on the library emptied more and more. There was no one left at all on the 4th floor with us. I rubbed my eyes, beginning to grow weary from the hours staring at tiny print.
"Getting bored of studying?" he asked, watching as I stretched back in my chair, arching my back. I nodded, flopping my head down against my hand.
He scooted his chair back slightly from the table, but didn't get up. Instead he said, "I have one more poem I would like to go over with you. Come, sit on my lap. I think I can help you get just a little bit more study time squeezed in."
I glanced around nervously, even knowing that the floor was empty besides the two of us.
"In the library?" I whispered. His expression clearly showed his displeasure at my hesitation.
"Yes, in the library," he said. "Whenever and wherever I want you is where I'll have you. But only if you earn it, remember?" He gave me a cat's grin and patted his lap. "Come. Sit."
I got up and went to him. Before I could sit properly, he had snatched me by the waist and settled me down tightly against him. I could feel his bulge through his slacks and my eyes widened, immediately turned on. He took my wrists gently in his hands and placed them on the table on either side of the book, breathing a light kiss against my neck.
"Alright, Miss Cassandra," Adrian spoke just into my ear, sending very distinct chills down my spine that settled in my lower back. "Turn to page 394."
He released my wrists, and I began to flip through the book obediently. The section I had flipped to was 19th Century Poets, and I found the verses of Anne Reeve Aldrich – whom I had never heard of – upon the page he had told me.
"This isn't part of the reading," he murmured, his lips finding those sensitive spots along my neck and taking full advantage. "But I still think it's a valuable study." His fingers dug into my hips as he ran kisses up my neck so that he could nibble at my earring. I had the irrational urge to squirm away, the stimulation hitting that odd spot again that sent waves of tension down my back.
I was smiling with excitement, unable even to concentrate on the words before me. His grip tightened again, dangerously, and he growled, "Start reading, little girl."
I cleared my throat quietly, knowing that I would really have to watch my noise this time. "Servitude," I read. "By Anne Reeve Aldrich."
Adrian's hands slipped under my shirt. They slid up my stomach and played over the surface of my bra, teasing upon the exposed parts of my breasts. I steadied my breathing, determined to resist him.
"The church was dim at vespers," I read. "My eyes were on the Rood." His fingers found their way beneath my bra. They flicked over my nipples, almost making me stutter. My breath hitched and he took a nipple between two fingers and squeezed. I closed my eyes and held my breath.
"Something wrong?" he taunted. His hands left my breasts but were now heading down. They stroked over every curve, taking in my shape as they found the top of my jeans. "Are you distracted?"
"No, sir," I said, opening my eyes determinedly. I looked back at the poem, my eyes barely focusing on the page. "But yet I felt thee near me, in every drop of blood. In-"
He had popped open the button on my jeans. He slid down the zipper, his fingers tantalizingly brushing over my panties. Not enough to truly stimulate me, but more than enough to encourage my excitement. I tried again to finish the verse, "In helpless- ah!"
His fingers had slipped beneath my panties, finding their playground on the most sensitive part of my body. It took all my focus to keep from moaning as Adrian worked circular motions over my clit, sending shudders through me. I tried to stop my legs from beginning their telltale shaking.
"Go on," he ordered. "I didn't tell you to stop reading."
"I-"
His fingers entered me. I flinched, pressing back against him, a gasp forced from my mouth at the sudden intrusion. He held me tighter, keeping me firmly on his lap as he began to slowly pump two fingers in and out. I moaned from behind my tightly pressed lips, unable to keep it back. I felt Adrian chuckle, and his fingers paused deep within me, caressing my very core.
"Keep reading, Cass," his said, his voice heavy with promise. "Don't make me punish you in here."
My backside tensed at the suggestion. I didn't even want to imagine how difficult it would be to stay quiet through one of Adrian's punishments. Or worse, what methods he would use to make sure I stayed quiet. I clenched my hands on the tabletop, refocusing on the words.
"In helpless, trembling bondage," I said, "My soul's weight lies on thee." His merciless fingers were going to drive me over the edge. My voice was shaking. "O call me not at dead of night, lest I should come to thee!" I moaned again as I finished the reading, bowing my head toward the table as my pleasure began to peak.
"Don't come yet," he hissed sharply, but his fingers didn't still. "We're not done yet. Your lesson isn't over."
"Aahh, please!" I moaned. I tried to tense my muscles to prevent my orgasm, but that only drove me closer. I tried to relax instead, resulting in my entire body trembling as I struggled. "I can't, Adrian," I whimpered. "I can't stop –"
His fingers immediately withdrew, and I almost cried out in frustration. With his hands on my waist he pushed me up and bent me over the table, pulling my jeans and panties down in one fluid motion. He remained seated behind me, and I heard him put his fingers in his own mouth, sucking off the taste of me.
God. Damn.
"If you can't control yourself, Miss Cassandra," he said, his voice sounding stern. "Then I'm going to have to make this a bit more unpleasant for you. Put your hands behind your back."
I obeyed, whining as I did, forcing me to lean upon the table. I wondered if I could use the safety word to stop the teasing but still get an orgasm out of it. Somehow I doubted it. One utterance of that word and everything would shut down. I ground my forehead against the book as he grasped both my wrists in his hand, holding them firmly. The fingers of his other hand then stroked over my lips and pressed against them demandingly.
"Suck," he said. "Get them nice and wet."
I took his fingers in my mouth, running my tongue over them like I desperately wanted to do to another rock-hard part of him. Satisfied, his fingers withdrew and stroked suddenly over that other entrance down there. I squeaked and jumped against the table, causing him to press down more firmly on my hands.
"Relax," he said. "If you're tense, it will hurt."
"I'm not sure Adrian!" I burst out, beginning to struggle against him. I'd never had anyone down there before. Even that subtle press from his fingers told me just how tight it was. He paused, luckily, and gave me a moment to breath.
"Do you want me to stop?" he said. He waited for my answer as I thought on it desperately. Of course I didn't want him to stop! I wanted him to keep going, to keep pushing, to throw me all the way to the edge and then ravage me over it. But I was scared too.
Somehow the fear made it even more delicious.
"No," I relinquished at last. "Please don't stop."