Fucked in the Library
The pot was empty and the burner was still on, a thin scorched smell hanging over the third-floor staff kitchen like it had been waiting for them.
Mara Ellison stood there in the cardigan she only wore after the building emptied, 39 year old hands wrapped around a mug that had nothing in it. Two-ten in the morning. Special Collections locked behind her. The ice machine kicked once and went quiet.
Cole Brennan came in from the service hall with a mop bucket and stopped in the doorway when he saw her.
Twenty three year old night custodian. Name patch still too new.
Three months of good night, Ms. Ellison in this same kitchen, three months of him filling the pot if he got there first and leaving without making it a conversation.
He had floor wax on his boots and coffee on his breath from a cup he must have finished downstairs.
They reached for the canister at the same time.
His knuckles brushed hers. Neither of them pulled back fast enough.
“It’s dead,” she said.
“I can make another.”
“You always make another.”
He looked at her then. Not the polite glance he used when a student worker was in the hall. The one she had caught on the security monitor at 1:00 a.m. more than once and told herself was nothing.
“You stay late on Tuesdays,” he said. “And Thursdays. And whenever the donor boxes come in.”
“You’ve been counting.”
“I’ve been locking up behind you.”
The burner clicked. Her pulse sat in her throat. She could smell him under the wax and the burnt pot — soap, sweat, the cheap detergent the university issued. She could feel the heat coming off his chest even with a foot of linoleum between them.
“I can’t keep doing the polite version of this,” she said. “I watch you lock the west wing. You know I do.”
“I know which nights you take the stairs instead of the elevator.” His voice stayed low. “I know you undo the top button of that cardigan when you think the cameras have cycled. I know you say my name in your head before you say Ms. Ellison out loud.”
She should have told him he was wrong. She said, “Lock the door.”
He did. The deadbolt went over with a small, ugly sound. He turned back and waited.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s me saying yes. Come here.”
He crossed the kitchen like he had been living in the last three feet of it for months.
His mouth hit her neck first, open, wet, the scrape of stubble under her jaw.
She made a sound she had been swallowing since August.
His hands went under the cardigan and found cotton, then skin, then the heavy give of her tits, thumbs dragging over nipples that were already tight.
“Fuck,” he muttered against her throat. “I’ve thought about these.”
“Show me.”
He shoved the cardigan off her shoulders.
It hit the linoleum. He yanked her shirt up and got her bra down without asking her to turn around, and then his mouth was on her left nipple, hot and greedy, sucking while his other hand squeezed.
She grabbed the back of his head and held him there.
The kitchen smelled like scorched coffee and her skin.
He switched sides. Bit just enough. She felt it between her legs, a hard pulse in her clit, her panties already a problem.
“Cole.”
He dropped.
Knees on the kitchen floor, 23 year old mouth level with the waistband of her slacks.
He popped the button with his teeth and his fingers together, dragged the zipper, pulled everything — slacks, panties — down to her boots and left them there.
Cool air on her pussy. She was wet enough that she felt it on her inner thighs.
He looked up once.
“Still yes.”
“Yes. Put your mouth on me.”
He did. No teasing for the sake of teasing.
He spread her with his thumbs and licked a slow, flat line up through her cunt to her clit and stayed there, sucking, the wet sound filthy in the quiet kitchen.
She grabbed the counter behind her and her mug went over, empty, rolling into the sink.
His tongue worked her clit in tight circles, then lower, pushing into her pussy, then back, and he made a noise in his throat like he had been hungry for this exact taste.
She came standing up.
It ripped up through her belly, ugly and honest.
Her thighs shook against his ears. She heard herself say fuck and don’t stop and his name.
He didn’t stop. He licked her through it, slower, drinking what she gave him, stubble burning the inside of her thighs.
The ice machine kicked on again like it was applauding.
She hauled him up by the shirt.
“My turn.”
She went to her knees on the same linoleum.
His work pants were already tented, a dark spot where the head of his cock had leaked.
She got the belt open, the zipper, the waistband down.
His cock sprang into her hand, thick, hot, a vein along the underside, the head slick.
He was bigger than she had let herself invent in the stacks at midnight.
She licked the wet off the tip and tasted salt.
Then she took him into her mouth.
He hissed through his teeth and locked his hand in her hair, not shoving, just holding.
She sucked him sloppy on purpose, spit running down to his balls, the wet sounds worse than the ice machine.
She took him until he hit the back of her throat and her eyes watered and she did it again.
His hips twitched. He did not fuck her face. He let her work.
“Mara. That’s — fuck. Your mouth.”
She pulled off, a string of spit from her lip to his cock, and stroked him with a wet fist.
“You don’t get to cum yet.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
She believed him. The look on his face was wrecked and patient at the same time, a 23 year old who had been waiting three months and was not about to waste it in her throat on the first pass.
She stood. He lifted her onto the counter like she weighed nothing. Cold laminate under her bare ass. Her slacks hung off one boot. He stepped between her knees, dragged the head of his cock through the mess he had made of her pussy, and looked at her.
“Yes,” she said again.
He pushed in.
Not all at once. An inch, a pause, the stretch burning in a way that made her nails find his shoulders. Another inch. She was soaked and it still took work. She felt every ridge of him, the heat, the way her cunt had to open. He bottomed out with a sound punched out of both of them.
He didn’t move.
Forehead against hers. His breath on her mouth. Her pussy clenched around a cock that had no business fitting that deep on a staff-kitchen counter at 2:14 in the morning.
“I’ve wanted this,” he said. “Every night you said good night like I was furniture.”
“Then fuck me like I’m not.”
He pulled back and drove in.
The counter edge bit her ass. The cabinet doors rattled.
He set a rhythm that was not frantic and was not gentle — long strokes, deep, the wet slap of his hips against her, his belt buckle tapping the drawer front.
She hooked her boots around his thighs and took it.
Each thrust dragged the head of his cock over the spot inside her that made her vision skip.
He got a hand between them and found her clit with his thumb, circling while he fucked her. She was going to cum again and he knew it. He watched her face like he was memorizing the exact second it hit.
“Give it to me,” he said. “I want to feel this pussy cum on my cock.”
She broke on the next stroke, tighter, meaner than the first one, pulsing around him while he kept moving, kept that thumb working, kept talking low and filthy against her mouth.
He did not follow her over.
He was still hard, still buried in her, still rocking, a sheen of sweat at his temple, jaw locked against the thing he was refusing to give her yet. The kitchen smelled like sex and burnt coffee. Her cardigan was on the floor. The deadbolt was thrown.
He thrust again, deeper, and her head tipped back against the upper cabinet.
“Cole—”
“Not done,” he said, and fucked into her again.
He did not pull out.
Mara’s spine was flat to the upper cabinet and Cole was still buried in her, 23 year old hips rolling in a grind that smeared her own wet down the insides of her thighs. The counter had gone from cold laminate to something slick. Every time he bottomed out she felt it in her teeth.
The ice machine dumped a load of cubes into the bin with a sound like applause nobody had asked for.
“Floor’s going to be worse,” he said against her mouth.
“Then put me on it.”
He lifted her off the counter without slipping free, her slacks still tangled around one boot, her other boot kicking the cabinet door shut.
Her ass hit the linoleum. It was colder than the counter and slightly sticky from old mop water.
Her cardigan was under one shoulder blade.
He came down over her, one forearm by her head, and drove back in to the root.
Different angle. Deeper. The tile bit her tailbone and she did not care.
She could hear everything now that she was on her back.
The wet suck of her pussy taking his cock.
The faint squeak of his boot sole. His breathing, not ragged yet, paced like he had decided the night was long and he was going to use all of it.
She could smell the bleach they used on this floor under the smell of her own cunt.
“Look at you,” he muttered. “Ms. Ellison on the break-room floor with her slacks around her ankle.”
“Don’t call me that while you’re in me.”
“Mara.” He snapped his hips. “Better.”
She came again before she meant to, a sharp, mean clench that made her kick the table leg.
He rode it, thumb back on her clit, not letting her close her thighs.
She heard herself make a noise she would have fired a student worker for.
When it passed she was shaking and he was still hard, still moving, a bead of sweat dropping from his jaw onto her tit.
“Table,” she said. “I want my chest on it.”
He pulled out. The loss was obscene. Her pussy clenched on nothing and leaked onto the linoleum.
He hauled her up, bent her over the break-room table, and shoved the stack of unwashed mugs to the far end with one forearm.
Plastic salt shaker rolled off and hit the floor.
He kicked her boots apart, dragged the head of his cock through the mess between her legs, and pushed back into her from behind.
She saw their reflection in the dark window over the sink.