Fucked in the Library #3
At 1:40 she went to the kitchen for coffee she did not want.
Empty. The pot from last night had been dumped by day staff.
The salt shaker was back on the table. Someone had picked her mug out of the sink and left it on the rack.
She stood there too long. A cataloger from maps came in, filled a cup, left.
Mara went back to her desk and stayed there until the building emptied.
Two-oh-five. She unlocked the kitchen on purpose.
He was already at the counter, making a pot like August had never ended. The deadbolt was not thrown. The hallway camera at the far end of the service corridor had a slow cycle. She had timed it months ago for reasons that used to be about boxes.
“You didn’t look at me,” she said.
“There was a kid with a backpack.” He poured. Did not hand her a cup. “You walked like it hurt.”
“It does.”
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. He set the pot down.
She crossed to him, put her palm on the front of his work pants, and found him already half hard. He made a sound that belonged to 3:00 a.m., not to a kitchen with the door still unlocked.
“Mara.”
“Hands only. That’s all you get.”
She popped his belt, dragged the zipper, and took his cock out in the fluorescent light.
Thick. Hot. The head already wet. She spat into her palm because she was not getting on her knees in here again tonight and she wanted it filthy anyway.
Her fist wrapped him and stroked, tight, twisting over the head the way his hips had told her he liked when her mouth had been on him.
He braced both hands on the counter behind him. Head tipped back. Throat working.
“You’re stopping,” he said, already wrecked.
“I know.”
She worked him until his thighs shook. Until a bead of precum slicked her knuckles and the wet sound of her fist was the only thing in the room besides the ice machine thinking about it. He thrust into her hand once and she squeezed the base of his cock hard enough to stall him.
“No.”
“Fuck—”
“You don’t cum. Not in my hand. Not on my cardigan. You go back to work hard and you think about last night on that floor.”
His eyes opened. Dark. Angry in a way that was not actually anger. She stroked him through another minute of that look, slower, meaner, thumb smearing the wet around the head until his breath went uneven and his knuckles whitened on the laminate.
The radio in the hall popped.
A burst of static. Then a man’s voice, too close, facilities code she knew by heart. Someone asking if the third floor was clear.
They froze.
Her fist was still around his cock. His pants were open. The kitchen door was not locked. Footsteps started down the service corridor, rubber soles on wax.
Cole moved first. He shoved himself back into his pants, grimacing, still hard, belt only half done. Mara turned to the pot like she had been waiting for coffee her entire career. Her hand was shiny. She put it in her cardigan pocket.
The night supervisor filled the doorway. Mid-fifties. Bored. He nodded at Cole, nodded at her, said the west stairwell light was out and Cole should hit it after this floor.
“Yes, sir.”
The man left. The radio hissed and faded.
Mara’s pulse was in her teeth. Cole’s fly was still a problem. He did not look at the door. He looked at her mouth.
“My shift ends at six,” he said, quiet. “I have a place. It’s not this kitchen.”
She should have said no. The almost-getting-caught was supposed to be the lesson.
“Address,” she said.
He recited it. An efficiency on the other side of the river road, the kind of building with a buzzing entry and a shower that would not care what they did to the tile. She put it in her phone under a last name that was not his.
He finished the belt. Picked up the mop he had leaned by the fridge like a prop. At the door he stopped.
“If you come,” he said, “you don’t stop me tonight.”
She heard the word the way he meant it and the way she refused to spell it.
“We’ll see.”
He left. The ice machine dumped cubes into the bin for no one. She washed her hand in the sink until the water ran clear and still smelled him on her skin. The meeting agenda was still in her office. The couch still had the pillow on it. Four hours until six.
She locked Special Collections at five-fifty and took the stairs.
The entry buzzed like it was angry about the hour.
Mara took the stairs because the elevator smelled like someone else’s dinner.
Second floor. Green door, paint chipped around the lock.
Cole opened it before she knocked twice.
He had changed out of the work shirt. Bare feet.
Damp hair. The 23 year old version of him that did not belong to the university.
“You came,” he said.
“Don’t start.”
The efficiency was one room and a bathroom.
Mattress on a low frame. A table with two chairs that did not match.
The window was cracked and the river road hissed underneath it, wet tires, a bus taking the corner too fast.
He had a clean towel over the back of a chair like he had thought about this since the radio in the hall.
She put her palm on his chest and felt him breathing too fast for a man who had mopped floors for eight hours.
“Shower,” she said. “I’m not getting on your bed with the building still on my skin.”
The bathroom was barely big enough for both of them.
He started the water. It went hot fast. Steam lifted and fogged the cheap mirror until her face was a smear.
She stripped without a show. Cardigan, blouse, the bra that had been hiding his bite.
Slacks. The panties she had put on at noon and regretted.
He watched like he was being paid to memorize her.
“You’re staring.”
“I mopped your hallway and didn’t look. I’m looking now.”
She stepped under the spray. He followed, still in his jeans for three seconds too long, then kicked them off and crowded in behind her. The stall was a plastic pan and a cloudy door. His cock was already hard against the small of her back, hot even under the water.
His mouth found the bite mark first. Then her throat. Then he turned her and went to his knees in the running water.
Tile hurt. She planted a hand on the slick wall anyway. He lifted one of her thighs over his shoulder and put his mouth on her cunt like the kitchen had been practice.
Different here. Water sheeted off his hair onto her belly.
The heat made everything swollen. He licked her clit in slow, mean passes, then sucked, then pushed his tongue into her pussy and groaned when he tasted that she was already wet for him before the shower had done anything.
The sound bounced off the plastic. She heard herself swear.
She heard a car horn outside, ordinary, miles from this.
He worked her until her standing knee shook.
“Cole— I’m—”
He did not take his mouth away. He slid two fingers into her, crooked them, and sucked her clit through the first climax.
It hit harder than the one on the kitchen floor because she had been walking around full of this all day.
Her hips jerked. Her heel slipped. He held her up by the ass and kept licking, water running into his mouth with her.
When she yanked at his hair he stood, lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around him because the pan was too small to do anything else. His cock slid along her pussy, not in yet, a slick drag that made her curse into his shoulder.
He shut the water off with his elbow. The sudden quiet was loud. Drip from the showerhead. Her pulse. His.
He carried her out.
No towel. They left a trail on the vinyl. He went to his knees again on the bathroom floor and laid her down on the bathmat, which was thin and slightly sour and better than tile. Steam still hung. The mirror was useless. She could smell cheap soap and skin and the wet heat coming off both of them.
He pushed her thighs open with his palms and looked at her pussy like he had not just had his mouth on it.
“Yes,” she said, because the last time they had started like this she had needed the word in the air.
“I know.” He dragged the head of his cock through her folds, up over her clit, back to where she was open. “You told me I don’t get stopped tonight.”
“I said we’d see.”
He smiled, small, wrecked, and pushed in.
The stretch landed different after a day of being sore. She felt every inch. The bathmat bunched under her hips. He sank to the root and stayed there, arms braced, water dripping off his hair onto her tits, 23 year old restraint shaking through his shoulders.
Outside, the bus took the corner again.
He pulled back and drove in once, deep, and her mouth opened on a sound that had nowhere to go in an efficiency that small.
He did not finish the stroke’s promise. He held, buried, breathing against her cheek, and the memory of the kitchen and the office couch sat under this one like a bruise.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she said.
He drew his hips back.
He gave her the stroke he had held at the end of the shower.
Mara’s back skidded on the bathmat. Cole’s cock dragged out and slammed home, wet from her and from the water still running off both of them.
The bathroom was all echo. Every slap of his hips against her sounded bigger than the room.
She hooked her calves over his ass and took it, sore and greedy in the same breath.
He got a hand between them and found her clit with a thumb that already knew the pressure.
She came fast, angry at how fast, pulsing around him while he kept that same deep rhythm and did not follow her.
Twenty three year old jaw locked. A drop of water fell from his hair onto her mouth. She licked it and tasted soap.
“Sink,” she said, when she could make a word.
He pulled out. The empty feeling made her hiss. He hauled her up, turned her to the vanity, and bent her over the stained porcelain. The mirror was still fogged. He wiped a stripe through it with his palm, one pass, and she saw herself.
Flushed. Hair stuck to her neck. Tits hanging. His 23 year old body behind her, chest wet, cock standing against the seam of her ass before he notched it and pushed back into her pussy.
“Watch,” he said.
She watched.