Fucked in the Library #6
Mara signed the intake sheet and said, “Thank you, Cole,” like his first name had always lived in the air between the dock and Special Collections.
The kid with the backpack looked up. Cole did not flinch. Twenty three year old mouth almost smiled. He said, “You’re welcome, Mara,” and rolled the dolly over the threshold like nothing in the university handbook had just been quietly set on fire.
At six he walked her to the parking deck.
Not touching. Not hiding either. Two people who had run out of service corridors. She found her keys. He stood there with wax on his boots and the smell of detergent that she was done pretending she did not like.
“Kitchen,” she said. “After they kill the lobby lights.”
“I’ll lock it.”
“I know.”
She went home long enough to drop the cardigan that had been through too much and put on a different one. She ate standing up. She drove back. The quad was empty. The third-floor hall hummed like it always had.
He was already inside. Deadbolt thrown. Pot off. The two mugs in the rack, clean, as if the week had decided to be civilized for ten minutes.
Cole leaned against the counter they kept using and looked at her like daylight had not used up the night.
“We’re not sneaking,” she said.
“I heard.”
“If they fire me I will make a noise about it. If they walk you out I will make a louder one. That is as much policy as I have.”
He nodded. He did not give her a speech. He held out a hand.
She took it.
This time he undressed her like there was no radio in the hall.
Cardigan. Blouse. The bra that still had a faint shadow of his mouth.
He kissed the mark that had faded and the new one that had not.
She got his shirt off and put her palms on his chest and felt him breathe, 23 year old heart going too fast for a man who had already had her on this laminate twice.
“On the counter,” she said. “Facing me. Slow.”
He lifted her up. Her slacks and panties hit the floor without a ripped stitch. He stepped between her knees and rubbed the head of his cock through her until she was wet enough that the first night felt like a rumor. He pushed in watching her face.
She watched his.
Different from the first time, when she had tipped her head back against the cabinet and let the stretch blot everything out.
Different from last night, bent over, telling him where to put it.
He sank to the root and stayed, forehead almost against hers, and she felt the full, stupid fact of him inside her in a kitchen that now had rules they had written themselves.
He moved.
Long strokes. No race. The cabinet doors barely rattled.
She hooked her boots around his thighs and kept her eyes open.
She saw the way his mouth went slack when her cunt tightened.
She saw him decide, again, to last. She got a hand between them and rubbed her own clit because she wanted that piece too, and he watched her do it like it was the point of the building.
She came quiet.
It rolled through her instead of ripping. She clenched around him and breathed into his mouth and he kissed her through it, still moving, still looking. The ice machine thought about dumping cubes and then did not.
“Mara.”
“I know. Look at me when you cum. I want that. In me.”
He held on for three more strokes because that was who he was, and then he buried himself and broke with his eyes on hers. She felt every pulse. Heat. The shake in his arms. He made a sound that was only for this room and filled her while he watched her take it.
He did not pull out right away.
They stayed like that, joined, the counter edge dull against her ass, his thumb tracing a thoughtless circle on her knee. The burnt-coffee ghost was still in the walls. The deadbolt held. Somewhere a pipe knocked and the building went on being a building.
He slipped free. She felt the warm leave of his cum and let it. He found a paper towel, then stopped, and used his fingers instead, pushing what had leaked back into her, messy, almost tender, a 23 year old doing something the first night had not had language for.
“That’s filthy,” she said.
“You like filthy.”
“I do.”
She dressed slow. He tucked himself away and left the shirt off. She poured water, not coffee. They drank out of the two mugs like that had been the plan all along.
At the door he waited for her to unlock it. Hall empty. Camera mid-cycle. He walked her as far as the stairwell and stopped.
“Same floor tomorrow,” he said.
“Same floor,” she said.
She took the stairs. The parking deck smelled like rain that had not started. In the car she sat long enough to feel him dripping, to catalog the ache, to understand that the kitchen would still be there at 2:10 if they wanted it and also at 6:00 if they did not need the dark.
She started the engine.
Up on the third floor a mop bucket rolled somewhere it actually belonged. The ice machine dumped a tray for nobody and she smiled at the windshield like an idiot, 39 year old, used, chosen, not sneaking.
She drove home with the windows down and his first name still in her mouth, the ordinary kind, the kind you could say in front of a kid with a backpack.
More explicit. More open. Turn it.