Chapter 3: Study Break
The whiskey in Nathan’s office glass had been amber and expensive, catching the late afternoon light. Beatrice had watched the ice cubes melt as he spoke, his voice a low, controlled thing that made the hairs on her arms stand up. He hadn’t touched her. He’d just looked at her, from behind his desk, and said, “The frat house, Beatrice? Really?” He knew. How, she didn’t ask. The shame had been a hot, silent wave. Then he’d dismissed her. “We’re done.” Two words, final as a slammed door.
That was three days ago.
Now, the library was a tomb of hushed concentration. Beatrice moved through the philosophy stacks on the third floor, a forgotten wing that smelled of dust and decaying paper. She was chasing a reference for a paper on Kant, but her mind was static. We’re done. The words looped, a taunt. She ran her finger along a row of leather-bound spines, the touch gritty.
A hand clamped over her mouth from behind.
She stiffened, a muffled cry trapped in her throat. An arm like an iron bar locked around her waist, hauling her back into a dim, windowless study nook. The door snicked shut.
“Miss me?” Bryce’s breath was hot and sour against her ear. He removed his hand from her mouth but kept the other tight around her middle, her back pinned to his chest.
She shoved an elbow back, hitting solid muscle. “Get off me.”
He laughed, a low, wet sound. “Or what? You’ll run and tell your professor?” He shifted his grip, one hand snaking down to cup her between the legs over her jeans, his fingers pressing hard. “He know you like it this rough? Know you let me come inside that tight little cunt?”
She stopped struggling. The crude words, the possessiveness in them, sent a treacherous jolt through her. It was the same ugly thrill from the party. It felt like punishment. She deserved punishment.
“He doesn’t want me,” she heard herself say, the words hollow.
“Yeah, I heard.” Bryce’s voice turned smug. He turned her around to face him. The study nook was cramped, a single bulb flickering overhead, illuminating his pleased, predatory grin. “Came by the house asking questions. Real polite. Real disappointed.” He mimicked a stern, academic tone. “Real fuckin’ pathetic.”
Nathan had gone to the frat house. The reality of it, of him in that grimy basement asking about her, was excruciating.
Bryce saw the hurt flash across her face and leaned in. “So you’re nobody’s precious student now. You’re just a slut who likes to get fucked.” He backed her into a tall, unsteady shelf. The old books trembled. “And I’m gonna fuck you. Right here. And you’re gonna thank me for it.”
He kissed her, biting at her lip until she tasted copper. His hands were everywhere, pulling her shirt up, squeezing her breasts roughly through her bra. She was passive, a doll. He unbuttoned her jeans, yanked them and her underwear down to her knees in one brutal motion. The cold air of the room hit her skin.
“Turn around,” he growled.
She didn’t move. He spun her himself, shoving her chest-first against the shelves. A book tumbled to the floor with a soft thud. He kicked her feet wider apart, the denim binding at her ankles. She heard his zipper, the rustle of his pants.
There was no preparation. He spat into his hand, a crude, wet sound, and slicked himself. Then he pressed the blunt, wide head of his cock against her. He was dry; she was dry. It was a burning, straining pressure.
“Bryce—” she started, a whisper of protest.
He shoved. A ragged, tearing sensation. She cried out, her forehead knocking against a spine labeled ‘Schopenhauer.’ He didn’t stop. He drove in to the hilt, a brutal, conquering thrust that stole the air from her lungs. He felt bigger than before, a burning, splitting intrusion.
“Fuck, yeah,” he hissed, his hands grabbing her hips, fingers digging into the bone. “Tighter than I remember. He never got this, did he? All that talk, he never fucked you like this.”
He set a punishing rhythm, slamming into her with a force that rattled the shelves. Each impact jolted her teeth. The pain was bright, specific. It blurred, then mutated. The raw friction began to spark a dark, unwilling heat in her belly. Her body, betraying her, began to slick his way. The wet, filthy sound of him pumping into her filled the tiny room.
“That’s it,” he panted, his thrusts becoming more erratic. “Take it. You’re just a hole. My hole. I should find him. Tell him. Tell him how his perfect little student moans when she gets properly used.”
The image—Bryce describing this, this, to Nathan’s still, cold face—unlocked something vile and electric inside her. A groan ripped from her throat. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts.
“You like that idea, you filthy whore?” he grunted, one hand fisting in her hair, pulling her head back. “You like the thought of him knowing what you really are?”
“Yes,” she gasped. The admission was a poison she needed to expel. “Tell him.”
He fucked her harder, faster, the shelf groaning in protest. His climax came with a guttural, stifled roar, his body shuddering against hers as he pulsed deep inside her, hot and claiming. He held himself there, panting, his weight heavy on her back.
When he pulled out, the sensation was a sudden, embarrassing emptiness. A wetness trailed down her thigh. She stayed leaning against the books, her jeans around her ankles, staring at the cracked leather in front of her.
Bryce zipped up. He patted her ass, a demeaning, familiar slap. “See? You needed that.” He sounded jovial, satiated. “Anytime, Bea.”
He left, the door closing quietly behind him.
She didn’t move for a long time. The throbbing between her legs was a dull echo. The smell of sex and dust was suffocating. Slowly, she pulled her jeans up, wincing. The fabric chafed the tender, abused skin.
She gathered her books with mechanical hands and left the nook. The main library was calm, bright. Students typed on laptops, drank coffee, lived clean, simple lives. She walked through them, feeling raw and hollowed out, a ghost.
She exited the building into the lavender gloom of twilight. The courtyard was dotted with students laughing, heading to dinner. She looked across the quad, to the Gothic façade of the Humanities building.
A single office window on the fourth floor was illuminated.
Nathan’s office.
He was in there. Reading. Grading. Sipping his expensive whiskey. Living a life untouched by the crude, sweaty reality of library nooks and frat boy come.
She stood there, watched the light, and felt the wetness still leaking from her. A brutal, clarifying certainty hardened in her chest.
It wasn’t done.
She would make him see her. Not the student. The slut. The used, filthy thing she’d proven herself to be. She would show him the mess. And he would have to look.
She started walking across the quad, her steps deliberate, her eyes fixed on that square of yellow light.