Chapter 2: The Study Session
The library’s silence wasn’t empty; it was a thick, expectant thing. Zhou’s exit had ripped away all plausible deniability. Vy’s finger rested on a line of translated Tang dynasty poetry, and Li Shuting’s hand was right there, palm flat on the page, their little fingers almost touching. The stained-glass light dyed Shuting’s skin in hues of gold and deep blue.
“This character,” Vy whispered, her voice scratchy. “It means ‘longing,’ right?”
“It can,” Shuting said, not moving her hand. “Or a lasting melancholy. A homesickness for a place you’ve never been.” She finally turned her head. Their faces were too close. Vy could see the faint pulse in Shuting’s throat.
“Which one is it here?”
“I don’t know.” Shuting’s gaze dropped to Vy’s mouth, then back up. The hum from the stacks seemed to dial up, a static in Vy’s veins. “What do you think it means?”
Vy’s mind went blank of all poetry. “I think I’m homesick,” she breathed.
Shuting’s hand shifted, turned. Her fingertips grazed the side of Vy’s wrist, a deliberate, electric contact. “For America?”
“No.” The word was barely sound. Vy watched their hands, the incredible fact of that touch. “Not for America.”
Shuting leaned in. The scent of her—clean cotton and old paper—flooded Vy’s senses. It was a question, a hesitation held in the millimeter between them. Vy closed the gap.
The kiss was soft, a slow press of warmth that melted the library’s brittle quiet. Shuting’s lips were hesitant, then sure, her hand coming up to cradle Vy’s jaw. When they parted, the world had rearranged itself. Shuting’s eyes were wide, dark pools in the colored light. She looked terrified. She looked exhilarated.
“Okay,” Shuting whispered, more to herself than to Vy. Her thumb stroked Vy’s cheekbone once, a secret confirmation, before she pulled back just enough to let the cool air back in.
Her thumb stroked Vy’s cheekbone once, a secret confirmation, before she pulled back just enough to let the cool air back in. That inch of space was a torture. Vy chased it, capturing Shuting’s mouth again, this kiss deeper, hungrier. A low sound escaped Shuting’s throat as her fingers tangled in Vy’s hair, pulling her closer until the hard edge of the table dug into Vy’s ribs.
“Wait,” Shuting breathed against her lips, but her body arched forward, seeking. Her hand slid from Vy’s hair down her neck, over her shoulder, coming to rest on the swell of her breast. Vy gasped into the kiss. “We can’t… here.”
“We are here,” Vy muttered, nipping at Shuting’s lower lip. She covered Shuting’s hand with her own, pressing it harder against herself. The fabric of her shirt was a maddening barrier. Shuting’s other hand found the hem, slipped underneath, and her cool palm on Vy’s stomach made her muscles clench. “Fuck, your hands.”
“You’re so warm,” Shuting whispered, her fingers skating higher, brushing the underside of Vy’s breast. Her touch was tentative, then deliberate, her thumb circling a nipple already hard. Vy rocked against her, a clumsy, desperate grind, the need a live wire under her skin. The poetry book slid off the table and slapped the floor.
The sudden noise froze them. They stared at each other, breathing ragged. Shuting’s lips were swollen, her pupils blown black. Vy could feel the frantic hammer of Shuting’s heart where their chests pressed together. Then Shuting leaned in, her mouth at Vy’s ear. “I want to taste you.”
The door to the study room clicked open.
“Forgot my goddamn charger,” Zhou announced, his voice slicing through the thick, private air. He stopped dead. His eyes widened, taking in the scene: Vy shoved against the table, Shuting’s hand still under her shirt, their mouths bruised and raw.
“Oh,” Zhou said, the syllable hanging in the air like a cracked bell.
Shuting flinched. Her hand jerked out from under Vy’s shirt as if burned, the sudden coolness a shock. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor as she pushed back, putting a foot of solid oak between her body and Vy’s.
“My charger’s right there,” Zhou mumbled, not moving, his gaze fixed on a point above their heads.
Shuting’s face, flushed with passion a second before, drained of color. She straightened her blouse with trembling hands, the motion sharp and final. “Zhou, it’s not…” she began, her voice thin.
“Don’t,” he said, finally looking at her, his expression unreadable. He snatched his charger from the outlet. “I’m going. I was never here.”
He left, the door clicking shut with a softer, more definitive sound than before. The silence he left behind was a different creature—brittle and charged. Shuting stared at the closed door, her breath shallow. She swallowed hard, her throat working.
“Shuting,” Vy said, her own voice feeling alien. She reached out across the table.
SHE PULLS AWAY.
Shuting stood up so quickly her chair nearly toppled. She took two steps back, creating a whole gallery of space between them. “This was a mistake.” Her words were cold marbles dropping onto stone.
“A mistake?” The words tasted like acid in my mouth.
I stood up, my legs unsteady. The library air felt stuffy and dead. “Which part? Me, or you wanting to taste me?”
She flinched, her composure cracking. “You don’t understand. Zhou…”
“Zhou left! He gave us an out.” I moved around the table, my pulse a frantic drum against my ribs. “Look at me.”
She did, finally. Her eyes were wells of pure panic. “This isn’t a poem, Vy. This is my life here.”
“Then stop talking in metaphors.” I took her hand; it was ice in mine. “Tell me what you really want.”
She was silent for a long moment, her gaze locked on our joined hands. “Not here,” she finally whispered, her voice ragged. “We can’t do this here.”
“Then where?”
She took a sharp, shaky breath. “My dorm. My roommate is visiting family.” She looked at me, a silent challenge and a surrender in one look. “We can talk there.”
“Okay,” I said, not letting go.
We gathered our things in a brittle, quiet hurry. The walk out of the library was a blur of fluorescent lights and echoing footsteps. Outside, the humid night air wrapped around us, but the space between us crackled with everything left unsaid.
Vy followed her across the darkened campus, the echo of their footsteps on the pavement the only conversation. Her dorm room smelled like her—clean linen and the faint, sharp scent of ink. Shuting closed the door and the lock clicked, a sound so final it stole the air from my lungs.
She didn’t turn on the main light, just a small desk lamp that painted her in stark, anxious angles. “Talk,” I said, the word a challenge.
“I don’t want to talk.” She crossed the space in two strides, her hands framing my face, her kiss a raw, starving correction to the library’s interruption. This was no soft exploration. Her tongue pushed into my mouth, hot and demanding, and I met it with my own, my back hitting the door.
My fingers clawed at the button of her jeans. “Get these off.”
She broke the kiss, her breath ragged. “You too. Now.”
We were a frantic tangle of denim and cotton, shoving fabric over hips, stumbling toward the narrow bed. Her skin was pale silk in the lamplight. I pushed her down, my mouth on her throat, her collarbone, lower. I took her nipple into my mouth, sucking hard until she gasped and arched, her fingers knotting in my hair.
“Vy,” she choked out, her hips rising off the bed.
“Tell me what you want.” I dragged my teeth over the tight peak.
“I want your mouth on my cunt.” The obscenity, in her precise voice, shattered me. I kissed down her trembling stomach, hooked my hands under her knees, and pushed her legs apart. She was wet, glistening. I didn’t tease. I dragged my tongue through her, a slow, flat stroke that made her whole body jolt.
“Fuck, yes,” she hissed, her heels digging into my back.
I ate her with a single-minded hunger, my tongue circling her clit before plunging deep inside her. The taste of her, salty and musky, was better than any poem. She chanted a stream of filthy Mandarin, her hands fisting the sheets. I slid two fingers into her tight, clutching heat, crooking them as I sucked her clit.
“I’m going to come,” she warned, her voice breaking.
“Come.” I fucked her with my fingers, my mouth relentless. She came with a shattered cry, her cunt pulsing around my fingers, her thighs clamping my head. I rode her through it, drinking her down, until she pushed my head away, oversensitive and shuddering.
Panting, she looked down at me, her eyes black with want. “Your turn.”
“Your turn.” Shuting’s voice was a low command, stripped of its earlier hesitation. She pushed me onto my back, her body a hot, living weight over mine. Her mouth crashed into my neck, sucking a mark into my skin with a possessiveness that made me moan.
“You taste like libraries and poor decisions,” I gasped, my hands fumbling at her waist.
“Shut up,” she whispered, but she was smiling against my throat. Her hand slid down my stomach, fingers splaying over my hipbone. FINGERS EXPLORE SKIN. Hers did, tracing the sensitive dip beside my navel, skimming the wiry hair lower, before delving through my wet folds with a blunt, knowing pressure.
“Fuck,” I breathed, arching off the bed.
“Is this okay?” Her question was earnest, her fingers stilling.
“Don’t you dare stop,” I hissed, grabbing her wrist to guide her deeper. She took the hint, sliding two fingers inside me in one smooth, stretching thrust. The fullness was brutal, perfect. “Just like that.”
Her thumb found my clit, rubbing tight, filthy circles. “You’re so fucking tight around my fingers,” she muttered, her own breath coming fast. I could only nod, my world narrowing to the rhythm of her hand. Each inward stroke rubbed a spot that made my vision blur.
“I’m not going to last,” I warned, my heels digging into the mattress.
“Good.” She sped up, her knuckles grinding against me with every push. The coil in my gut snapped. Pleasure, raw and blinding, tore through me. I cried out, my cunt clenching rhythmically around her fingers. She rode me through it, her movements gentling until I was spent and shuddering. She withdrew her hand, glistening in the lamplight.
She brought her fingers to her mouth, never breaking eye contact, and sucked them clean. “You taste different than I imagined,” she said, her voice ragged. “Less melancholy. More salt.”
I laughed, breathless and spent, the sound strange in the quiet room. “Homesickness cured?”
“Temporarily.” She lowered herself onto me, her skin slick with sweat against mine. Her mouth found mine again, lazy and deep, letting me taste myself on her tongue. “I want to feel you come again.”
“Your turn,” I murmured, my hands sliding down her back to her ass. I squeezed, urging her hips against mine. “I want you on top of me.”
“Mm. Greedy.” She kissed the corner of my mouth, then my jaw. Her thigh slid between my legs, applying a delicious, grinding pressure. I rocked against her, the friction already building a new, aching heat.
“I need you inside me,” I gasped, my earlier calm evaporating. “For real. Please.”
SHE FLIPS YOU OVER.
Her hands were firm on my hips, her strength surprising as she rolled us in one fluid motion. The world spun, and then I was straddling her, the lamplight now framing her flushed, triumphant face beneath me. “You want me inside you?” she breathed, her hands gripping my thighs. “Then fucking take me.”
“Then fucking take me.”
Her words were a live wire down my spine. I guided her, my hand shaking, until the broad head of her strap-on pressed against me. I sank down in one agonizing, perfect slide, my breath seizing as she filled me utterly. “God, yes,” I choked out, my head falling back.
She moved her hips in a shallow, testing rock that made me whimper. “All that talk,” she murmured, her hands tightening on me. “Now take it.” She thrust up hard, punching the air from my lungs. I rode her with a frantic, slapping rhythm, each descent a shock of blinding friction. “You feel that?” she gritted out, her own composure fraying. “That’s me. Remember it.”
I could only nod, my world reduced to the slick, driving connection of our bodies. She fucked up into me with a relentless pace, the plastic base grinding against her clit with every thrust. “I’m gonna… again,” I warned, my voice a broken thing.
“Come on my cock,” she commanded, her voice raw. My climax ripped through me, a silent, shattering convulsion that milked the length inside me. She didn’t stop. She rolled us over, pinned my wrists, and drove into my oversensitive cunt until the pleasure twisted into a near-painful sharpness. “Please,” I finally sobbed, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. “Shuting, please, I can’t.”
She stilled, breathing hard, and withdrew. The sudden emptiness was a physical ache. She gathered me against her, her own skin slick with sweat, and kissed my temple. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
Morning light was a brutal accountant. My body was a map of bruises and delicious soreness. We dressed in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes. The girl who had wrecked me hours before was gone, replaced by Li Shuting, the master’s student. “I have a seminar in Public Admin,” she said, her voice flat, as she shouldered her bag.
“Economics 101 for me,” I replied, matching her tone. We walked out separately, two strangers sharing a hallway. In the cafeteria, Zhou glanced between us, saw the carefully constructed void, and said nothing.