Chapter 2: The Library Encore
The smell of old paper and binding glue was usually a comfort. Today, it was just a backdrop to the scent still clinging to her skin—him, and something new, something musky and entirely her own. Vidushi stared blankly at the open sociology textbook, the words swimming. Her body felt strangely heavy, alive in a way that was disorienting. Between her thighs, a faint, tender ache pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a relentless reminder of the desk, the dust, the way he’d looked at her.
She jumped when a shadow fell across the page.
“Couldn’t focus either, huh?”
Samarth’s voice was low, normal, just his usual library murmur. But when she looked up, his eyes weren’t normal at all. They were dark, intent, and they held hers with a possessiveness that made the air leave her lungs. He was already pulling her chair back.
“Sam, what are you—”
“We need to talk. Somewhere quieter.” His hand wrapped around her wrist, his thumb pressing into the rapid flutter of her pulse. It wasn’t a painful grip, but it was unarguable. He tugged her to her feet, leaving their bags and books abandoned at the study carrel.
He led her deeper into the stacks, into the old history section where the lights were dimmer and the books hadn’t been checked out in decades. The air was cooler here, thick with the smell of crumbling leather. The only sound was the distant, occasional beep of the checkout scanner and the hum of the faulty fluorescent tube above them, casting a sickly, intermittent glow.
He backed her into a shadowy alcove formed by a protruding shelf of medieval European histories. Her shoulders pressed against thick, dusty volumes.
“Talk?” she whispered, her voice shaky.
“Later.” He dipped his head, his nose skimming the line of her jaw. “First, this.”
His mouth crashed down on hers. This kiss wasn’t like the first one. It was hungrier, hotter, a direct continuation. It tasted of coffee and certainty. She melted into it, her hands coming up to clutch at the front of his shirt, the memory of the classroom flooding back in a dizzying wave. Her body recognized his, welcomed it, even as her mind spun.
He broke the kiss, breathing ragged. “I can smell it on you,” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough. “You’re still wet for me. From hours ago.”
A hot flush of shame and wild excitement crawled up her neck. “I’m not—”
He slid a hand between them, pressing his palm firmly against the front of her dress, right over her mound. She jerked, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat. He was right. The thin cotton was damp.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, his eyes searching hers in the flickering light. “You’ve been sitting there, thinking about it. Feeling it. Haven’t you?”
She could only nod, her cheek scraping against the rough book spines.
“Good.” The word was a reward. He kissed her again, deeply, while his fingers gathered the hem of her dress, pushing it up her thighs. The cool air hit her bare skin. He’d left her without underwear after the classroom. The realization was profoundly lewd, and a fresh surge of wetness coated her inner thighs.
He gripped her waist and lifted her as if she weighed nothing, seating her on the edge of a low, sturdy table used for sorting returns. The wood was cold and unforgiving. He stepped between her legs, spreading them wider with his hips, pushing the dress up to her waist. The golden haze from the bad light fell directly on her exposed sex.
“Samarth, someone will—” she hissed, trying to close her legs.
He held them open, his grip firm. “Let them come.” His gaze was fixed on her, on the slick, swollen evidence of her arousal. “Let them see what’s mine.”
He unfastened his jeans, freeing himself. He was already fully hard, thick and intimidating in the dim light. He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the table beside her hip, and guided himself to her entrance with the other. He watched her face as he pushed in.
It was easier this time, but no less overwhelming. Her body yielded, still loose and sensitive from before, but the stretch was breathtaking. He filled her with one slow, relentless slide until he was fully sheathed. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, born of sheer physical and emotional overload.
He didn’t move for a long moment, just stayed buried inside her, his forehead resting against hers. “You take me so well,” he whispered, the words a hot caress. “My perfect, smart girl. All day, I thought about this. About how you clenched around me when you came.”
He began to move then, with a slow, deep cadence that was somehow more intimate than the frantic pace in the classroom. Each deliberate thrust rocked her body on the table, the wood creaking softly. He kept his eyes locked on hers, reading every flinch, every flutter of pleasure.
“You feel even better now,” he grunted, his control evident in the tight line of his jaw. “So tight and hot. Made for me.”
His filthy praise unspooled something in her gut. She was powerless against it. A low moan built in her throat, and she bit her lip to trap it.
“No,” he ordered, his voice guttural. “I want to hear you. I want to know exactly what I do to you.”
He angled his hips, driving deeper, hitting a spot that made her vision blur. A broken sob escaped her. “Oh, God… right there…”
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his breath coming faster. His thrusts gained a fraction more speed, a little more force. The table groaned in protest. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The risk was a live wire in the air. Every sound from the distant main floor—a cough, a chair scraping—was a jolt of adrenaline that tightened her body around his, which only made him groan and thrust harder. The mixture of terror and pleasure was narcotic. She was clinging to his shoulders, her glasses askew, whispering his name like a prayer and a curse with every measured stroke.
She could feel her climax building again, a deep, coiling pressure. It seemed greedy, impossible after already coming twice for him earlier, but her body was learning its new master. “Sam… I’m gonna…”
“Look at me.” The command was sharp. She forced her hazy eyes to focus on his. His expression was one of feral possession. “You come when I say. Not before.”
He punctuated the order with a series of short, brutal thrusts that stole her breath. She teetered on the edge, trembling, utterly at his mercy. He watched her struggle, his own pleasure mounting, his rhythm beginning to fray.
“Now,” he snarled.
Permission granted, she shattered. Her cry was a muffled, strangled thing against his shoulder as she bit into the fabric of his shirt to silence it. The orgasm ripped through her, wave after wave of blinding sensation, her inner muscles milking him desperately.
The feeling of her pulsing around him broke his control. With a choked-off groan, he drove into her one final, searing time and held there, his body rigid. She felt the hot rush of his release deep inside her, a claiming as potent as any word.
They stayed locked together, shuddering, for what felt like an age, the only sounds their ragged breaths and the persistent, ominous flicker of the light above.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He leaned heavily against the shelves for a moment, his head bowed, before straightening to attend to her. He smoothed her dress down with a tenderness that contrasted violently with what they’d just done. He pulled a packet of tissues from his pocket and cleaned between her legs with a clinical efficiency that made her face burn.
He helped her off the table. Her legs held, but just barely.
He fixed her glasses, his fingers gentle on her temples. Then he tilted her chin up. His eyes were calm now, the storm having passed, leaving behind a deep, settled certainty.
“My place. Nine o’clock,” he said, his voice back to that quiet, undeniable tone. “We’ll order food. And we will talk.”
He wasn’t asking what she wanted to talk about. He was stating the agenda. The classroom had been an ambush. The library, a confirmation. Tonight, she understood, would be the terms of surrender.
He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and led her, unsteady and forever changed, back into the light.