We were supposed to be studying.
That’s what he said when he slid into the chair beside me, leaned in, and whispered, “You look like you need a distraction.”
The library was nearly empty—just rows of shelves, the faint hum of fluorescent lights, and the occasional sound of pages turning. We sat at a back table, hidden behind a stack of thick, unopened textbooks.
I didn’t look at him.
Not right away.
But when I did, his eyes were already on my thighs.
His hand brushed mine. Slowly. Casually. Like it didn’t mean anything.
But it did.
Because when he moved that same hand under the table and rested it just above my knee, I didn’t stop him.
I parted my legs.
Just a little.
He didn’t speak. Just traced his fingers higher. My pencil was still in my hand, but I was no longer reading. I bit my lip and stared at the same word on the page for what felt like minutes as his fingers crept beneath the hem of my skirt.
He found me without effort.
No panties. I had chosen not to wear them that day.
Maybe I wanted this.
Maybe I always had.
His fingers slipped between my folds—slow, deliberate, patient. I gripped the edge of the table. Across the room, someone coughed. A page flipped.
But here, under the table, I was unraveling.
He circled my clit with two fingers, never going too fast, never too deep. I shifted in my seat, legs parted wider. My cheeks burned.
I knew I had to stay quiet. But inside—I was begging.
I came with my eyes open.
Breath tight in my chest.
His fingers still moving in gentle, infuriating rhythm.
He watched me fall apart like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then, he pulled his hand back. Wiped his fingers on a napkin. Picked up his book like nothing had happened.
And whispered:
“Now finish your reading.”
