It was as quiet as death in there. Library smells of old books and all too serious people overpowered me, so I pressed my nose into the crease of the magazine I was flipping and sucked up the dark floral scent of the perfume they wanted you to believe all the supermodels wore. It was all right—-something you'd wear if you were on a date with somebody classy, or maybe on a job interview. Christ. I thought about buying a bottle of the stuff. Another week of ssh-ing and shelving and the freaking Dewey Decimal system and I was going to need to look for a new job.
College students are assholes. They screw in the study carrels. They have pizzas delivered to the quiet rooms. They leave unending piles of balled-up paper in every corner, on every desk—anywhere but the trashcans we set out every thirty feet. Sometimes I think I'm going to just set the place on fire one day and be done with it.
It was during exams, and I was about to have the fuck that changed my life. I was covering for the little sophomore girl Kelly so she could study for a final that, I wanted to tell her, wasn't going to make a shit's worth of difference in her life. I had just flipped to an article entitled "My Kinky Affair," when that new art professor all the students are drooling over walked in. He's real good-looking, kind of a Mediterranean thing going, with flowing black hair and a tan in December. What was an art professor doing in the library?
I turned on the bitch switch. It's how you have to be with the faculty or they walk all over you. He sauntered right up, leaned on the circulation desk, and asked me if I could tell him where all the gorgeous women were shelved. Then he flashed me a smile so white I thought I was going to pass out.
"Up your ass," I said, ‘cause that's just how I am.
I pressed the intercom button and talked into the little box on the wall. "Closing in five minutes, folks. Gather up your crap and get the hell out. I've got a life."
It was a quarter after twelve when I finally shooed the last student out. I was alone, and I liked it. Took a minute to just stand there and take in how there were no cell-phones ringing, no sniffles, no fraternity morons trying to pull up porn on the card catalog computers. I could have dropkicked a freshman and heard it drop.
I had set the alarm and was getting my keys out of my purse when I heard footsteps on the lobby stairs. The art professor appeared.
"You are an extremely rude circulation desk attendant," he said.
I was pissed. Don't fuck with a person when their shift's just ended. Where had he even been hiding? I'd checked every floor to make sure no one was trying to spend the night. Sometimes the kids did that during exams.
"That's Mistress Rude Circulation Desk Attendant to you," I said.
Don't misunderstand me. I think the faculty at this school is a bunch of assholes. Even worse than the students. But I don't pass on the hot ones that come on to me. What am I waiting for, a knight in freaking shining armour? I wanted the guy from the second he leaned on my counter and arrogantly flirted with me.
"Well, since there's no manager to report you to, I think I'll just have to redden your bottom," he said. He looked serious.
Why not, I thought. I crooked my finger at him, and he followed me to the back of the library. Back there we have a listening room where all the music major geeks hang out all day, mentally beating off to Mozart and Beethoven. There's a couch and a table and a killer sound system that these kids don't even begin to appreciate. So I unlocked the room. Once we were inside I unplugged the headsets and tuned the stereo to the R&B station. He made himself comfortable on the couch.
"Take off your clothes," he said, resting his arms across the back of the couch. His hard-on was ready-made, tenting the fly of his linen pants.
To the sound of a whining sax, I peeled down to my bra and panties. I was glad I matched that day in my lavender-with-gold-piping Victoria's Secret set. Sexy if I did say so myself. Sometimes I wake up with that feeling, you know, the one where it suddenly matters what you throw on. Maybe I'll meet somebody, you think, or I'll get in a car wreck and the cute emergency room intern will have to strip me to save my life. The places my mind goes, I swear…
When he told me to, I came to him. He ran his hands over my stomach, my hips, my breasts—really got my skin tingling. He even tongued my belly button, which drives me crazy because guys hardly ever do that kind of thing. He ended his caress by grasping my mound and gently massaging me down there, nice and slow, until the floodgates opened. I felt myself liquefying from deep inside. I tried to push his fingers lower, get them inside my panties, but he told me to have patience; he would get there soon.
"Now," he said, indicating his lap.
I lay down across his thighs, careful of his hard-on, and he prepared me by sensually, greedily rubbing my ass cheeks. He pushed the edges of my panties into my crack and kneaded my exposed skin like dough, occasionally spreading my cheeks and pressing them back together.