Life was just starting to return to the snowy campus as William mounted the stairs to the library. The first students were returning from their vacations. He could catch snatches of excited conversation as the girls rushed at each other and generally behaved as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, rather than weeks.
For the first time, he knew how they felt.
It had been an unusually long break,
it seemed to him, even taking into account his little visit to
But on Christmas Eve a courier had appeared at his door and handed him a small package addressed in big, loopy handwriting. He’d opened it up as soon as he’d shut the door, unable to wait even the few hours before it was Christmas Day itself. He’d found a note inside that informed it this was his real present. It was a videotape of Buffy—and the vibrator she’d presented to him.
He didn’t bother to leave his bedroom the rest of the day.
And now, she’d be back soon—he’d be able to touch her instead of just watching her.
He recalled, months before, instructing her to touch herself as he got himself off, and wondered what he’d ever seen found appealing in the situation. All he could think about now was touching her.
William ducked into the library, wanting to avoid being trapped by any parents dropping off their daughters. Normally he welcomed their interest, but he was concerned he might do something stupid if he saw Buffy in public. Like shout her name, or run at her. Or, mortifyingly, cry.
God, he’d become an utter wreck.
Yes, the library seemed like a safer place.
The library was noisier than it usual—during breaks, the staffers didn’t bother to maintain the quiet atmosphere as strictly as they normally did, although he was amused to notice they still spoke in somewhat hushed tones.
But even in the main room of the library, there were barely suppressed squeals as returning students greeted each other, safe from the biting cold outside. The librarians didn’t even try to quiet the returning girls; they knew a lost cause when they saw one.
William wandered absently among the stacks. He’d always found libraries soothing, and he could feel this one begin to work its magic on him. He pulled a book at random from a shelf and flipped through it, his mind already back on Buffy, but this time less anxious.
Soon she’d be there, in her private room, a few minutes away. For a moment his mind lingered on the thought and he became almost giddy, thinking of her close to him. Somehow the dreadful, painful, exquisite sense of anticipation—the thought of her being almost close enough to touch, but just out of reach, seemed hopelessly tantalizing. Almost more delicious than when they were actually together.
Rubbish. You want her
back in your arms. In your arms, in
your bed, squeezing you, pushing back against you— “Buffy…” he sighed.
“Mr. Blackstone?”
William jumped, nearly shoving the book on the shelf before thinking the better of it and holding it discreetly in front of him. “I—”
“Are you looking for something?” asked the librarian, frowning. Probably wondering what the devil he was doing with a book on—he glanced down—chess. “I’ve always wanted to know how to play,” he said weakly.
“I thought you and the provost played regularly,” said Mrs. Hoover, surprised.
“Checkers,” William lied, feeling foolish. “We play … checkers.”
She stared at him dubiously. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes,” he assured her hastily. “Quite all right. Now that I’ve found the chess section, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
She turned and left, but he could hear her muttering to herself long after she disappeared.
Idiot, he berated himself, shoving the book back on the shelf. Saying her name right in public, why not just tattoo it across his forehead? Buffy. Or maybe a short declarative sentence: Property of Buffy Summers. Yes, that one would work nicely.
Then he looked up, and she was there.
For a moment neither of them breathed. Then he was before her, his hands cradling the back of her head, drawing her to her, devouring her. Buffy opened her mouth, tried to tell him how much she missed him, but he was pushing in, beyond caring about words.
“Missed you,” he rasped, biting her lower lip. She whimpered slightly, pushing against him, wanting more. It felt like it had been so long since they were together that she couldn’t even remember what he felt like inside her.
He drew her farther back into the stacks until she felt the wall against her back. “Can’t wait,” he said gutturally. “Now.” Then his hand was against the soft cotton of her panties, and he tore them off with sudden jerk. Her breath stopped in her throat, and for a moment she began to panic.
Then he kneed her thighs apart and she heard the sharp rasp of his pants being unzipped, and forget there was anyone in the library but him. “Let me in,” he ground out.
She didn’t want to stop him, couldn’t remember why she was going to protest. He gripped the backs of her thighs and slid his hands upwards until he was cupping her ass, then lifting her off the floor. Her skirt rucked up around her hips as she accommodated him, the wool of his trousers rubbing against the tender insides of her thighs as he pushed into her. For a moment neither moved as they savored the intimacy, then he slowly began to thrust, relishing the feel of her squeezing him, the grip of her thighs around his hips, the slap of their bodies as he pistoned into her.
He wasn’t going to last. He snaked one hand between them and brought her off, leaving her gasping her climax against his shoulder. He lasted embarrassingly few strokes before coming, almost sobbing at the relief of being with her again.
Slowly he released his grip on her. Her feet returned to the floor, and for a moment or two she wobbled, her legs unsteady, and he held her until she regained her balance.
Then he dropped to his knees, pushing her skirt up around her waist and burying his face against her, nuzzling into the sticky fluids trickling down. “What are you doing?” she gasped. It was messy and anyone could walk by, and—
He stroked his tongue against her still-throbbing clit, and
she forgot her protest. God, she’d missed this, missed him. At least he’d had
the tape she sent; she didn’t have anything. Sometimes she’d think of him so
hard she’d forget what he looked like, and it frightened her. “William,” she
whispered softly, tangling her hands in his hair and clutching him to her. He
didn’t stop, didn’t pause, his tongue continuing to trace the folds of her snatch
before wrapping tenderly around her clit. Fastening his lips around her, he
began to suckle. Despite herself, she began to keen. Quiet, had to keep…quiet,
the librarian could be by any minute and see them there,
her skirt rucked up, his head between her legs, god, that was good…
She couldn’t stop herself from rubbing against him. He was voracious. She was going to scream…no, she couldn’t scream…but she was going to…Buffy bit down on her bottom lip and forced herself to remain silent as her climax shuddered through her. It was…it was, god…
Then she heard footsteps, and the world froze. Someone was coming—someone would see…
He hadn’t noticed.
She pushed him away, and he fell back on his heels, confusion and need warring on his face.
The footsteps were getting closer. Buffy edged to the end of the row and peered around. It was the librarian, holding a handful of books. She disappeared down an aisle and Buffy glanced back at William, still on the floor. She pointed over at the next row, not daring to say anything. Comprehension dawned in his eyes and he nodded, standing and fastening his pants. A moment later she was gone.
God, that was close.
By his foot, he noticed her silly little panties in a crumpled heap, and he grabbed them and shoved them in his pocket. It wouldn’t do for the librarian to sight a student’s knickers in the stacks, especially right beside him.
Mrs. Hoover rounded the corner, a couple of newly returned books in her hands. “Mr. Blackstone, you’re still here,” she noted in surprise.
He nodded stupidly. “Yes, I was just enjoying, uh, more books on chess.”
She frowned at him. “Are you feeling all right? You looked a little flushed.”
“Well, I—”
“And what’s that on your face?”
William touched his cheeks and froze. It was damp. From Buffy.
“I must have sneezed,” he said quickly, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping his face. “I’ve been feeling rather feverish.”
She nodded; colds came whenever it was least convenient. It would have been so much better for him if it had struck when the school was still out on vacation and things were slow, but it of course it waited until the rush of students were back. And his color was so hectic!
Just then William glanced down at the fabric in his hands and blanched. Hastily he stuffed it back in his pocket. “I think I’ll go home and have some tea.”
“You should probably spend some time in bed,” the librarian clucked soothingly.
Against his will the corners of his mouth twitched up. “You know, I feel sure I will be.”
