Stuck With The Four Hotties

The other reason I like it here … the books. Five stories of invaluable knowledge, row after row of old tomes, and rooms filled with historical archives. The architecture is to die for: Gothic revival with soaring arches and intricately carved columns. The whole place smells of ink and paper, and I feel this sense of relaxation come over me as I wind my way toward the back corner where Tristan’s waiting.

He’s standing two shelves over from the entrance to the archive room, a table nearby littered with file folders and boxes of slides. Burberry Prep has had a student-run paper since 1970, but while the journalism club is in the process of scanning old articles into a digital archive, they’ve still got a long way to go. The time period Tristan and I are most interested in isn’t even close to being uploaded.

His eyes snap over to me when I walk down the aisle, the silver of his irises glimmering with some unknown emotion. I can’t seem to figure this guy out when he’s not being a dick. He holds his face so still, with this practiced haughtiness covering up any real emotion that I have no idea how to get a read on him. I fully expected him to go back to treating me like shit, but instead he seems to be doing the opposite.

Tristan smiles at me, and while it’s just as cocksure and arrogant as the day I met him, there’s a smoldering undertone to it, like he’d enjoy searing my mouth with those full lips of his again.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, trying my very best not to think about the fact that I’ve got no panties under my skirt. It occurs to me then that I should’ve unrolled the waistband and dropped the hem a few, careful inches. My cheeks flame and Tristan raises a dark, questioning brow. “There was some

… shit happened in gym.”

His mouth turns down into a frown.

“Harper?” he asks, and I shrug my shoulders. “If it happened in the girls’ locker room, then it was Harper. Not a single girl makes a move on this campus without her approval.” He pauses and narrows his eyes, not at me but just in general. “Except for Miranda, of course … and you.”

I’m not quite sure what to say to that, so I don’t say anything, turning to examine the row of books in front of us. They’re all titles penned by alumni, some of which pertain to the construction of the school or its many

additions. Since our chemistry project has to do with levels of contamination in the soil and building materials, we’re trying to match up the time period in which the contaminants might’ve occurred.

Tristan and I reach for the same book and our hands bump together, heat searing up my fingers and into my arm. My pulse races, and I have to swallow back a small sound of surprise. Do all the girls feel this way when they touch him? Is that why he’s always sleeping with a new one?

“I’ve got a list of titles on my phone that I looked up that might be helpful,” I say, reaching into my bookbag and pulling it out. Tristan just stands there in his perfectly polished uniform, not a button out of place, not a single crease or stain. The way he holds his head tells me he knows he’s the king, even if the other guys don’t want to believe it. My eyes scan the list and then I hand it over to him, and we start pulling out books and laying them on the table.

When none of those gives us the information we’re looking for, we head back into the shelves, our bodies pressed close in the tight space. I can smell him, too, this fresh, sharp peppermint and cinnamon mix that makes my nostrils tingle. He reaches around me a few times, effectively pinning me against the bookcase with his warm, hard body pressed up against my back.

Holy Frap.

As he pulls away, there’s this rush of cool air, like I’m free-falling when all I want is to be held close.

My eyes close and I exhale.

“Something the matter?” Tristan asks, still standing far too close to me. His lips touch the side of my head as he talks and his left hand finds my shoulder, kneading my knotted flesh with an expert’s touch. A groan escapes me and I lean back into him without even meaning to.

Marnye, what are you doing?! I snap at myself, opening my eyes and pulling away. There’s a book we missed before that I recognize from the list of titles I made, and I reach up to get it as Tristan steps back. Of course … I tried so hard not to freak out over my lack of panties that I completely forgot to be cautious about not wearing any. My skirt lifts up and I swear, I can feel a cool breeze on my bare ass.

Tristan’s hands fall on my hips, and I hear him exhale sharply.

“Can I ask for that favor now?” he whispers, his voice seduction incarnate, winding around me and working its way inside my chest.

“What’s the favor?” I choke out, feeling the warmth of his hands through my skirt. He leans in close and puts his mouth next to my ear again.

“Let me touch you.”

My heart explodes in my chest, and I find myself nodding before I even realize what I’m doing.

Tristan moves his hands over my hips and under my skirt, cupping my bare ass in his palms. I’ve literally never done anything like this before, so I find myself holding my breath until I’ve gone dizzy, leaning in against the bookshelf with my arms still over my head, fingers clutching the edge of the shelf.

He cups my bottom in a tight grip, his breath ragged and warm against my ear. I can barely hear him though, or anything else for that matter because my heart is beating so fast that it drowns out the world. A hot, warm throbbing takes place in my core, and I suddenly want his hands lower, searching for something else.

It feels fated, this meeting of ours, in the dark, quiet shadows of the library.

If Harper and Becky hadn’t stolen my panties, if I hadn’t stood on my tiptoes to grab the book, if Tristan hadn’t been standing so close behind me

…This is from NôvelDrama.Org.

My breath rushes out in a gasp as his palms travel over the curve of my ass, sliding up and underneath the pleats of my skirt before trailing down the outsides of my thighs. With a sudden curse, Tristan steps back and I turn to face him, our bodies just inches apart. His slacks can’t hide the bulge underneath, and his eyes are far too dark and dripping with lust to be fake.

This wasn’t planned. I can feel it.

“Your debt to me is paid,” he says, turning and heading for the table. He scoops up a box of slides and storms off toward the microfilm reader. I’m not sure whether to go or stay, but I feel hot and achy and confused, so I just grab my bookbag and bail.

The next time I see Tristan, he has the project finished, and we don’t talk about what happened in the library.