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Three days a week, she sits quietly in the back of my class and takes notes. Sometimes, she asks questions. She got an A on the midterm and she gets mostly A’s on her weekly quizzes, and it’s got nothing to do with the fact that she’s naked in my bed several times a week and everything to do with the fact that she’s smart and studious.
A week passes, then two. She comes over a few times a week, sometimes for dinner, sometimes not. I learn her body as well as I possibly can: what makes her gasp, moan, what makes her eyes roll closed, what makes her bite her lip and curl her toes.
Technically, she’s still a virgin, a fact which throws the entire concept of virginity into question. And technically, I don’t care. She knows where the condoms are, and she knows I’ll do anything she asks of me.
I also keep getting the emails. Every other day, like clockwork. Always vague. Always one line.
Taking advantage of her like this is wrong.
This is against university guidelines, isn’t it?
If you had a shred of decency you’d stop.
Et cetera, et cetera. I still don’t tell Thalia. They’re squarely aimed at me and my wrongdoings, as if the writer thinks I’m a supervillain with a maiden chained to the tracks.Chapter Thirty-ThreeThaliaI lean back in the creaky old wooden chair, stretch my legs in front of me, my arms over my head. It’s one of those chairs that doesn’t feel so bad when I first sit down, but after a few hours I always feel about seventy. I swear every joint in my body pops when I stand up.
The worst part is that it’s the best chair on this floor of the library. I know this because, at one point or another over the past two years, I’ve sneakily tested out every chair on this floor and taken the best one.
On the desk, my phone buzzes.
Caleb: What are you up to?I lean further back in the chair, let my head hang down, and smile to myself. Even though I just saw him last night for a date — sex, pizza, and a movie, because it’s not like we can go out — for the past hour I’ve been debating sending this very text.
Me: Finishing up a response paper for my comp lit class.
Me: I swear this class is more work than my actual thesis.
Me: But I’ll be done in twenty minutes, if you’re asking what I think you are.
Caleb: You’re at the library?
Me: Yup.Well, there’s my incentive to type this as fast as humanly possible. I get out of my chair, joints popping, do ten jumping jacks, sit down again, and type like the wind. I’m not completely sure that my opinions on bird imagery in Urrea’s work make much sense right now, but this isn’t even due for another week, so I can edit later. I just wanted to get it out of the way before I leave tomorrow morning for Thanksgiving break, because I know better than to think I’m going to get much work done while I’m home, particularly since my mom’s still in a cast and God knows my father can barely make a peanut butter sandwich.
I’m four and a half pages into a five-page paper when I hear soft footsteps moving through the stacks, so I instinctually hit save and then turn.
Moments later, Caleb emerges from between two bookshelves, twenty feet away.
“Are you the only one up here?” he asks, looking around, keeping his voice low in case I’m not.
“If you were anyone else that question would be terrifying,” I point out, and he glances over his shoulder, then walks toward me, smiling.
“Good thing it’s just me, your dirty old professor,” he says.
“You’re not old,” I tell him as he stands behind my chair, puts his hands on my shoulders.
“Just dirty, then?”
A ripple of excitement splashes through my chest, and I tilt my head back, look up at him as his thumbs dig into the knots in my shoulders.
It feels really good.
It feels even better when he leans down and kisses me, the angle new and a little strange, slow and sensuous.
And public. Even if no one else is here, and I’m pretty sure they’re not, this is the most public we’ve ever been and it sends a thrill spiraling through my whole body.
I reach up, hook one hand over his shoulder, catch his lower lip between my teeth. He responds by taking a hand off my shoulder, skimming it along my throat, then under the sweater and shirt and tank top I’m wearing, under my bra, sliding two fingers around my nipple.
I make a soft, uncontrolled noise into his mouth. My back arches and my hips push back, against the chair, because my body knows what to expect next and it’s ready.
