I shift in my seat again and try to focus on my work. The book in front of me is open to the chapter I'm supposed to read but I can't focus. How could I, when his leg is touching mine under the table?
"The economic analysis of the last ten years of oil production..."
My eyes glaze over. I can hear him breathing softly, focused intently on whatever task he's trying to accomplish. I envy his concentration.
I'm not sure how he can work here like this, completely unfazed, after everything that happened last night. Thinking about my homework is completely unsuccessful: I can't stop replaying the shudder of his breath, the feeling of his finger sliding inside of me, and the brush of his tongue on my clit as my hips bucked up into his face.
How he's sitting here now, completely focused, with his leg brushing mine under the table is a mystery. Is he not thinking about what happened too? It doesn't matter, it can't matter: I need to pay attention again. I feel heat and moisture grow between my legs. I really need to focus.
I look around the library and see dozens of students studying quietly. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead and throw a harsh glare around the room.
Suddenly his leg adjusts and digs a little bit harder into mine.
"Do you need to take a break?" He whisper sand I startle. The library is so quiet that it sounds like he's yelling.
"Why?" I ask.
"Well, it's been about ten minutes and you've just been staring around the room. I don't think you've read a page since we got here an hour ago." He looks at me kindly and I feel myself blush.
"Oh, I didn't think you'd noticed." I reply as quietly as I can.
A person in the row behind us turns around to look at us angrily. You're not supposed to talk in this section of the library, and I would also be upset if people were having a full conversation while I tried to study for a midterm.
"Can you whisper any louder?" A girl calls out from across the room.
He looks at me and smiles. He nods his head towards the other section of the library and gets up, motioning for me to follow. I grab my books and walk behind him, watching his the sway of his shoulders and remembering the feeling of his body under my arm as we fell asleep. I need to stop thinking about him like this.
Down the hall from the quiet study area, where I'm sure we're no longer welcome, there is a large room with several rows of bookshelves. Everyone uses the online collections now, so all of the books have been moved to the basement. It's dusty and quiet and nobody is around. With the door closed, we can talk quietly and nobody will shush us.
He walks to the last shelf in the row and gestures for me to follow him to the back corner of the shelving area. There's a stool and a table and he motions for me to sit. I take a seat and he's still standing, looking down at me quietly.
"Are you okay?" He asks.
"Yeah," I reply. "Why?"
"Well, I mean, you haven't done any work since we got here, and after what happened last night..."
He stops and doesn't say anything for a while. I wait for him to say something, and when he doesn't I ask: "What do you mean?"
"Well," he starts to say, and then turns away. "Like, was it not good for you or something?"