Amy sighed defeatedly. The rush of her breath echoed down the aisles and through the stacks. Exhausted she rubbed her eyes and checked her watch; midnight. The library would close in an hour. It was ridiculous that they opened the library so late during finals week, as if they expected that you would never be able to get your work done within normal hours. How long had it been since she'd last had a good night's rest? She couldn't remember. How she just wanted to go to bed. This place was creepy; cool, shadowy, the stacks stretching on and on, a seeming labyrinth of books. Why did they put the literary criticism in the farthest corner of the basement? She could be murdered here and no one would find her for weeks. A band of tension fastened itself across her temples as she scanned the rows of bindings searching for the titles that would complete her endless research. Amy was so absorbed in finishing her task that she didn't notice the man approaching.
"Having trouble, Ms. Price?"
Amy screamed, dropping the stack of books she carried.
"Oh, Professor Jacobs! I didn't notice you there. God, I am so sorry." Kneeling down to collect her books, she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and hoped wasn't blushing uncontrollably. Her heart was racing. Professor Jacobs was a brilliant lecturer; an esteemed academic and expert of Shakespeare. Even since her very first class, she had been unbelievably attracted to him, with his slightly graying brown hair, and piercing blue eyes. He had a slow sexy smile that had been known to make her squirm in her chair during lectures.
"It's fine Amy, but you're here awfully late. I hope you aren't having trouble with anything." Amy glanced at the pile of books she awkwardly clutched, and all erotic thoughts were banished as she gloomily returned to the task at hand.
"Actually, it's your paper I am working on. I just can't seem to organize my thoughts on the sexual symbolisms in Shakespeare's sonnets." Tears of frustration crept into the corners of her eyes. It was her first semester and she wanted so desperately to do well.
"Now, now Amy," he said, laying his hand on her shoulder "I am sure I can help you clarify your thinking." He voice held a vaguely teasing note. As she looked into his eyes questioningly, his hand began to massage her shoulder. His blue eyes seemed to pin her to the spot. What was happening here? She wasn't sure, but she felt her body relax toward him as his fingers worked away some of the tension in her shoulder. It seemed almost in slow motion that he brought his other hand to her face, his fingertips grazing her cheekbone, skimming her lips, and tracing lightly down, over her throat, her collarbone, the tips of his fingers like feathers in the valley between her breasts, over the top of her breast, over her nipple which began to protrude through her form-fitting white tee-shirt. She felt her body temperature jump, her insides beginning to melt as he slid his hand firmly around her waist, his fingers splayed across her back, almost as if they were slow dancing. He led her gently to the end of the aisle. A small gasp escaped her lips and her rear softly bumped the wall. His stare did not waiver as his hand slid from her shoulder caressing the outer side of her breast and down the outside of her smooth, firm thighs, tickling across her knee, and back up her inner leg. His fingers maneuvered inside the hem of her denim skirt. He nudged the warm damp patch of her panties with his knuckle, the metal of his wedding band teasingly cool against her skin.
