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Study Drama

The library stacks were quiet at 11:17 p.m., the kind of hush that felt almost conspiratorial. Fluorescent lights glowed at half-power on the upper floors, and the only sound was the occasional soft chime of an elevator arriving empty somewhere far below. Sadie’s sneakers were silent on the industrial carpet as she walked down the long corridor of private study rooms, her backpack over one shoulder and her laptop pressed to her chest like a shield. Her pulse was already racing, not from the stairs she’d just climbed two at a time, but from the electric anticipation that had been building since Julian sent the last text twenty minutes ago:

Julian: Room 412. The door’s unlocked. Bring the biochem book.

She didn’t knock. She pushed the door open with her hip, stepped inside, and let it swing shut behind her. The lock clicked with a decisive sound.

Sadie had been under a lot of pressure and stress as her pre-med courses slammed a mountain of studying and work on her. She hadn’t seen Santiago in over 2 weeks. While she adored him, his off campus house was a 20 minute walk each way and her days didn't end until Midnight or later. Sadie saw the arrangement with Julian as purely a matter of convenience in order to blow off steam and relieve stress. Outside of annoyance, Sadie held no emotional feelings or attachment to him.

Julian was already at the small table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened, and the top two buttons of his Oxford shirt undone. His dark hair was messy from running his hands through it during hours of flashcards and practice questions. He didn’t look up right away. He finished highlighting a line in his notebook, the yellow marker moving with careful precision. Only then did he look up, slowly and assessing, the corner of his mouth curling into that infuriating half-smile that showed he already knew why she was here.

Sadie dropped her backpack on the floor. The sound was muffled, intimate in the small room.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low, almost bored.

“You’re still wearing your tie,” she replied, stepping between his knees. “Take it off.”

He arched one brow, but his fingers were already moving. He loosened the knot and slid the silk free in one smooth motion. He held it out to her like an offering. She grabbed it, doubled it, and wrapped it around his wrists behind the chair, tying it tight enough for the silk to press into his skin. Julian tested the binding with a subtle flex of his forearms, muscles standing out under golden skin, then leaned back, thighs spreading wider in silent invitation.

No words after that.

Sadie’s hands went to his belt buckle, clinking softly, zipper rasping down. She tugged his trousers and boxer briefs just low enough to free him. He was already hard and flushed, head glowing. She didn’t tease. She never did with Julian. That was the agreement: fast, ruthless, sowing of oats. A transaction of bodies and brains, nothing more.

She reached into her book bag and pulled out a condom. Her teeth tore it open with precision, as if she had lots of experience. Sadie hiked up her skirt, pushed her underwear down in one impatient motion. Then she straddled him, knees on either side of the chair, the cheap plastic creaking under their combined weight. One hand braced on his collar while the other guided him to her entrance. She was already slick, had been since she saw his name light up her phone. She sank down in one smooth, determined motion, taking him all the way.

Julian’s head fell back against the chair, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth. Sadie’s eyes fluttered shut for half a second at the sensation: the blunt pressure of him inside of her completely, but she didn’t pause. She began to move: sharp, controlled rolls of her hips, grinding down hard enough that the chair legs scraped an inch across the carpet.

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