Study Break

Pre-Assignment for Smut University 2012
hosted by Project Team Beta

I don't own Twilight.

"Hey, Bella. You're getting a late start."

I swiped my student ID as I entered the library and smiled at the girl in kitten specs sitting behind the help desk. Angela's shifts often overlapped my preferred study hours, and we'd developed a passing acquaintance. I liked her. She was soft-spoken but sharp, with really peculiar tastes. She once showed me her collection of turn-of-the-century circus erotica, which was creepy and weird, but all kinds of awesome. Though I have to admit, I'd been having a recurring nightmare about the one with the Siamese twins and the bearded lady. The things that third hand was doing . . . shudder.

I shook off the disturbing image and prayed for a dreamless night.

Angela was eyeing me expectantly, and I realized I hadn't yet replied. "Yeah, I took a nap after class and slept through dinner. But I have Banner in the morning, and he assigned a hundred pages this week, so I'm fucked if I don't work tonight."

"Good luck, then. It's pretty dead around here, so you should have the place to yourself."

It was eleven p.m. on a Monday—of course it was dead. No one wanted to spend their night in the campus library when there were infinitely more interesting things to do. Or at least infinite ways to avoid studying.

I waved goodbye and hitched my bag onto my shoulder, heading toward the stairs in the East Wing. As I pulled the door open, I nearly slammed into a boy exiting the stairwell, and we both did that awkward dance of trying to move out of the way in the same direction. I couldn't see much of him under his black hoodie and stubbled face, but what I did see, I liked. He was tall and lean and had that rumpled bad boy thing going on that was always so frustratingly attractive. Bad boys might be nice in your pants, but they weren't good for your heart.

After three or four passes of the politeness tango, he stepped aside and stilled, gesturing "after you". It would have been endearing if he hadn't huffed in annoyance while doing it.

Oh, like I should feel bad I'm keeping you from where ever the hell you need to be for two extra seconds.

Prick.

I headed down two flights of stairs, resolutely not thinking about cute jerks and their lickable chins as I made my way to the sub basement. I always felt a little bit like Gollum sneaking off to his lair when I came here to study, but I'd come to love my little cavern. The bottom level of the library was reserved for obscure reference books on subjects like medieval kitchen practices and paleolithic animal husbandry. They were dusty and ignored, as sad as an abandoned sock on a playground.

Which meant I was never interrupted.

I'd tried using the study rooms in the library my freshman year and found I couldn't focus alongside the grating sounds of my peers. People were always chatting, snoring, or texting, and it drove me insane. The day I found this little hide-away I could have cried. No distractions. No disturbances. No friends coming up wanting to talk or see my notes or ask me what I was writing for Cope's class. Perfect solitude. And it was all mine.

But that wasn't even the best part. Not only did my secret nook have two windows (the library had been constructed on a hill, so parts of the bottom floors had access to daylight), but somehow it had been blessed with the most perfect chair of all time. Upstairs had a two options for seating: traditional desks with hard wooden chairs that made your butt ache after ten minutes, or the hip set of bean bags that encouraged nothing more than a primo nap. Yet the gods had shined down on me with this perfect chair. A soft leather seat that was comfortable over long stretches, but a firm back that discouraged sleep; generous width that allowed for legs up, down, crossed, or slung over the padded arms; and a welcoming smell like my grandmother's house in winter.

The biggest advantage of my nook was that the windows faced east, so even if I pulled an all-nighter and crashed out at four a.m., I'd always know when to get up and head to class by the rising sun.

I passed by the ancient stacks and walked around a few darkened corners until I reached my spot. As soon as I approached, I could see something was out of place. It sent a sick jolt of distress through my frame, and with Baby Bear clarity I knew: someone had been sitting in my chair.

I never would have known if it weren't for the trash. Whoever this intruder was had left a Coke can on the end table and a half-eaten bag of peanut m&ms on the seat.

What the hell? Who just leaves trash sitting around in someone's favorite study spot?

I moved the can to the floor along with the candy and figured I'd take care of it when I was done. I wasn't going out of my way searching for a trash can now, and that stuff certainly wasn't going to sit on my table. I settled in with my assigned reading—Gender, Power, and Relationships—and flipped to the marked section. It took me a page or two to register I couldn't remember a single thing I'd read. Something was eating at me, but I didn't understand what until my eyes landed on the detritus at my feet.

And then it was clear. This space, this pristine and perfect space, was no longer solely mine. It had been discovered—tainted—and I didn't know how I could make it pure again. I'd always thought I was the only one who'd found this place. Rationally, I knew that wasn't possible. But still, it was my secret, my haven, mine. As swift as a swipe at a chalkboard, that truth had been wiped clean. My spot was contaminated, the intruder's unwelcome occupation still lingering on my once-perfect seat.

I toed the trash and moved it further away, hoping to get it out of my sightline and off my mind. With renewed purpose I dove back into Banner's assignment and tried to focus on the chapter titled The Wounded Prince and the Women Who Love Him.

Oh my God, do I really have to spend half my night reading about tragic pretty boys and their vapid girlfriends? Give me a break!

But that's what I did, focusing my attention and making it halfway through the first section in no time. Getting lost in a book wasn't hard for me, which is why I didn't hear him when he first approached.

"Ahem."

I nearly jumped out of my seat at the sound of a gruff throat-clearing.

"Jesus!" I looked up and met intense green eyes—the bad boy from the stairs, I realized, with arms crossed and mouth pursed.

What the hell?

"Do you always sneak up on people like that?" I was being defensive, I knew, but I didn't like being surprised, and I really didn't like someone else in my space.

"What? I didn't sneak up on you." He eyed me incredulously and frowned. He was making me uncomfortable, staring at me like that.

"Whatever. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, you can give me my spot back."

"What?"

"My spot," he repeated, slowly, like I was some kind of moron. "I was working here."

What is he talking about?

"Um . . . pretty sure you weren't," I said. "I've been working here."

He rolled his eyes and blew out a long breath. His jaw tightened, and I thought again about how delicious it looked with that two-day stubble. I wondered how it would feel against my lips. Would it be scratchy, or had it grown long enough to be soft? Then he spoke, and I remembered I was starting to hate this guy.

"Yeah, well before you, I was here all evening."

"Then where've you been for the past—" I checked my watch. "—twenty minutes?"

"Not that it's any of your business, I went to grab some dinner and take a leak. But I saved it. I left my stuff here."

What is he talking about?

"What stuff? There's no stuff!"

"That!" he said, pointing to the abandoned can and candy wrapper.

Oh, no. He's the one who polluted my seat? He's the one who invaded my space and ruined my perfect bubble of solitude? No fucking way!

Almost worse than that thought, however, was the realization that he was trying to lay claim to it—that he thought he could leave his discarded snack and reserve my perfect nook.

"What, the trash? That's not stuff. That's litter."

"Clearly, someone was using the space when you got here. I saved it. It's mine." His voice rose an octave, and he looked like a little boy throwing a tantrum. I was just waiting for the breath-holding and foot-stomping to begin.

"What are you, six? And your trash is supposed to indicate a reserved spot? Give me a break!" I straightened my spine, trying make myself more intimidating in my seat. Which—considering I was about a foot smaller than him standing—was a ridiculous idea. "Leave a bag. Leave some books. That reserves your spot—otherwise it's up for grabs."

Why am I telling him this? Everybody knows this.

"In case you hadn't noticed, all I have with me is my laptop, and there's no fucking way I was gonna leave that behind."

I wasn't usually this antagonistic, but there was something about this boy, with his ripped jeans and tattoo peeking out from his collar, that made me want to fight.

I spoke slowly, to make absolutely certain he understood me. "I'm sorry you didn't follow proper spot-reserving protocol, but I'm here now, so why don't you just go find another spot and let me study?"

For a moment I was afraid he might try to hit me. I'd seen that look in a guy's eyes, and it usually came right before one neanderthal pummeled another over a slutty blonde. I tensed, ready punch him in the balls if he came a step closer. My dad's a cop, and he didn't raise some helpless idiot.

He sighed and took a deep breath, visibly calming. I kept myself poised for attack, anyway, still not trusting him. Then it was his turn to talk slowly, and I could see he was working very hard to reason with me.

"Look, my roommate is blazing up with his friends in our dorm, all the other spaces in the library are quiet rooms, the AV labs are closed, and I need to edit my film. I need this spot."

Great—a film student. Probably some David Fincher wanna be with delusions of grandeur and porn on his hard drive.

A part of me—a very small part—felt for the guy. But not enough to give up my coveted space. I was sure there were a dozen other places on campus that would accommodate him. He'd had his turn here, and I had work to do. I wasn't leaving.

"I'm sorry, but none of the other rooms are as private as this one, and it has my favorite comfy seat—so I'd like to stay. And since possession is nine tenths of the law—"

"Are you really gonna be a bitch about this?"

My jaw dropped.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he said with a glint in his eyes. "You're being a complete bitch."

"First of all, it's so typical for a guy to label a woman a bitch, just because she doesn't do what he wants. Second, your skills of persuasion are seriously lacking. Calling me a bitch is the best way to ensure I NEVER. FUCKING. LEAVE. THIS. SPOT."

He glared at me, and my breath caught in my throat. I never knew fire could burn green, but that's what I saw in those jade eyes—flaming hot rage.

"Oh my God, woman! What is wrong with you?"

This time he did stamp his foot, and his laptop nearly flew from his hand. He set it down, too hard, on the floor and clutched at his rumpled reddish-brown hair. For a second, I got lost in that move. I wanted to run my hands through his hair. I wanted to grip it in my fists and pull while he screamed my name—

Wait, what? No. I hate this guy. I do not want to fuck him.

Yes, you do.

Oh, shit.

He stalked over, towering above me and leaning down until his hands rested on the arms of my chair, caging me in. I swallowed thickly, smelling outdoors and smoke and boy while he assaulted me with his gaze. Too close, he was definitely too close. My brain was short circuiting.

Shouldn't I do something? Shouldn't I be worried? His anger was so volatile—he was pulled tight like a rubber band, and he could snap any second.

Kiss him! some part of me shouted, and I told her to shut up. I was not going to kiss those perfect lips, I was not going to suck on that hollow space in his throat, I was not going to let him fuck me silly . . .

Oh, God. I really want him to fuck me silly.

He leaned in closer, and I found myself paralyzed. His face brushed against my hair, sparking electric shocks across my scalp. Just a little closer and his lips would be touching my ear. How good would that feel? I shivered at the thought.

"You are going to regret this," he whispered, and that soft voice—slick and venomous like a serpent—did strange things to my nether regions.

With inhuman strength I held back the moan that was dying to be released. I clamped down on my bottom lip, not caring if I drew blood, needing to reign in the words teetering on the edge of my lips. Words that would make him move those rough hands from the arms of my chair to where they really belonged. Words that would surely mark my ruin—or was it my triumph?

Just as I felt the words bubbling up and spilling out, he moved away from me—eyeing me like prey—and halting my voice in its tracks. Slowly, without taking his eyes from mine, he lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged a few feet away. Then he reached out and grabbed his computer, pulling it onto his lap, while the heat and desire swirling around me lost its focus—like a dancer deprived of music.

What's he doing?

At last, he broke eye contact, flipping the laptop open and looking down at its screen. Suddenly, I remembered where I was—what this was all about—and my stomach dropped when I realized what he had planned.

He's not actually going to sit here and work, is he?

But that, it seemed, was exactly what he was going to do. A few clicks of his mousepad and my quiet nook was filled with strange voices and background music.

No. NO! He cannot sit here and work on his stupid film! Fucking prick!

He clicked the mouse, and the voices repeated what they'd said, lines of innocuous dialogue made noxious by their very presence in my space. He ignored me, focused entirely on his work, while I squirmed and huffed in my seat. He couldn't do this! It was completely ridiculous. If he wasn't going to fuck me, he certainly wasn't going to ruin my chance to finish this assignment. I was getting boned or I was getting an A. There were no other options.

"No." At last, I found my voice. "No, you can't do this."

He didn't look up, clicking again, and the voices changed—further into the scene or falling behind, I didn't know.

"Did you hear me? You have to leave."

"But that's what love is, you moron. It's fire and passion and pain. You can't have the good without the bad, Rob," a female voice said from the computer, while Bad Boy watched the screen intently.

Click. Click.

"—fire and passion and pain—"

Click. Click.

"—Kristen, no. That's not what love is—"

Click. Click.

"—You can't have the good without the bad—"

Click. Click.

"STOP IT! Stop it, please," I said, unable to take any more. At last he looked up.

"I'm sorry?" he said, in a way that showed he was absolutely not sorry.

"Please, just go. You can't do this here. I have to focus. I need to read—"

Bad Boy wore a smile as sweet as a summer peach and said, "Well, don't let me stop you." Then he looked down, clicking again, bringing those horrible voices back.

I snapped. I couldn't take it. It was late, and I could feel the minutes ticking by. I wanted to study, but more than that, I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to look at me the way he watched that screen—with rapt attention, unwavering focus.

I lowed myself to the ground—not fully in control of my body—and slapped his computer shut, silencing the voices. Before I had a chance to move away, his hand was clamped on my wrist—holding me still. His eyes captured mine, dark rage pooling in green depths.

"You did not just touch my computer."

Oh, no.

I had nothing to say. I couldn't quite believe what I had done, either. He was holding me and scaring me, but I was surprised to find my terror was nowhere near as powerful as my desire. And as he watched me with fire burning in his eyes, I thought maybe it was the same for him.

I tried to pull away, backing into the chair, but he slid the computer from his lap and sat up on his knees, tugging me roughly up with him. My heart was pounding, and I was starting to shake—adrenaline coursing through my veins. I knew it was wrong—me, him, here, now—but it felt so right.

We teetered on that edge, that space between yes and no, for eternity. At least it felt that way. In reality, it was only seconds before he read the choice in my eyes and made his own. With his free hand he fisted the hair at the nape of my neck and pulled me in, crashing down on my mouth and resolving the question I didn't know I had been asking myself since the first moment I saw him.

What would it be like to kiss him?

It was amazing—forceful and domineering, angry and passionate. I could taste his ire, like salt and smoke and mint. I gave back as good as I got, pouring my fury out, feeding my desire.

He let go of my wrist and wrapped his arm around me, deepening the kiss. He pressed closer and closer, until I was pushed against the chair, my back arching over the seat. I broke from his mouth and ran my lips over his stubbled chin, reveling in the sharp prickle of his beard, bruising my mouth as I nipped and nibbled. I rubbed my face against his jaw, like a cat begging for attention. I wanted that chin to scratch over every inch of me, leaving me raw and red.

"Come here," he said in a gravely voice as he pulled my hair, bringing my mouth back to his. I gasped at the sweet pain. An electric jolt shot through my body, sparking in my abused scalp and landing between my legs. I throbbed. I burned for him.

We carried on like this for a long time—pushing and pulling, giving and taking. Our kisses weren't always so punishing, our touches not always so rough. He'd yield playfully for a moment, or I would, but somehow we always returned to the intensity, to the fire burning just below the surface.

When kissing was no longer enough, I grasped at his hoodie, drawing it down over his shoulders and off his arms. My hands found their way under his shirt, exploring the hot skin of his stomach before reaching around his sides. I scratched at his back, feeling wild and powerful. He hissed and he drew back, examining me with a glower.

At first I was afraid I'd gone too far, wrecked everything. Then he smirked and licked his lips, and in an instant, my shirt was gone, and I was wide-eyed and breathless. Before I could register the fact that this was really happening—I was topless and making out with a stranger in the school library—he dipped his head and pulled the cups of my bra down, attacking one breast with his mouth and the other with his hand.

I sucked in a sharp breath and gripped his hair. He devoured me—licking and tugging, biting and sucking. His rough stubble burned my sensitive skin until my toes curled and my head lolled back. Exquisite agony. Magnificent torture.

Holy Christ, that feels good.

I let out a low moan and felt him smile against my breast.

I wanted more. I wanted to crawl inside him. I wanted to choke on his fire.

I don't know what decided it for me in the end. The possessive way he held me; the way his expression flicked from disdain to adoration within seconds; the way he made me feel like I was melting, being forged into something new, something better—whatever it was, the outcome was the same. I leapt into the unknown—wildly, with abandon—and I didn't look back.

With my hands still laced in his hair, I pulled his face up to mine and kissed him hard, pressing tongue to tongue and hips to hips. Then I pushed his chest, and he fell backward, landing with limbs askew. He was surprised and uncertain, until I moved to straddle him and felt him hard and ready beneath me. I fisted my hands in his shirt and rocked my hips, watching him. His eyes darkened, and he grabbed my hips and smirked.

I could feel him hitting me in that perfect spot, that delicious place that would lead to beautiful oblivion. And I wanted it. I wanted oblivion with him.

I leaned down and kissed across his chin and down his neck, finding his shoulder with my teeth as I shifted my legs to his side. My hand crept to the closure of his jeans, and he groaned in anticipation. I pulled at the first button and suddenly his hand was around my wrist, halting me once again.

"Wait," he said, and I felt myself deflate.

Why is he stopping me? He obviously wants this.

"Are you on something?"

At first I had no idea what he was talking about.

On something? Like drugs?

Then it clicked, and I was thankful at least one of us was thinking clearly.

"The shot." And since at least a few synapses were firing again, I said. "And you? Are you—"

"Clean."

I took a beat to process that, then said, "Okay."

I tried to reach for his jeans again, but he suddenly stood up and pulled me with him, leaving me wobbling on uncertain legs.

"What—?" I thought he might be trying to take me somewhere else, and while it was a good idea to be a little less conspicuous, I didn't want to leave. I wanted him now.

"You like this chair, huh?" he said—backing me up until my thighs touched the armrest—and staring at me with an evil trickster grin.

I lost my voice. I couldn't answer. I nodded slowly as he watched me squirm.

"Well, I'm going to fuck you against this chair until you scream."

Oh, God. Yes, please!

I made a strangled noise as he spun me around and bent me over the soft, padded armrest. Then my pants and underwear were around my knees, and I squealed.

Jesus, this is really happening. I'm going to get fucked in the library.

It was the scariest, stupidest, most mouth-wateringly hot thing I'd ever done, and I couldn't wait. I heard fabric rustling behind me, and I looked over my shoulder to see him release his cock from his jeans. His beautiful fucking cock.

Wow. Okay, I can do this, I reassured myself. The mechanics are all the same—I'm sure he'll fit.

He grinned smugly and said, "Like what you see?"

I groaned and turned away from him, unwilling to give this arrogant motherfucker the satisfaction of an answer.

He took my silence as a "yes" and said, "Well you don't get to have it just yet."

What? But I want it! Give it to me!

Contrary to his words, he pressed his hips against mine and rubbed his hard length between my legs. I made a strange mewling sound as his tip rubbed against that spot, and I pressed myself back against him, increasing the pressure.

Then he was gone, and I was crying out, "No!" right before I felt a swift crack on my bottom. I screamed.

Did he just spank me? Oh my God, he just spanked me.

And I think I liked it!

As the sting settled into a beautiful tingle, he said, "That is for taking my spot."

Crack!

I cried out, pleasure-pain sounding in my throat as he spanked me again.

"That is for being a bitch about it."

Then his fingers were inside me, and I lost my breath as he pumped roughly in and out in the most exquisite way. He leaned over me, resting his front against my back and kneading my breast with his free hand.

"And this is for being the hottest piece of ass I have ever seen."

Then his fingers were gone and his cock was at my entrance and I was wet and ready and shivering in anticipation.

He pushed in, neither slow nor gentle, and I groaned as he filled me up. He gripped my hips as he pulled out, then slammed back into me. Hard. My hands grasped onto the opposite armrest for leverage as he slammed into me again.

The ugliest grunts and groans were flying out of me as he continued his beautiful assault, but I didn't care. He was inside me, and it was the best thing I had ever felt—the best thing I could ever imagine feeling.

"Oh, God," he said in a strangled groan as he rocked into me again and again. "You feel so fucking good."

My legs were jelly. My bottom tingled where he spanked me, and it was growing more raw with each slap of his hips. My skin crackled like an exposed nerve, and I could feel a delicious pressure building between my legs.

I lost myself in the feel of him. His rocking hips, the little twist he added to the end of a stroke, the way he hit that place inside that made my eyes cross and my stomach clench.

It felt so good, and I never wanted it to end.

Then he reached around and pressed his fingers to my clit, and I knew I would give anything for him to help me end it now. He teased my most sensitive spot, moving in time with his thrusts, and I was spiraling up and up and up. Closer and closer he brought me, until I was babbling, "Please, please, yes, God, yes."

I could feel him getting close, too, his thrusts more punishing and erratic. As he pounded into me, the glorious spark built and burst at last, and I screamed out as it rocketed through my body. I slammed my eyes shut, and all was white. Beautiful, floating, empty white.

Then he thrust wildly and cried out his own release, flowing into me hot and fast.

We collapsed against the chair, sweaty, heavy, and spent. He brushed the hair from my neck and pressed his lips to it, his hot breath washing over me and raising goosebumps across my skin.

Oh, God.

There simply were no words.

I felt tired and sated. And dirty—in the most delightful way.

At last, he raised himself up and pulled out of me, drawing a gasp of disappointment. I liked having him in me. I wanted him to always be in me.

Then he did the most surprising thing of the night—which, considering I had just fucked a total stranger, was saying a lot—and knelt down behind me, rubbing gentle circles on my tender bottom and placing a sweet kiss on each cheek. I tried to keep the goofy grin from my face, but it was no use. I was glowing under his affection.

He pulled my pants up and drew me down onto his lap, cradling me sweetly.

Who are you, and what have you done with the asshole who just fucked me sideways?

He held me silently for a long while, and I just enjoyed the feel of his strong arms and the wonderful smell of sweat, sex, and boy.

At last he spoke, and his voice was music in my ears.

"I feel a little bad. I don't even know your name."

I blushed, pushing down the thought that I was a dirty, dirty slut (and I liked it).

"I'm Bella."

"Nice to meet you, Bella," he said through a smirk. "Edward."

Then he held my gaze and smiled cheekily, gesturing to the space around us. Before he spoke the words, I knew. My once-beloved study space was irrevocably altered. I would never be able to sit here again without thinking of this night, without wanting his mouth pressed to mine and his hands on my flesh.

He took my hand in his, bringing it to his mouth before biting on a finger playfully. Then he said what we were both thinking, and I smiled.

"I think we're going to have to find a new spot."