A HANDSOME STRANGER IN THE NIGHT
Andie
There’s something spectral about dorm hallways after 10 p.m. The linoleum, glossy and greenish even in daytime, reflects the faint light from the vending alcove like a pond of melted spearmint. Every footstep becomes a crime, a trespass, a story. As I move past the trophy case and the damp cork-board plastered with lost-cat flyers and leftover homecoming posters, my phone screen buzzes in my hand, lighting my face from below. A notification from Kayleigh: “Find any big dicks at the library tonight?”—with a gif of a cartoon beaver eating a log. I smile, briefly, then kill the screen, pocket it.
I’m bone-tired, every cell of me glazed with a late-night library film, the residue of highlighters and too much Red Bull. But when I reach the third floor, something pulls me up short: the thin slice of light under my door, and the low, hissing voices inside. At this hour, it can only be my roomie, Simone—except, the other voice isn’t hers. It’s a low, male baritone, filled with emotion as it hits my eardrums.
I slow my steps. The door is a fraction ajar, just wide enough for a wedge of lamplight to leak into the darkened hallway. I duck into the shallow angle, press my shoulder to the wall, and listen. At first, it’s just tension—sharp, desperate words, punctuated by the sudden snap of a glass set down too hard on the dresser.
“—don’t care, Liam. You said it was only until finals. That you’d fix things?—”
“And I will. But you need to stop acting like a child.” The man’s voice is hard, just above a whisper, his vowels slurred by impatience.
My roommate, Simone, is standing in our cluttered room in her signature Calvin Klein bralette and those pink pajama shorts that cut her hips like a giftwrap ribbon. Her hair is a mess, long and pale and tangling around her shoulders. Across from her, looming like a massive gothic statue, is Professor Liam Thomas in the flesh. He’s not wearing a suit, which makes him even more dangerous-looking, if that’s possible: just a black long-sleeved shirt, sleeves yanked to the elbows, the top button undone to show the full angle of his bronzed neck. In this light, he looks carved from ice, every muscle tense and ready for something.
Simone is beautiful, the kind of beautiful that hurts to look at. Liam is beautiful in the same way, but cruel and utterly masculine—blue eyes with a mercury glint, black hair swept back as if he just ran his hands through it in exasperation. They’re both so mad, the air fizzes with it.
“You treat me like I’m disposable,” Simone hisses, arms folded, voice trembling. “But you still come here. You could have said no.”
A muscle in Liam’s jaw flexes. For a moment, his hand hovers at his side, as if unsure whether to punch a hole in the drywall or caress her cheek. “You have no fucking idea what I’ve risked for you,” he says, lower now, and I have to strain to hear.
There’s a silence. It’s the kind of silence that’s denser than noise.
Then: Simone, so softly I almost miss it, “Then show me.”
Liam’s body moves before his brain, it seems. He closes the gap between them in one stride and snatches Simone by her wrist. She doesn’t flinch; if anything, she leans into it, mouth already parted, eyes daring him. The moment of fury turns inside out, and in a single sharp movement, Liam pins her against the wall. He kisses her, hard, hand at the base of her throat. She lets out a noise—half gasp, half whimper—and that’s when I realize I’m clutching the doorframe so tightly my knuckles ache.
Inside the room, the tension spins out into something frantic. Liam’s hand closes over Simone’s jaw, tilting her head up, and his mouth moves down to her neck, then lower, biting at the place her shoulder curves. Simone’s hands go straight to his back, fingers digging, tugging his shirt up and over his head, all in one panicked motion. He lets her, arms rising, and in the sickly lamplight his chest looks like something out of a men’s magazine ad: sculpted, a little scar at his left pectoral, a line of dark hair trailing down beneath the waistband of expensive-looking jeans.
Simone whispers something. Her hips are already pressing into him, as though her body is outpacing her mind. I’m so close I can smell the powdery citrus of Simone’s perfume wafting out the door, but there’s another scent, heavier, sharper—something undeniably male.
Liam says, “You want it now? Here?”
Simone laughs, breathless. “What difference does it make? Andie’s not here and the library’s still open for another hour. Do it.”
He sweeps everything off her desk with the back of his hand—books, a goldfish cracker bag, a bottle of NyQuil—then bends her forward over the wood. Her hair spills across the laptop, static crackling in the dark. With one hand, he yanks her shorts and panties down to her knees, revealing the pale ivory globes of her bottom; with the other, he spreads her legs. The air is so thin it might snap. Simone turns her face to the side, eyes squeezed shut, cheek pressed to the desktop, her pout parted in desperate anticipation.
“Yes, Liam,” she moans. “Yes, yes, yes!”
It happens so fast, I barely have time to process: Liam drops his jeans, and even in the blue half-light, I can see what everyone on campus whispers about. He’shuge, the kind of huge that would make a porn star pause. I want to look away, but my eyes lock onto his massive dick, the shock of his size making my own body pulse with a hot, secret ache. What is he, nine inches? Ten? Eleven? Simone has bragged about it in a thousand texts, but the reality is—well, eye-popping.
He spits in his palm, strokes himself, then lines up at Simone’s pussy, nudging half an inch in with the head of his cock. Simone’s hips jerk, her lips making that little “O” of pain and pleasure. For a second, it’s as if she can’t quite take it; then, with a guttural sigh, she says, “Yes. Please. All of it, Daddy.”
Liam laughs, a dry, predatory sound. “Such a greedy little slut,” he says, and pushes in, inch by slow inch. The furniture creaks.Simone’s nails scrape against the desktop. He starts to fuck her, hard and rough, the force making the legs of the desk skid across the floor and rattle against the wall. Each time he slams into her, she lets out a ragged moan, the kind of sound that doesn’t belong to any language.
“Ohhhh,” my pretty roommate moans. “Mmmm!”
My heart is beating in my chest. I can’t feel my toes. My face is on fire. I want to look away, but the sight is too wild, too feral. Each thrust is a jolt. Simone’s pussy makes wet, obscene sounds, punctuated by her cries and Liam’s grunted swears. “Fuck, you’re tight. You missed Daddy, didn’t you?” he says, and the way Simone shakes, it’s clear she does.
I watch as he grabs her hair, pulls her up so she’s arched against him, his cock drilling up into her from behind. He whispers into her ear: “You’re the best fuck I’ve ever had. You know that?”
She nods, babbling. “Yes, yes, please, don’t stop, Liam?—”
He slaps her ass, so loud it echoes down the hallway. Then, softer: “Say it. Say you’re my fuckslut.”
Simone says it, mouth slack, drool glimmering at her lips. “I’m your fuckslut. Only yours, Professor Thomas.”
He pounds into her harder, both hands on her hips now, shoving her forward with every thrust. The desk is shuddering, Simone’s moans turning animal. “That’s right,” Liam says, voice rough, “and this pussy? It’s only for Daddy. You’re my horny little cum dumpster, aren’t you?”
