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Episode 23 – Locked Doors, Open Hearts
Layla POV
The afternoon sun slanted through the tall library windows, casting the study room in warm gold streaks. Campus felt quieter now, the hum of footsteps and distant chatter softened. I carried my notebook and laptop, trying to focus on assignments, but my mind kept drifting—not toward the note itself, but the lingering tension it left behind, the feeling of being observed even when everything seemed normal.
Ethan had suggested we meet in one of the smaller study rooms near the back of the library. Private. Tucked away. Just the kind of place that made it impossible not to notice each other's presence, to feel the pull we both tried to manage during the day.
Chloe and Mia had disappeared for the afternoon, which gave me space to breathe…or to feel the pressure of vulnerability. My chest fluttered at the thought of being alone with him, in a room where nothing but words, gestures, and subtle touches existed between us.
When I entered, he was already there, leaning against the table with a textbook open, hair falling over his forehead, glasses slightly askew. He looked up, caught my gaze, and that half-smile—my stomach always betrayed me—appeared.
"Hey," he said softly, closing the book.
"Hey," I replied, setting my bag down. I let my fingers brush the table edge, grounding myself before I let the tension settle in.
Conversation started lightly—assignments, schedules, group projects—but it carried the usual undercurrent, a rhythm of familiarity mixed with anticipation. Even without the note as a fresh worry, the campus still felt alive with unseen observers. I felt that subtle itch of alertness, the quiet pull of caution and desire entwined.
Ethan's gestures were small, grounding: brushing my hand while passing a pen, tilting his head as he listened, leaning in slightly during a pause. I let myself respond naturally, the rhythm of shared space and unspoken connection washing over the residual tension from the morning.
And then… the quiet in the study room thickened, charged with everything we weren't saying. My eyes kept drifting to him, to the way the sunlight caught his hair, to the curve of his jaw as he chewed on his bottom lip. The textbook in front of him blurred; I couldn't focus.
We reached for the same highlighter at once. Fingers brushed over the smooth wood, and heat shot through my arm. Neither of us pulled away. His thumb brushed over my knuckle, slow, deliberate.
"Sorry," he murmured, voice low and steady, vibrating through the air.
"It's okay," I whispered back, breath catching.
His eyes lifted to mine, intense and unwavering. He slowly turned his hand over, palm up—a question I didn't hesitate to answer, lacing my fingers through his. My heart hammered.
He stood, movements fluid, eyes never leaving mine. The world outside—the faint shush of library doors, distant footsteps—faded into background noise. He came around the table, stopping in front of me. One hand brushed a stray strand of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. The touch was feather-light, and I shivered.
"Layla," he whispered, my name carrying something heavier than words.
He leaned down, cradling my jaw in his hand, tilting my face up. His lips brushed mine—a question, soft and seeking. My hands moved instinctively, gripping the fabric of his sweater at his hips, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, slow, urgent. Taste of coffee, mint, him—overwhelming.
He tangled his fingers in my hair, the other tracing my throat, pulling me closer. I arched into him, every nerve alight. The careful distance we'd kept all afternoon vanished.
He broke the kiss briefly, eyes dark with need. "Is this okay?"
"Yes," I gasped. "God, yes, Ethan."
That was all the permission he needed. In one smooth motion, his hands were on my waist, lifting me. I wrapped my legs around him instinctively as he set me on the edge of the table, scattering papers with a soft thud. The sound, loud in the quiet room, made the thrill sharper.
He settled between my thighs, pressing against me with his hard erection. A moan tore from my throat, and I rolled my hips, seeking friction. His hands gripped my thighs firmly, rocking against me.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he muttered, lips brushing my neck. "About how you look at me. About what you feel."
His words were a drug, and I shivered, dampness pooling between my legs. My fingers tugged his sweater upward, revealing the toned expanse of his chest.
I splayed my hands across his warm skin, feeling the rapid, heavy beat of his heart beneath my palm.
He didn't hesitate. His fingers found the hem of my top. I nodded, breathless, and he pulled it off. The cool study room air hit my heated skin, pebbling my nipples against the lace of my bra. His gaze dropped, eyes swallowing me whole.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed.
He leaned in, lips pressing to the valley between my breasts, his hot breath searing through the lace. His mouth found one peaked nipple, sucking it through the fabric, and a sharp, jolting cry escaped me. I tangled my hands in his hair, holding him to me, my head falling back. A direct line of pleasure that pulled taut from my breast to the deepest, wettest part of me. The sensation is exquisite. My hands tangled in his hair, holding him close. His other hand slid up my inner thigh, brushing against the damp lace of my panties.
"Ethan… please," I begged, a broken whisper.
He guided the fabric down, exposing me fully. Dropping to his knees, his hands spread my thighs wider. Vulnerable, open, I felt the weight of his worship in every glance.
He didn't speak, just leaned forward, mouth tracing my core. My back arched, hands gripping his hair to anchor myself. He groaned, drawing me higher, each motion deliberate, skilled, and consuming.
My back arched off the table, a choked gasp catching in my throat. My hands flew to his head, not to push him away, but to hold him there, to anchor myself as the world dissolved into sensation. He groaned against me, the vibration setting every nerve ending alight, and then his mouth was on me in earnest.
His tongue was an artist, painting pleasure across my skin. He licked and suckled and explored, finding every sensitive spot, every hidden pulse point that made me writhe and whimper. He slid one finger, then two, inside me, a perfect, stretching fullness that made me cry out. He crooned his fingers, finding a rhythm that matched the devastating work of his tongue.
I was climaxing, the pressure coiling tight in my belly. The sounds I was making were unabashed, animalistic, and I didn't care who might be walking past the door, who might hear the soft, wet sounds of his mouth on me and my ragged pleas, nor did I care about the note, I pushed the note from my mind, letting him take over my senses. My hips moved against his face of their own accord, chasing the release he was expertly building.
I trembled, climaxing to a peak again. His free arm wrapped around my thighs, holding me still as he drove me closer. A violent, shattering wave of pleasure tore through me, my body convulsing around him.
When the tremors subsided, he rose, looming over me, lips glistening, eyes blazing. Unbuckling his belt, he freed himself, pressing against my entrance. The broad head of his cock pressed against me, and I was so sensitive, so wet and open for him.
"Look at me, Layla," he commanded.
I met his gaze, and he entered me, slow, deliberate, stealing my breath. He held himself there a moment, our bodies joined, breaths mingling.
Then he began to move.
Each thrust was deep, claiming, controlled. My legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer, heels digging into his back. The friction was electric, building fire deep within.
"You feel… incredible," he gritted out, forehead to mine, pace quickening.
The table shook with each thrust, papers fluttering. My body climaxes again, higher, faster, with a desperate, ragged moan. The next angle hit a spot so deep I saw stars.
"Ethan!" I cried, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Cum for me again," he growled. "I want to feel you cum around me."
His words were the final trigger. The second orgasm ripped through me, violent and consuming. His own release followed, a shuddering, silent surrender.
We collapsed together, entangled on the table. Heartbeats slowing, breath ragged, the sun casting long shadows across the room.
He pushed up on his elbows, looking down at me, hair damp, glasses askew. A slow, sated smile spread. He kissed me, lingering.
"The door," I murmured. "Did you lock it?"
He froze, then grinned wickedly. "What do you think?"
Even in that private, scorching moment, a trace of the morning's note tension lingered in my chest, a tiny shadow at the edges of the fire Ethan ignited. And for now, I let it stay there, tucked away, irrelevant to the heat between us.
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(Ethan POV)
The question hung in the air, soft, teasing, layered with all the tension of the afternoon.
"Did you lock it?" she asked, voice low, eyes glinting with mischief.
I smirked, leaning back against the table, feeling the familiar pull in my chest whenever she looked at me like that. Her hair was still slightly messy, strands brushing her cheeks, the light catching her eyes in a way that made it impossible to think straight.
"What do you think?" I murmured, letting my thumb brush the back of her hand resting on the table.
She gave me a playful nudge with her knee, and I laughed quietly, feeling the warmth of our history—the moments we'd already shared—wrap around me. It wasn't the first time, but somehow, it never felt ordinary. Every touch, every look, carried weight.
I moved closer, not with the urgency of before, but the steady intimacy of someone who knew exactly how to hold her, how to make her feel safe and wanted at the same time. Her fingers threaded through mine naturally, and I let our hands rest there, the contact grounding me more than I expected.
The quiet of the study room felt different now—full, but not tense. There was no need for words, yet I felt compelled to speak.
"You okay?" I asked softly, eyes scanning her face.
She tilted her head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I am… now," she admitted, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "It's just… that note. It's still there in my head."
I stiffened slightly, the shadow of worry creeping back in. Whoever had left it didn't stop with the quad. They were still out there, still watching. But I kept my tone even. "I know. I've thought about it too. But being here, with you… It makes it easier to focus on the things we can control."
Her hand squeezed mine, and I felt the tension ease slightly. I leaned in, forehead to hers, the faint scent of her shampoo mixing with the sun-warmed air in the room. "I'm not letting anyone ruin this," I murmured.
She smiled, small and tentative, but the kind that reached her eyes. "Good. Because I'm not either."
A soft laugh escaped me, and I reached out, brushing a fingertip along her jaw. The motion was effortless, natural. She leaned into it, not breaking the connection we'd built over months of shared moments like this.
"Ethan…" she whispered.
I froze just slightly at the sound, heart tightening, mind racing. "Yeah?"
Her eyes flicked toward the door, then back to me. "Just… stay with me for a few minutes. Please."
I didn't hesitate. "Always."
We stayed that way, side by side, the afternoon sun painting gold across the floor, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional shuffle of a distant student. The warmth between us wasn't desperate—it was familiar, steady, grounding.
And yet, despite the calm, my instincts pricked. Something subtle shifted at the edge of my senses—a shadow of movement outside the door, too slow to be a casual passerby.
I tightened my grip on her hand, drawing her slightly closer without breaking the contact, my mind alert even as my chest swelled with the simple comfort of her presence. Whoever left that note… they weren't finished.
But for now, I refused to let that shadow reach us.
Her head tilted against my shoulder, and I brushed a soft kiss along her hairline. "You're safe here," I murmured. "With me."
She gave a quiet hum, settling closer. "I know."
The sun shifted, the room dimming in the soft light of late afternoon. Every second was a reminder of how fragile this balance was—how easily someone could tip it—but also how much we'd built together, quietly, intentionally.
And for the first time, I allowed myself to breathe fully. Whatever came next, we'd face it together.
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