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The first time I heard the Emerson poem, Give All To Love, I was sitting in a literature class. The teacher was reciting it from a book. We were analyzing the words, inferring what Emerson intended, and I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Emerson was dead – how could we possibly know the meaning if we couldn’t ask him? I couldn’t grasp the concept at the time. And it wasn’t until the second time I heard the poem—when Kerry Walker recited it at the University of Arizona—that I understood Emerson’s words. I could feel them deep in my bones, awakening something inside of me that I never knew was there.
“He wrote it for his wife who died,” I explain as Darren moves to the side. “The poem,” I remind him when I see the question in his eyes as I turn around, resting my hip against the desk.
He runs a hand through his hair, the strands now almost dry, and nods as if he’s taking my word for it.
I pinch my brows together. “You memorized the words, but you don’t know the meaning?”
He laughs softly. “I had an English lit teacher that made us memorize poems.”
“In college?” I ask curiously, raising my hand to touch the Georgetown emblem on his shirt, the material soft but his chest hard underneath.
“Boarding school.” He shrugs with a coy smile.
Of course he went to boarding school. “And you still remember the poems?” For someone who seems indifferent about Emerson, or anything for that matter, he’s held those words captive, close to his heart, all this time. If he didn’t care about them, perhaps he would have forgotten them a long time ago. That just makes Darren all the more of an enigma to me.
“I remember too many things,” he says, cryptically.
“Sounds like a curse – not being able to forget things.” I grip the edge of the desk while Darren moves to stand in front of me once again, his hands resting heavily on my hips, pulling a sigh from me.
“It raises expectations that I’d rather stay low,” he admits with a sexy smirk.
His messy brown hair falls over his forehead, him having run his hand through it too many times. I drag my fingers along his jaw, feeling the light stubble he’s let grow in – either on purpose, or because loss has made it near impossible to have the will to shave. Either way, I like the way the roughness feels against my fingers, and my stomach tightens at the thought of what it would feel like against my thighs.
“Your father wouldn’t like me in here?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
Darren’s hands grip my waist harder.
“No,” he rasps as his thumbs rub along my hip bones.
“Why is that?” I ask, looking up at him through my bangs.
I can see the heat in his eyes, the green flecks swallowed up into huge black pools of need. “He wouldn’t approve of your profession,” Darren answers, wetting his lips as I place my hands on his chest, feeling his hard muscles underneath.
“Hmm, a politician with morals,” I say, cocking my head to the side while moving my hand down his chest towards the waistband of his jeans. “So he wouldn’t approve of me doing this?” I turn away from Darren and lean over the corner of the desk to reach for the pen while I run the center of my pussy along the hard wood. I rock my hips high in the air to give Darren a very provocative view as the wood digs deep into my panties, along my center, and hits the apex where my clit becomes sensitive, causing me to suck in a breath.
Looking over my shoulder, I can see Darren watching me with rapt attention. His eyes are on my ass while I rock back and forth, the action causing my shirt to ride up, exposing the creamy white of my panties – the pen now long discarded.
“Jesus,” Darren groans from behind me, the little pulse in his neck ticking like a time bomb. His teeth dig into his lip when I pick up the cadence, and his hand curls into a fist at his side.
“Or do you think he’d want to watch?” I continue the game, closing my eyes as I move my hips up and down, pushing my ass further into the air as the friction of the rounded corner causes the sensations to heighten. Long, laborious strokes – each time it passes over my clit my breath hitches, and I hear Darren’s strangled groan from behind me.
I know that what I’m doing is shameful and absurdly obscene, fucking the desk that used to belong to Senator Kerry Walker while his son watches, but that’s why it feels so good. This room is filled with his presence – in the spines of each book, in the scratches on the desk, and even hidden inside the words of the Emerson poem that hangs on the wall. If Darren wants to use me to get back at his father, then I might as well give him his money's worth.
Letting my hair hang over my face, swaying back and forth against the desk, I rub harder, a bolt of unthinkable desire sparking inside of me, cut short by Darren grabbing onto my hips and spinning me around. He pushes me against the desk roughly, his hand resting at the base of my neck, holding me in place. I’m not sure whether he’s going to curse me or fuck me.
“You are a very wicked girl,” he rasps with a voice that sounds like torn paper.
I smile, blink up at him, and wrap my arms around his shoulders. He lifts me onto the desk, spreading my legs as his body settles against me.
His mouth hovers over mine, and I can smell the sweet caramel scent of whiskey.
“You have no idea, husband,” I say, parting my lips and feeling the pressure of his cock against me, so hard and so ready.
He grins his approval and runs his hands under my shirt, lifting it over my head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. I shake out my hair, feeling it fall against my bare back, the coldness of the room causing my nipples to immediately turn to tiny points that rub against the lettering of his shirt, sending a spark of desire down my spine.
He tilts me back to pull one of my nipples into his mouth, and I moan in response. I’m already so sensitive everywhere with the need to come.
I suck in a breath, arching my back for him to take more, and it sends a desperate ache through me, like adding lighter fluid to an already burning fire. My hand slides out from under me; a container of pens crash to the floor.
