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She hasn’t pulled away yet. Why hasn’t she pulled away yet? I can feel the tears running down her face and into my hair, and maybe that’s why. Maybe she also doesn’t want to be caught being so emotional, especially not twice in one day.
I pull myself up so that she doesn’t get the wrong idea.
Or is that exactly what I want?
The air in the room has gotten so much thicker it’s almost impossible to ignore the tension between the of us.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say, wiping a stream left behind by a tear from her beautiful face. “You know, you’re very gorgeous, and when you cry...” I sigh, knowing I shouldn’t be saying this, “... you look like a piece of art.”
She gasps.
“Really?”
I can’t control myself anymore. I take her face into my hands as she continues crying quietly and I pull her into a kiss, which inadvertently pulls her down onto my lap. And just when I think that she’s about to pull away, just when I think that she’s about to call me a creep and run screaming, she readjusts herself so that her legs are open and she’s rocking back and forth against my cock through my slacks.
“Omigod, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this...” I tell her, running my hand up her side and then back down and then under her sweater.
“I’ve wanted it too,” she moans.
“But we can’t do this,” I say, remembering myself and pulling back some. I roll my chair back from the desk so she has the space to get off my lap, which she hesitates to do.
“Yeah, you’re right.” She does finally get up off my lap. She fixes her sweater and looks at her reflection in the mirror. “I’m sorry, I guess I forgot myself for a minute.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I did, too.”
“I’m performing the poem at an open mic off-campus next week, though, if you’d like to talk more there. It would be nice to have someone who enjoys it there to support me.”
I nod. “I will do my best,” and my cock throbs a little harder. I can’t tell if this is an invitation just to see her or to escalate what has just happened between us. And at the thought of that, I add, “But I don’t know that I can. You’re very talented, but I’m just not sure we should be tempting the Fates.”
She nods as she reaches for the door. “I understand that.” Then she begins her way out the door, and I get a look at how great her ass looks in her jeans. “And don’t worry,” she says, waiting for a moment in the threshold, the light from the hall hitting her like one that would descend upon a solo performer on a massive stage. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Chapter Three
Caroline
At the pub and restaurant off-campus, I’m next up to read the poem about my mom. True to what he said in his office last week, it does not appear that Professor Mitchell is crowd. Dr. Myers, on the other hand, sits in the front row along with many of my classmates and friends, which is a nice enough boost to my confidence. Like I said before, I may not exactly be a performance artist, but I do want my poetry heard by the world. Last week’s reactions— even Professor Mitchell’s reaction after the fact— made me realize that it was time for me to make sure I was sharing my poetry with as many people as possible.
I’m still a bit discouraged as the guy before me in the queue gets up to read his poem. It’s nearly midnight now, and half the crowd is beginning to lose interest, even though most of them are poets, as well. But because the reading is taking place in a bar, the patrons are beginning to act more like a karaoke crowd now than they are distinguished poets. I’m even getting a little restless. The reading is taking place in the upstairs room of the Madhatter, a pub on Connecticut Ave. that’s been a part of Washington DC for over 30 years. It’s a small room that’s much longer than it is wide, with a makeshift stage set up in the front area before a window overlooking the city street.
This guy is reading a poem about his mother, too, which at first I think might be a problem for the delivery order of mine. Only, I can tell right off the back that it’s not quite the same. His mom seems to have been a chain-smoking heroin addict from what I can hear as Jessica and I try to squeeze our asses onto an uncomfortably small couch next to Brandon and Dr. Myers as we sip our new glasses of wine.
“Sucking on things --” the poet recites, and we both lose our wine from our mouth in spit-takes that are highly inappropriate at the moment. The man stops reading to look at us. “Like cigarettes...”
