8. Love Affair With Things That Can Never Be
DARREN
The National Archives Museum is full of centuries worth of documents that have priceless monetary and historical value, but there is nothing in this room more valuable than Evangeline’s smile. It’s the kind of smile that reaches her eyes, making them an unearthly shade of blue. When they’re trained on me, they make my heart stop.
“Do you like?” I gesture to the gift on the table in front of her that I enlisted Bethany’s help with – priceless love letters that Emerson wrote.
The door clicks shut as I move further into the room, my attention never wavering from Evangeline’s as she stands in black high heeled boots and a very short skirt. If she bent over, I might be able to see the crease of her heart shaped ass. I contemplate pushing the priceless Emerson letters to the ground just to watch her pick them up.
“Did you promise to let Bethany whip you if she did you this favor?” Evangeline muses.
“A gentleman never tells,” I shrug.
Evangeline purses her lips. I join her at the desk where Bethany has provided a small portion of letters that Emerson wrote to Margaret Fuller. There is a protective covering over the letters, and the room is kept dim to further aid in their preservation.
“You’d already given me a present by letting me tag along to pick up Alistair from the park police.” Her voice is full of amusement.
I lift an eyebrow. “Am I not allowed to give you another?”
I study her face as she studies the letters. It’s the way her hands hover over them as if she wants to gather them up and hide them under her pillow for safekeeping. It’s her romanticism that I am dangerously drawn to.
“You look at those letters with a wonder that rivals history-lovers who first view the Declaration of Independence in the rotunda, and yet none of those people would travel across the country to view the conflicted love letters written by Emerson to a woman who was not his wife.”
It feels as if the temperature in the room rises as she settles her gaze on me. I have to fidget with the loose change in my pocket to stop myself from grabbing her by the back of the neck and pulling her to my lips. It’s been too long since I’ve tasted her, ran my thumb over her plump bottom lip, and I am all too eager to do just that.
“Can you really call him conflicted when he was clearly married while he wrote such beautiful letters to Margaret? I think he knew exactly what he wanted; he just couldn’t have it.”
“I might be coerced into thinking that you have a love affair with things that can never be.”
“Aren’t those the most romantic ones?” she challenges, and the tilt of her mouth has me on edge.
Everything about her has me on edge.
“What’s romantic about not having what it is you crave; the very thing that keeps you up at night and invades your dreams?” I contemplate, rubbing the stubble along my jaw while struggling to keep my hands to myself.
“Spoken like a boy who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.” It’s her challenging smirk that causes me to cage her against the table.
A startled breath escapes her lips. Her back arches as she looks up at me with wide blue eyes through long black lashes. She blinks against her bangs, the action so innocent but so tempting. Her perfect pink lips part as she swallows nervously, causing an ache to form in my chest.
“I take what I want,” I threaten, licking my lips as I stare down at her small frame, but it’s her defiant and confident attitude that makes her presence fill the room. “Is there something wrong with that?”
I will go to hell for thinking of fucking her here in this sacred place with century-old love letters, de-classified white house documents, presidential libraries, and of all things, the Declaration of Independence.
“Only if it doesn’t belong to you,” she challenges with that smart, kissable mouth of hers.
“Then it’s a very good thing that you’re mine,” I rasp, my voice sounding as old and weathered as the Emerson letters. My eyes drop to her lips – full and pouty – the pink lip gloss shimmering in the dim lighting that I want to smear as I kiss her hard and deep.
The handle to the office door turns, and I take one step back from Evangeline. Her fingers grip the edge of the desk and her eyes are trained on my hand with equal amusement and heat as I discreetly try to readjust my cock so Bethany doesn’t see the beginning of my hard-on.
“Darren, I see you made it. What did you think of the letters?” Bethany York asks as she enters the room, either unaware of how close I was to fucking Evangeline on those letters – or pretending not to notice.
She collects her white gloves from the desk and slides them on to handle the documents.
“Inspiring,” I confirm, cocking my head to the side while still staring at Evangeline, who stares back with amusement.
Her cheeks flush as she turns towards Bethany.
“Your wife is very charming,” Bethany declares as she gathers the letters.
I clear my throat and finish adjusting myself while Bethany’s back is to me.
“When Darren told me it would please you greatly to see the Emerson letters, well,” she pauses and turns to me, “I couldn’t say no.”
Evangeline hesitates, and I sense the conflict in her eyes, the way she fights to keep little pieces of herself hidden. “I was a literature major in college.”
“The pursuit of the arts is always a noble one,” Bethany declares, giving me a wink. “Emerson obviously thought so.”
Evangeline laughs. “Not everyone sees it that way.”
“It’s no more noble than graduating Georgetown Law top of their class,” Bethany directs her accusatory eyes towards me.
“Thank you, but we don’t want to keep you any longer.” Evangeline grabs her jacket from the rack by the door. “I’m sure you have better things to do than indulge my fascination with Emerson.”
“It’s my pleasure. Anything for Darren.” She gives me a knowing smile and then turns to Evangeline. “We’ll be in touch about the foundation.”
“Thank you, Bethany.” I give her a chaste kiss on the cheek and then take Evangeline’s hand, leading her from the room and back down the long hallway towards the rotunda.
“You were charming?” I tease.
“I can behave, Darren. Your lack of confidence is disappointing.”
“This outfit says otherwise.” My eyes drop to her short skirt.
“You don’t like?” She flicks the hem.
“I like it very much.”
When we reach the door at the end of the long hallway, I clear my throat and turn towards her.
“Thank you.” I don’t say it often enough, and aim to rectify that.
Evangeline tilts her head. “I should be thanking you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know how much it means to you, and it would be selfish of me to deny you when it’s within my power.”
Her eyes turn a deeper shade of blue, and her lips part.
“You seem to have a lot of influence, Darren Walker.”
“When you have enough money…”
“No,” she interrupts, “it’s not because of your money.”
I’d say she’s looking at me with admiration, but I know better. No, it’s more like understanding, the kind of understanding when someone sees deep down inside of you, and it’s unnerving.
“Why were you thanking me earlier?” she asks.
“For running interference with Bethany,” I explain.
“For someone so narcissistic, you don’t take compliments well,” she teases.
It’s that smart mouth that brings back the ache deep in my belly.
“It’s clear Bethany adores you,” she adds.
“People would always say I had my father’s charm and wit. It felt more like a burden than a compliment.”
“And now?”
I drag in a deep breath. “It reminds me of what I didn’t finish,” I admit.
“Why didn’t you take the Bar exam?”
If I could give her the answer I’ve given countless people – the polite answer, the bullshit answer – I would.
“Hope should be something that fills you up and carries you forward, but for me, it felt like an anchor. I was on this path that had been mapped out for me since I was born, and that’s a heavy burden to live up to.”
I don’t know if I’m explaining myself correctly.
“I know how pretentious that sounds, but…” I pause, “there are so many what if’s – what if I don’t pass? Worse yet, what if I do?”
“What if you do pass?” she prompts. “Would that be so bad?”
“The attention I got when my father ran for office was alarming, and they’d just dug up a bad report card. Can you imagine what it would be like for me if I actually tried and failed?” I admit.
“Failure isn’t a crime, Darren,” she shakes her head, “but aiming low is.”
I tilt my head down towards hers. “If that’s true, then I am the worst kind of criminal.”
She stops me by placing a finger against my lips, and it feels like an electric shock running through my body. I want to open my mouth to take a bite.
Every instinct in me screams to press her against the wall so she can feel what she does to me, to grip her hip, and lift her leg to curl around me, reminding her of the way we fit together so easily.
She removes her finger and takes a step back and it leaves me restless.
“What are you thinking?” I’m desperate to know.
“You’re a very complex person, Darren, and I wonder how many people have actually been able to figure you out?”
“Have you?” I ask.
Her eyes search mine. “Why did you have Bethany show me the Emerson letters?”
“It would seem masochistic, wouldn’t it?”
“Under the circumstances, yes.” She tilts her head, and I track the strands of hair that fall over her shoulder.
“I want to believe that when you look at me, you don’t see my father,” I explain, “because that is the common thread that binds us, isn’t it?” I ask, but I’m not looking for an answer. “And what a precarious thread it is.” I tug on the end of her sweater, pulling her an inch closer to me. “One pull, and everything unravels.” My eyes meet hers.
Her lips part, the gloss shining in the dim lighting of the hallway.
“I have the means to fly you to Paris, buy you a closet full of designer gowns, jewels, whatever the hell you want, but this…” I point down the hall and sigh, “do you know how much I want to hate Emerson? And yet I can’t.” I run a hand through my hair in frustration.
“Why?” she asks, touching my arm, and I can feel the heat from it pierce right through my jacket.
“Because of you,” I admit. “I asked for the truth, and you gave it to me. Do you want me to punish you for it?”
“No, but Darren, you don’t have to do those things for me,” she pleads.
How do I explain something I can’t even understand myself?
“But I do.” I let out a frustrated breath. “Because one day you will look at me, and you won’t see him.”
The door opens and Bernie, the security guard, peers in. “You have fifteen minutes,” he says.