20. Poetry for a Living

CHAPTER TWENTY

Poetry for a Living

T he last mentorship session feels the most remote, the most stilted. There's too much beneath the surface to be anything but polite and professional. The weight of our shared secret hangs heavy in the air.

We meticulously comb through my paper, refining every argument, every sentence until it shines. The words we craft together are sharp, poignant—a testament to our combined intellect, a dance of wits that leaves me both exhilarated and emotionally drained.

I can feel the electricity crackling between us, a dangerous current that threatens to pull me under. But I refuse to succumb. I've come too far, worked too hard to let my guard down now. So I pull back, cloaking myself in a layer of icy detachment. I focus on the work, on the words on the page, on the way my arguments unfold with precision and clarity .

Stratford seems to sense the change in me, but he doesn't press. Instead, he matches my remote demeanor, his own walls rising as he concentrates on our task. We are two scholars, working side by side, nothing more, nothing less. The silence between us is punctuated only by the tap of my foot as he does the final read through.

"Perfect," he says.

"Really?"

"It's brilliant. Truly. You deserve to win."

The words hang in the air, a validation of all the late nights, the endless research, the moments of doubt and despair. I want to thank him, to tell him how much his approval means to me, but I can't find the words.

They wouldn't be appropriate, anyway.

"But I won't. Right?"

He sighs. "Thorne doesn't control the board of this award…but she has influence. Her father does, too. And I suspect she did more than just advise Matteo. She would have fed him whatever she thought would win."

"Right." My voice comes out hollow.

"It doesn't mean anything."

It means everything. The fact that good work won't count. The fact that it's about who you know, which he told me before. I didn't want to believe him then. "I'll keep that in mind while I clap for Matteo."

I gather my things with firm, almost too-hard movements. The distance grows between us, a necessary barrier that will protect me. I rise from my chair, slinging my bag over my shoulder, ready to face whatever comes next—alone.

As I reach the door, I pause, casting one last glance back.

Stratford sits there, his gaze fixed on the space where I stood just moments before. There's a vulnerability in his eyes that I've never seen before, a flicker of something deeper.

I should leave. It would be the smart thing to do, the safe thing. I've already risked too much by staying this long, by allowing myself to get caught up in the storm of desire that surrounds Professor William Stratford. With the mentorship over, I'm free of it. But as I stand at the threshold of the bookshelf, I can't bring myself to walk away.

His normally impenetrable demeanor shows signs of wear.

He looks a little…sad.

That shouldn't matter to me, but it does.

I let go of the doorknob and take a step back into the room. "What's wrong?" I ask, my voice softer than I intend it to be .

He glances up at me, his expression quickly hardening into a mask of indifference. "Nothing," he says, his tone dismissive. "You should leave."

I know him too well now. "Something's bothering you. And it's not how amazing my concluding paragraph was."

He doesn't smile. "You need to leave."

A shiver runs through me. "I'm not scared."

"This is your last warning."

"Not going anywhere."

"Do you really want to be fucked by me that badly?"

His words feel like a slap in the face, even though I recognize them for what they are. He's trying to push me away. They're a form of protection, the same as my isolation. "You know, I'd really think someone who studies poetry for a living would understand emotions better."

Something flickers across his handsome face, grudging respect for my tenacity, acknowledgment that I scored a point. "If we understood it, we wouldn't need poetry so much."

"So what are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling like I'd fuck your smart mouth."

"Then I guess we're at an impasse," I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Because I want more than that from you. Then again, maybe we can both get what we want."

He watches me with wary eyes as I drop to my knees in front of him, my hands deftly working the buckle of his belt. His breath hitches as I unzip his slacks and free his already-hard cock, the evidence of his desire for me both a victory and a reminder of the complex game we're playing.

I need to taste him, to feel him in my mouth, to serve him in this most intimate of ways. It's not about love or even lust.

It's about power and control. I want to give him both.

And then take them away.

His cock is already hard, straining against the fabric of his slacks. I undo his belt and zip with practiced ease, my fingers trembling with anticipation. When I finally free him from his confines, I can't help but let out a low moan at the sight of him. He's so beautiful, the thick length, the dusky head, the pearl of wetness at the tip.

I lean forward, my lips brushing against the tip of his cock.

He shudders.

A lick reveals that salty, addictive flavor. I take him deeper into my mouth, my tongue swirling around his shaft as I suck him.

He groans, his hands tangling in my hair as he guides himself deeper. His cock throbbing against my tongue, but it's far too soon for that.

I look up at him, my lips still wrapped around him. He's watching me with something that looks like awe. It's intoxicating, knowing that I have this effect on him. I suck hard, and his hips buck as he fucks my mouth. My body responds to the primal energy of him, getting slick and soft between my legs.

But I can't let myself get lost in it.

I need to stay focused, to keep my mind on the task at hand.

This isn't about me. Or even him. It's about control.

His hands grip my hair tighter as he thrusts deeper into my mouth.

The taste of him is intoxicating, a heady mix of salt and skin that makes my head spin and my core ache with a need that's become all too familiar. I savor the sensation of his thickness sliding against my tongue, the way his body responds to my touch—a dance of power and vulnerability that sends shivers down my spine.

I'm lost in the rhythm of it, the wet sounds of my mouth around him, the soft, desperate noises he can't help but make.

His thighs tense beneath my hands, the muscles quivering with the effort to hold back, to maintain some semblance of control. His moans fill the silence of the library's upper floor, a symphony of desire that echoes in the hollow space around us.

I know he's close, teetering on the edge of release, and the knowledge thrills me, fuels my own aching need.

Before he can come, I pull away, his cock slipping from my lips with a wet pop. I sit back on my heels, reveling in the frustration that washes over him.

"Don't stop," he says in a low rasp.

I meet his order with a steady gaze, my resolve hardening even as my body protests. "Then tell me what's wrong," I say, my voice firm despite the trembling in my limbs.

He averts his eyes, his jaw clenching as he shakes his head. "It's nothing," he insists, his tone laced with a desperation that betrays his words.

I lean forward, my hand wrapping around the base of his cock, my thumb teasing the sensitive spot just beneath the head. His breath catches, his hips jerking involuntarily as I stroke him, my grip just firm enough to reignite the fire I've so cruelly doused .

His control is slipping, his composure unraveling with every stroke, every swirl of my tongue, every gentle squeeze of his balls. I take him deep again, relishing the way he swears under his breath, the way his fingers tangle in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make my scalp tingle.

And then, just as his body begins to tremble again, I pull back once more, leaving him shaking, gasping for air, on the brink of ecstasy.

"Fuck," he says.

"Tell me," I whisper, my lips grazing the damp tip of his cock. "What's wrong, William?"

His response is a guttural growl, a wordless plea for release. A visceral response to my temerity at using his first name. I hold my ground, my gaze unyielding, my determination a fortress around my heart. Though the fortress walls are crumbling.

I'd really think someone who studies poetry for a living would understand emotions better.

The same is true for me, of course. I've never understood emotion. That's how I've ended up at this man's feet, thinking I'm not halfway in love with him.

Again and again, I bring him to the edge, only to withdraw, leaving him panting, begging, reduced to a creature of pure need. I revel in the power I wield over him, the control I exert with every flick of my tongue, every caress of my hand.

If we understood it, we wouldn't need poetry so much.

He's become poetry, his tremble the rhythm, his curse words the symbolism, the wetness between my thighs the irony.

I see the moment his resolve crumbles. He's exposed, stripped bare by the relentless onslaught of pleasure and denial. His eyes are dark with desperation. And though he's defeated, he also seems relieved. As if he wanted this. Needed it.

I release him, sitting back on my heels as I wait for him to speak. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his body still shaking with the aftershocks of his denied release.

"I'm worried about Brandon," he says, his voice hoarse. "Dean Morris asked me to come back, to clear out the Shakespeare Society. I never wanted to return. The only reason I did is because Brandon is here."

"He's part of the Society?"

"Not really. He joined when they invited him, but he doesn't give a shit about Shakespeare. They don't want him because he likes literature. They targeted him because of my history."

"Like retaliation?"

"More like they thought if they could get Brandon to side with them, they'd have more power in the Society. I have to destroy them, not only for the school, but for my son. I haven't been there enough for him. This is my chance to make amends."

His words make me shiver. The vulnerability in his words strips away the layers of professor and student, of lover and mentor.

We both care about Brandon, though in different ways. I might not be close to him, but I don't want him to be consumed by the Society.

It's a strange sensation, to be kneeling before him, his cock still glistening from my attention, as we discuss the well-being of his son—a young man I once thought I could have been with.

A strange sensation, but then our reality has always been complex. Twisted.

It's always been forbidden, but it's ours.

Words can't fix this, so I don't offer empty promises.

Instead I give him comfort the best way I know how.

I take him into my mouth.

He groans a prayer, a promise. His hips buck beneath me as he loses himself in the sensation. He's on the edge again, his entire body quivering with that almost-climax. I don't pull away this time. I suck him harder, allowing him deeper into my throat, swallowing around him until he shouts.

His thighs vibrate with power as he spills himself onto my tongue. It's a moment of pure ecstasy, a shared victory against the worry that's been haunting us. I don't fool myself into thinking that a blowjob has managed to solve anything. Or that these problems are even solvable. There's solace to be found, though. Even in the darkest times, we can find respite, a moment of raw, blinding, carnal light.