The Writing Desk Novels & Stories

He promised, dismissing the plethora of servants from tailing us and then he closed the door. I sweep my gaze at the room, noticing that we are in a private study. A mahogany desk was marked at the center and a swivel chair was behind it. On top of the desk, there are stacks of documents that are a foot tall that are waiting to be attended to, and there are also some decorative paintings hanging on the wall from renowned artists all over the world. It was pretty neat, but somewhat lacking in things.

The collection of books ranged from classic literature to modern business books and biographies of other successful people. The massive desk, which was crafted of expensive exotic wood, and designed with marble, served as the study's centrepiece. The desk was cluttered with high-tech gadgets, such as a top-of-the-line computer, multiple monitors, and high-speed internet. A selection of pricey pens, paperweights, and other executive materials were also there. From the study alone, one would see that it reflected the massive wealth, taste and interests that the Richardsons had. It was obvious that the study was designed for comfort, inspiration and productivity.

I have to yank it open like it’s punishing me. Inside, it smells like dust and printer ink. My desk is a vintage writing table I found at a flea market in Brooklyn. Mint green with little gold knobs, chipped at the edges like me. There’s a candle I never light. A framed postcard from Venice. Three mugs filled with pens that don’t work. My laptop’s already open, half-charged, judgmental. The light here is soft and diffused, slanting in through slatted blinds and falling across the floor like a spotlight I didn’t ask for.

The ones who kept the machines running but never got their names in the reports. Desk 47 was exactly where he said it would be. In the corner, under a flickering light that hummed and blinked like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on, half-hidden behind a tall metal filing cabinet that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. The cabinet was dented, the lock broken, papers spilling out of the top drawer. The desk itself was small, scratched, the edge chipped from years of elbows and frustration. The chair was worse—wobbly, one leg slightly shorter than the others, the cushion flattened to almost nothing. A small victory. She had a desk. It was ugly and hidden and probably meant to make h

Not that the last encounter with a Human male was anything to brag about. By now, I was desperate for a nap, but I knew the moment I shut my eyes, that annoying phone would start ringing. So, I opted to brew an extra strong cup of coffee and headed over to my desk instead. This was undoubtedly my favorite part of the apartment. The warm wooden floors shone brightly under the copper lights. I had painted the walls in a shade of green reminiscent of the grassy fields at the farm. My exquisite dark wooden desk featured custom-made cut glass knobs that glittered. Lane and I had found it at an adorable antique shop. The chair was a rich brown color, the leather smooth and well-worn from years of

“The chair just got away from me.” Maxwell’s eyes were shining with laughter he was holding back. “Get back to work, Carrow. Time is important.” “Yes, sir,” I said, fixing my tie and putting the chair in its stupid corner. Now for the desk. The desk that looked like it weighed three times what I do, with drawers that were probably full of heavy papers and supplies. I went back to the assistant’s office and stared at my enemy. It was a solid wood desk that looked like it was built a million years ago by people who never planned for it to be moved.

The scent of this beautiful man lingered in every part of the place and I could also see how beautiful it suited him. There was his shiny mahogany desk which looked well polished and the matching shelf to the side. On his desk was a placard with his name written in gold, his laptop and a pack of writing items. His coat hung to one side on a stand which reminded me of the one he had given me earlier. That brought back memories to me. There was a lot of brown coloring, enhancing his masculine air. Only now had I noticed him as I brought myself back to reality. I had better leave here as soon as possible before I lose myself.

His favorite spot in this exclusive sanctuary is his private study, a room filled with shelves of antique books and artifacts, where he often immerses himself in his work, surrounded by his treasured possessions. Old Master Collins sat behind his old, polished antique desk. The desk was adorned with a vintage lamp and a cherished photo frame, that stood as the centerpiece of the room, while stacks of important files lay neatly arranged in front of him. It was a space that exuded a sense of elegance and sophistication, reflecting the refined taste of its distinguished occupant. The master was absorbed in his work, writing calligraphy on a plain sheet that lay in front of him. He dipped his fe

“Don’t touch the desk. I’ll know.” He left, the heavy oak door clicking shut. The silence in the wood-paneled room was profound. This was his inner sanctum. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive antique desk of dark walnut, a single painting, a stormy seascape that seemed to swallow the light. The air smelled of old paper, fine leather, and him that clean, sharp scent of sandalwood and cold resolve. Don’t touch the desk. It was a command, and a direct temptation.

His study always smelled like cedar and cologne, like power and control. I stepped inside, closing the door behind me, and let my eyes adjust to the dim light. His desk was a fortress, mahogany polished to perfection, documents stacked neatly in one corner, a decanter of whiskey half full beside a crystal glass. The computer screen glowed faintly in sleep mode.