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“I want to draw you.”
Oh hell.
***
She walks into my room, her hair caught up in a messy bun, loose strands framing her small face, making her eyes look huge. Her low-cut black top has my pulse racing, and she hasn’t even sat down yet.
Disaster alert. Everyone abandon stations. I repeat, abandon stations.
She hesitates in the middle of my room and chews on her lip. “Good morning. I… I think maybe this was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”
I push off the wall, where I’ve been pretending to lean all cool and shit, and lurch after her. “Wait!”
She stops with a hand on the door fra
me. Her purse slips from her shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud, but she doesn’t turn around.
I reach her, refusing to acknowledge the relief flooding me, and skim up her arm with my fingertips, tangle them in a loose curl. I love how she shivers. How she feels, like silk and feathers.
Leaning in, I whisper in her ear, “Please stay.”
Fighting the urge to press my mouth to her neck, I suck in a deep breath, try to control my body. Scary how much I want her. How easily I’d forget Zane’s warnings, forget I shouldn’t be doing this.
Forget that she deserves better, forget everything but my need for her, a need that goes deeper than anything I’ve ever felt before. I want to meld myself with her, merge, make her…
Make her mine.
Fuck.
“Okay,” she says. “What should I do?”
I gesture at my bed. “Take a seat, make yourself comfortable. I’ll sit over here,” I point at the only chair I have in my room, “and draw you. That’s all.”
I step away and go grab my drawing pad from a box in the corner, grab my charcoal pencil and eraser, and sink into the seat.
When I look up, my mouth goes dry.
She’s sitting on my mattress, her hair loose on her shoulders, and she’s leaning forward, her blouse dipping low, giving me a glimpse of black lace and the pale mounds of her tits.
Tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, my hard-on pushing frantically against the seam of my jeans, I stare and stare.
“JJ?” Her uncertain voice is like a splash of cold water. She’s staring right back, frozen in place, one hand planted on top of my blanket.
“Perfect,” I rasp, coming down to earth and clutching the drawing pad over my crotch to hide how excited my dick is to see her. “That’s perfect. Stay… stay like that.”
Swallowing hard, attempting to bring some moisture back into my mouth, I start sketching quickly, broad lines, bold strokes to capture the posture, the curves of her body, the wild tangle of her dark hair, her wide eyes.
I botch the line of her thigh and blot it out with the special eraser. Fuck, fuck. My hands are shaky.
“Where did you learn to draw?” she asks, and I pause, the charcoal gripped in my hand.
“Learn?”
“Yeah. Who taught you how to draw?”
“Nobody taught me.” I shade in her hair, a storm cloud around her face. “Z-man takes a look at my drawings from time to time, gives me suggestions.”
“You’re self-taught?”
