I swallowed, dreading the pained look I knew would come. “I was angry.” And foolish. I hadn’t wanted to face the truth about myself—my art would never be the same again.
She turned to me with a fire in her eyes. “Good.”
“Good?” I asked, thinking I must have heard her wrong.
“Yes.Good.Instead of suppressing your anger, your hurt, your frustration, you’re confronting it. And you’re channeling those feelings into your art.”
“But I ruined the one decent piece I had.”
“Stand back and look at it.Reallylook at it.” She tugged on my arm, forcing me to take a few steps back.
I tilted my head to the side, looking at it again. It was different, but it was actually… I liked it. Or at least, I didn’t hate it.
“See.” She butted me with her shoulder.
I nodded, turning to face her. “You’re right. You were right about everything.”
We stared at each other, and I tried to read her expression, her eyes. Was she just as captivated by me as I was by her? I wondered if that was why she’d asked me to pose for her. And I wondered how I’d feel when it came time to do so. I didn’t know how I was going to hide my desire for her then, and I could feel my cock pressing against my zipper, my heart pounding against my ribs. I was on the verge of stepping forward and kissing her, claiming her, but then she spun away.
“Let me just set up, and then we can get to work.” I put on some music, preparing the supplies we needed before inviting her to join me.
She stepped in front of me, filling my nose with her scent. As with every night we’d painted together, it was going to take all my willpower not to kiss her. But, hey, at least it was an effective way to silence my inner critic. I was so focused on the feel of her hand, the way her body curved to mine, that I couldn’t overanalyze every stroke of the charcoal across the paper.
We stayed that way for I didn’t know how long, her breath, her body in concert with mine. I tried to ignore the way my body felt electrified every time she was near. The way my dick was straining against my zipper to get closer to her. I was positive she could feel it, and when she pressed back against me—the movement unmistakable—I groaned.
My grip on her hand loosened, but I didn’t let go. Not when she leaned her head back against my shoulder. And not when I used my free hand to pull her even closer to me.
“Xander.” Her voice was breathless.
I splayed my hand over her ribs, using my thumb to stroke just beneath her breasts. She let out a heavy sigh, her breath shuddering as we stayed there, locked in time.
“I want to kiss you. God, I want to kiss you,” I said, holding her tightly to me.
After spending all afternoon with her, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I turned her to face me. And when I did, I saw the same desire reflected back at me.
I pulled her to me, slanting my lips over hers. She was stiff at first, but then she relaxed, giving in to the kiss. I threaded my fingers through her hair, sampling her like a fine wine. She was vivacious, effervescent, intense, and I couldn’t get enough of her.
She clutched at my shirt, kissing me just as desperately. She moaned, and it sparked a memory—that moment when she’d moaned in Professor Tate’s class. With that one sound, the reality of our situation sank in. She was a student. Not my student, perhaps, but she was a student at the school where I taught.
I took a few steps backward, knowing I needed to put some distance between us. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“No.” She shook her head, advancing on me until her face was inches from my chest. “You shouldn’t have stopped kissing me.”
Her lips glistened, the swollen petals begging me to kiss her again. I was torn between the desire to kiss her or draw her. And I’d never felt so consumed by my desire.
I dragged a hand through my hair. “Kate.” I sighed, trying to find the words. “You’re a student.”
She arched an eyebrow, stepping closer once more. “So, the ‘not my student’ rule only applies when you want me to pose for you?”
I rubbed my hand over my mouth, mostly to keep myself from kissing her again. “No. I just… I want to be sure you’ve really thought this through. I’m a professor. I’m…older.”
She placed her hands on my chest. I relaxed beneath her touch, even though my body was still wound tight like a spring ready to explode.
“I don’t care. Do our roles bother you? Does our age difference?”
“No. I don’t give a fuck about either of those things.”
“Then what—” A look of uncertainty flashed in her eyes. “You don’t want me like that.”
