“I’d like to attend, Ms. Weathers, if you don’t mind. As an artist, photography has always drawn me.”
“That’s why I’m taking photography too!” Blake exclaimed, staring at Crone in awe normally reserved for his mentor and fellow artist, Gavin Doyle.
“Itishim!” Kay’s shrill voice cut through the hormone-laden atmosphere. “I knew it. Didn’t I tell you last night?” She bounced in her seat, practically vibrating with excitement as she elbowed Patsy. “It’s him, Prof! Crone Lange.”
Sienna’s jaw dropped as she stared at him. The marker she’d retrieved slipped from her nerveless fingers again. “You’rethatCrone Lange?”
“Ehm... which one would that be?” He maintained his casual pose against the doorframe, but shadows flickered behind his eyes.
“The artist. The most sought after landscapist in theentire world!” Kay interjected. Bobby mimicked swooning into his neighbor’s lap while making heart eyes.
“TheCrone Lange whose painting is currently hanging at the gallery in Porter’s Corner?” Sienna asked softly. Behind her, she heard several sharp intakes of breath as the submissives recognized the reference.
Crone winced. His gaze searched her face as if expecting judgment or revulsion. Instead, understanding flowed between them. She had spent hours before that canvas during her therapy visits, each tortured brushstroke resonating with her own pain. Here stood a man who knew true suffering, whose pain and darkness matched her own. The painting hadn’t just been art, that had been clear to her the first time it magnetized her. Ithad been a coping mechanism of a man searching for reason and understanding… perhaps yearning for closure.
In the back of the room, someone whispered, “Is anyone else feeling the electricity or is it just me?” followed by several urgent “Shhhhs!” and barely suppressed squeals.
“Could we use him as a prop in the fashion shoot, Prof?” Elise stage-whispered, staring at him as if transfixed.
“No,” Crone answered for Sienna. “No one would buy a picture with this ugly face on it.”
“Ohh, you’re sooo wrong, Sir.” Ines clasped her hands beneath her chin as she fluttered her eyelids at him. “I would sell a pigtail for one of them.”
Crone’s chuckle filled more than the room… it echoed right through Sienna’s defenses and toggled at her heart. She cleared her throat loudly.
“I’m not sure you’ll benefit much from today’s class, Master Crone.” Sienna’s firm voice carried a warning note to her giggling students. “We’re discussing fashion photography, which falls rather outside your artistic wheelhouse.”
He glanced down at his worn jeans and khaki shirt and back at her. His eyes twinkled. “Are you saying I have no sense of style, Prof?”
“I... that’s not... I didn’t…” The normally composed professor she worked so hard to portray stammered with her cheeks once again blazing. It was with difficulty that she forced a semblance of being in control. “Find a seat, Master Crone,” she finally managed, gesturing to the room. The only available space was a desk-chair combo clearly designed for someone half his size. His six-feet-four-inch frame folded into it with all the grace of an origami giraffe, drawing poorly concealed snickers from the class.
Again retrieving the marker, Sienna tightened her grip and turned back to the whiteboard, but her usual laser focus wasscattered. His presence radiated heat against her back. Her hands shook as she wrote and the normally precise letters looked like scribbles across the surface. She closed her eyes briefly in a desperate attempt to calm herself. Every nerve ending sparked with awareness of him as her body hummed with an electric charge she couldn’t control.
“What about motorcycle fashion?” Crone asked during a discussion of photo locations. “The interplay of leather and chrome, movement and stillness…” He launched into an articulate analysis of composition and lighting that had her students furiously taking notes. Sienna was just as captivated and gripped her marker tighter, lest she drop it a third time.
A deep exhale of relief followed the ringing of the bell indicating the end of the session. They’d accomplished little of her planned curriculum since her students were too busy peppering Crone with questions and lewd suggestions, which he skillfully redirected back to photography principles.
Yep, and you didn’t mind.The voice in her mind mocked.
Of course, I did.
Gmphf, I call bullshit since you were just as flustered as they were.
Sienna stoically pushed the senseless debate from her mind as the students filed out reluctantly with several casting longing glances over their shoulders. As the door clicked shut behind the last one, silence descended. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she turned slowly to face him.
“Are you okay, kitten?” His voice dropped into that velvet-wrapped-steel tone that had turned her knees weak in the Dungeon.
“I am, Master Crone... thank you.” She didn't need to ask what he meant. His eyes held that laser-focused Dom intensity, scanning for any sign of subdrop or distress.
“No, Sienna. You never need to thank me for servicing your needs. It’s my job as your Dom.”
She jerked back. “M-my Dom?”
His touch was impossibly gentle as he brushed the hair away from her face. “You fell asleep last night so we didn’t get to have that much needed aftercare talk... which is the actual reason I’m here.”
The shutters immediately slammed down as she stepped back. “I’m not ready to talk... not now and”—her gaze darted around the classroom—“definitely not here.”
“Then are you ready for this?” He moved with predatory grace, backing her against the whiteboard.
