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Her attention immediately goes to the pencil in her hand, and while I can’t hear the scratch of it against the paper like I normally can, I can envision the sound just the same.
I watch her while she works, allowing myself to see her in a way I’ve spent months fighting. Allowing myself to admit that I’m not just attracted to her because of her beauty, and fuck me, she is beautiful. But also because of her talent and her drive. She has this deep-seated need to be successful. I can recognize that in her because I’m the same way. Driven by something deeper, something more than can be explained or rationalized to people who weren’t born with the same fortitude.
Minutes bleed into an hour and then into two, but when she clicks off the music, announcing she’s finished, it feels like very little time has passed at all. I swear I could watch her work all day and never grow tired of the sight.
“Can I see?” I ask, pushing to a stand before stretching my arms over my head, trying to work the stiffness out of my back from sitting so long in one position.
“You can.” She slowly rises from her own chair before moving it out of the way to allow me room to squeeze in next to her.
I’m not surprised by the incredible work in front of me. Hell, she might as well be a professional artist selling her drawings for millions as far as I’m concerned. And while I know her heart lies in fashion, she could make a killing drawing portraits just like this.
Unlike the others, this one is in full color, a glow that looks a lot like sunlight brightening the page behind me. But it’s my eyes that draw me in the most—the softness behind them. Normally she shades them to a near black, but today she’s filled in the color, matching my blue-gray eyes perfectly.
“If I had known all I had to do was kiss you to get you to draw me like this...” I turn to face her, my hand sliding along her side before my fingers dig into her hip, tugging her toward me. She lets out a soft yelp at the action but doesn’t resist in the least. “Then I would have done it a hell of a lot sooner.” I smile, dipping my face down to meet hers.
“I won’t deny that maybe I feel a little differently today,” she says softly, her breath hitching when I lean in even closer, my bottom lip brushing hers.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” I tilt my face, pressing a soft kiss to her jaw and then her cheek. “So do I,” I softly whisper, making my way back to her lips, laying a soft peck there.
As much as I want to deepen the kiss, to press against her and make sure she still feels me long after I leave this room, I don’t want to push too hard and freak her out either. Lucky for both of us, I have incredible self-restraint... Usually.
I don’t have to wait long for her to take what she wants, her hands tangling in the back of my hair as she pulls me closer, sliding her tongue along the seam of my lips. I’m all too happy to open for her, groaning when I taste the sweetness of her mouth for a second time.
I’m rock-hard in an instant, fighting against every instinct that tells me to lift her up, drop her on one of these tables, and fuck her so hard she can’t walk straight for a week. But something tells me that’s not her style... and as badly as I want her, I’m glad it’s not.
I’m nowhere near ready to end the kiss when the classroom door swings open and we’re forced to abruptly break apart.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Professor Clemens looks between me and Rory, who now have a good two feet of space between us. “I thought you’d be finished by now.” She speaks directly to Rory.
“We are.” Rory wipes at her lips like somehow the professor can see what we’re doing.
Oddly enough, though, Professor Clemens doesn’t let on like a teacher who just caught two students making out in a classroom, so maybe we separated quickly enough that she didn’t see anything. Not that I care. She could catch me balls deep in a woman and I wouldn’t care. But it’s clear Rory does and rightfully so. This isherprofessor after all. A woman she sees nearly every day.
“Rory was just showing the finished product of today’s session.” I’m quick to interject.
“If you need the room, I can have everything cleaned up in no time,” Rory offers.
“That would be appreciated. I’m doing an evening art class and have about twenty students who will start arriving here in about the next ten minutes.”
“No problem.” Rory begins collecting her things and I join in to help, dropping pencils in her bag while she slides the portrait into her portfolio.
“Do you mind if I see how you’re doing?” Professor Clemens asks, settling in behind the teacher’s desk.
“Actually, I’d rather wait until it’s done, if you don’t mind,” Rory says almost apologetically.
“Somehow, I knew that would be your answer.” She smiles, revealing a large gap between her two front teeth.
I gotta say, I can’t see what Coach Cook sees in her. Then again, he’s not exactly what you would call good-looking either.
She’s at least ten years his senior and looks like she just stepped out of a sixties movie with her long skirts and bright-colored tops. Meanwhile, Coach is short and stout, at least two or three inches shorter than her, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen him in anything but team apparel. A sports man through and through.
It’s not lost on me that outside of the obvious physical differences, Rory and I aren’t that much different than they are. She’s an artist who marches to the beat of her own drum and I eat, sleep, and breathe football. We really couldn’t be more opposite in what we like and yet, she feels oddly familiar to me. Like I recognize a piece of myself in her.
“Well, we will get out of your hair.” Rory slides her bag over her shoulder as I do the same with my own. “Have a good evening, Professor Clemens.”
I follow her to the door.
“You as well,” she calls to our backs as we exit into the hallway.
