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Beth
He’s looking at me.
No, he’s not.Why would he be looking at me?
Is there something on my face? Did I smudge charcoal on my face? Oh god, I probably did. I probably smudged it somewhere terrible like my upper lip and have a mustache now. Why else would he be staring at me like that?
Aaand now he’s smirking.For fuck’s sake.
I need a mirror. Or to leave. I really want to leave. But I didn’t pay thousands of dollars that I really don’t have to walk out of this class. The instructor probably wouldn’t let me in the door next week. That is, if he doesn’t ask me to leave after today. He’s been known to cull his classes if he doesn’t feel someone is up to par, and I’ve barely gotten past outlining the model in front of me.
Pull it together, Beth. There’s only forty-five minutes left in the class. He’s just a guest model. You’ll never have to lay eyes on him again. Don’t embarrass yourself in front of the teacher you’ve idolized for the past two years over some cocky model. He’s not your type, and you’re certainly not his. Get your shit together.
I take a deep, steadying breath and lift my eyes back up to the model. His dark green eyes lock on mine and the blush I’ve been trying to suppress for the last two hours heats my face so much that my glasses fog. Averting my eyes down to his torso, I start shading the planes of his muscular chest. He’s incredibly fit. And cut. Okay, I lied, he’s everybody’s type. He’sinsanelyhot from head to toe.
He has dark auburn hair that is closely cropped at the sides, but longer at the top. It’s currently pushed back, but there’s one tendril that looks like it wants to escape and fall into those deep, moss-colored eyes. There’s a subtle smattering of freckles across his shoulders, and the short beard that shadows his jaw is a bit redder than the hair on his head. So are the curls of hair across his broad chest and below his navel. The ridges of his abs are hard and appealing. So much so that my blush, which had been fading, starts to deepen again as I imagine what it would be like to run my tongue between the ridges of each muscle.
Who am I even?
The model coughs slightly. Startled, I gasp and flinch, almost jumping off my chair and flinging my charcoal in the air. A few of the people around me chuckle softly, but are otherwise absorbed in their work, so their attention isn’t on my blunder for long, thankfully. I bend down as quickly and quietly as Ican to retrieve the ebony stick from the floor, where it’s rolled closer to the model’s podium.
I can feel the model’s eyes on me. He’s probably wondering what’s wrong with me, or how such a neurotic klutz was ever even accepted into this class in the first place. My eyes flick up to him, chancing a glance to confirm whether he’s actually watching me or not.
I freeze like a deer in headlights. He’s definitely watching me, looking down at me with an expression I can’t quite identify. His eyes have darkened, and I notice his tongue dart out to wet his lips. My nipples pebble through the fabric of my black wrap dress.
Quickly, I avert my eyes from his, but land myself into even more trouble. Knelt on the ground as I am, I have a direct view of the one part of him I haven’t been able to bring myself to look at to draw. Not that I haven’t seen or drawn a penis before. This isn’t the first class with a nude model. But this model is… intimidating. Maybe because he’s so attractive. Or maybe because I feel like he’s been staring at me this entire class. Or maybe because the appendage in question is definitely bigger than any I’ve come in contact with before. And now it’s at eye level, almost close enough to reach.
I should look away. I need to look away. But I can’t. It’sstaringat me.
It’s staring at me andgrowing.
It twitches and I choke, scramble, and nearly fall on my ass.What is wrong with me?
I spend the rest of class cleaning up my lines and trying to make it look like I did something other than ogle the model and panic the entire time. Then I’m packing up as quickly as possible, but I’m not able to get my drawing down from the easel before my art instructor comes to look at my work.
“Beth! I missed you before class,” he says before focusing on my easel. “Great line work today. Especially around the midriff.” His words sound almost joking, as if he noticed my discomfort and is amused by it.
“Oh, um, thanks. And yeah, I’m sorry I barely made it on time today. We have a special showing at the gallery tonight, and they needed me to run an emergency errand.”
I usually get to class a few minutes early to choose my seat—the closest one to him, although I justify it as having the best view of the subjects—and get my supplies sorted while he makes friendly small talk. Pathetically, I live for those few minutes, twice a week. But my manager, fucking Cherith, sent me all the way across town to pick up something she insisted was of the utmost importance for tonight’s very high-profile event. I shouldn’t have been surprised when it turned out to be her dry cleaning. It’s going to be really hard to keep my cool in her presence tonight.
“Well, that explains why you’re so dressed up today,” he says, his amber eyes smiling down at me. I’m embarrassingly pleased that he noticed I’m not wearing my usual more casual attire, despite that he never actually complemented me. I must stare back at him a little too long, because he clears his throat and gestures back to my easel. “You get a little shy here?” he asks, his fingers hovering over my drawing’s completely blankgroin area.
Is he teasing me?I can’t decide if he is, and if he is, if it’s a good thing. He seems lighthearted, but it’s been my life’s mission to impress him since I met him. He’s the most talented person I’ve ever met, not to mention drop dead gorgeous and the object of every fantasy I’ve had since meeting him.
I can’t respond or even look at him, keeping my eyes down while I pack up my things.
I’ve pretty much been in love with this man for two years. The first time I met him was at his own art exhibition at the gallery I work at. I was lucky enough to overhear that he was going to be teaching and immediately ran to sign up for the ridiculously expensive class. My heart and my bank account have been hurting ever since, as I keep signing up for the next class. The classes are honestly worth it, though. He’s an amazing teacher, and I’m completely enthralled with how insanely talented he is. His mere presence makes me want to melt. It’s all I can do not to lean into him and huff a breath of his scent, a mix of sandalwood, charcoal pencils, and the faint bite of oil paints.
I’m just about to escape with my dignity mostly intact when the object of today’s humiliation catches up to us.
“Ezra! Who’s the babe?”
My eyes lift to look around the room and see who they’re talking about. On more that one occasion, a beautiful woman or man has come to visit Ezra, and I always have a silent panic attack that they might be his significant other. He doesn’t talk much about his personal life, and I’ve always been tooembarrassed to ask if he’s with anyone. Not that it’s any of my business. Not that I’d have a chance either way.
Two sets of irises, one dark green and the other sparkling amber, are looking directly at me. Again, I worry there’s something on my face.
Okay, Iknowhe isn’t talking about me. Or maybe he just thinks he’s funny.
