Only You

by Carmen, Roya

  He carries on. “Euh… what was I saying… yes, we will be painting outside, ‘en plein air.’”

  He ventures a look at me again, as if he really can’t believe it’s me. I can’t quite look at him. Instead I stare at the floor, imagining methods of extracting myself from this uncomfortable situation.

  The beautiful, tall man is back and wearing a long silk robe. He settles on a stool in the middle of the circle and drops the robe… to my delight—this class has just got a whole lot better. I decide to simply focus on our gorgeous nude model and forget all about our teacher.

  Trish elbows me in the side and perks a brow. “This class is fucking awesome so far,” she says in hushed tones.

  I smile. As we start drawing, I tell myself it’s going to be fine. Mr. Alex seems to be pretending we don’t know each other, and that’s fine with me. He’s swept me under the rug of his memory, and that’s for the best as far as I’m concerned.

  And the model has a nipple ring and a dragon tattoo on his torso—the day could be worse. We are working with Conté (also known as black chalk—artists have fancy words for everything) on newsprint paper. Not surprisingly, I have no clue what I’m doing. As I study every curve of the beautiful man’s body, I try to replicate on paper what I see. I don’t even look at my sketch as I carry on.

  Mr. Alex makes the rounds, and I realize he’s stopping at every person and offering feedback. My heart beats a little faster as I see him approaching me. I study my drawing—God, it doesn’t even look like a man. On second thought, perhaps I should have looked at my paper while I was drawing after all. I’m already embarrassed, and he’s not even here yet.

  I wonder what he remembers. I was kind of drunk, and it’s all a little fuzzy. I remember dancing very closely with him and getting turned on. I remember how he smelled—like my childhood. I remember kissing him, grinding him, and having the best orgasm ever. I remember us chatting a bit. What did we talk about again? I really dig deep… I think I told him about Matthew dumping me. And we also talked about Melanie and how damn cool she is.

  And then we talked about… uh-oh, it’s all coming back. Oh no, I told him about my sex life, about how my boyfriend couldn’t get his dick up my—

  Shit. God, I’m so embarrassed I want to die.

  Well, it’s okay. He probably doesn’t remember a thing.

  He settles his gaze on Trish’s lovely rendition of nipple ring boy. “That is very good. Your proportions are exact, your lines just heavy enough. I would like to see a bit more detail in his face. You may want to focus on the facial features and less on the… euh… anatomy.”

  My smile fades as soon as he inches toward me.

  He grins. “Hello, again,” he says playfully.

  Yep, he definitely remembers.

  5

  He’s just as beautiful as he was last night. The eyeglasses give him an air of sophistication and intelligence. He smells exactly like he did when I had my tongue in his delicious mouth. I can hardly breathe as I eke out a pitiful little hello.

  His smile stretches wide, practically splitting his face in two. He’s thoroughly amused and seems somewhat baffled. “Euh… this is interesting,” he says, rubbing at his stubbly chin. “Tell me… how long have you been drawing, Samantha?”

  Damn, he remembers my name. I check my watch. “Uh… about forty minutes?”

  He laughs out loud. His laughter is beautiful—loud and musical. He shakes his head. “Well, what can I say about this?”

  Trish is stifling a laugh, and I kind of want to kick her in the ribs for getting me in this situation in the first place. I could be at home eating ice cream and watching Drop Dead Diva right now.

  “You need to focus on the drawing, not just the model,” he tells me with a smirk. “It is all a little blocky.” He presses a long finger along the man’s butt, slides it along the curve, and turns to me with a wicked smile. “See, right here, you need to loosen up. Always loose, Samantha. Don’t be afraid to loosen up. You are way too tight.”

  Is he making fun of me? I can’t be sure. But when I catch the mischievous expression on his face, I know he remembers every single word I told him. Yes, he’s having quite the laugh at my expense.

  “I agree,” Trish chimes in. “She’s too tight.”

  I glare at her as I sit up a little straighter on my stool.

  He stands close behind me. “Here, let me show you,” he says as he gently grabs my hand—his heat goes straight to my core.

  I’m holding my Conté pencil as he drags my hand sensually over the paper, tracing my drawing with new lines, bringing it to life and transforming it slowly into something beautiful. And all the while, I feel as if I’m going to melt into a puddle on the floor.

  “Nice and slow,” he says. “Loose and soft.”

  He lets go of my hand gently, and I don’t want him to—I want him to hold my hand forever.

  “I see potential,” he says as he presses against me, so close I feel the heat of his body against my back. I close my eyes for a second, inhaling his delicious scent. He presses his mouth against the side of my head, warming my ear with his breath. “I think you will need an extra lesson or two, Samantha,” he says so softly I barely hear him. “After hours.”

  I almost fall off my stool.

  Then he just walks away as if nothing happened. I suspect my heart may have stopped beating—to be honest, I’m quite concerned.

  “Wow… that was so hot the way he was drawing using your hand,” Trish whispers.

  “I know…” I can barely talk… I’m in the clouds.

  “What did he whisper?” she asks.

  “He… he said…” I can’t quite tell her. “He says I might need to practice some more.”

  “Well, I can’t disagree with him there. That looks more like a hot dog than a human.”

  * * *

  As we put away her art supplies, Trish tells me she wants to go to a little bistro for lunch. I’m still trembling a little as I replay Alex’s words over and over in my mind. Extra lessons… even I know what that means.

  “Samantha,” he calls as he make his way to us. He clears his throat and nods at Trish. “I would like to talk to you before you leave,” he tells me matter-of-factly. “I have… euh… some instructional books I can lend you.”

  “Okay, sure,” I say a little too eagerly.

  As he leaves, Trish shoots me a wicked smile. “Instructional books… uh-hum… that’s what we’re calling it. I’d flip through his books any day of the week.”

  I laugh. “Shut up. You have a boyfriend… a fiancé.”

  “Just sayin’,” she says as she sets out to leave. “I’ll be hanging out in that gift store when you’re done.” She checks her watch. “But after twenty minutes, if you’re not there, I’ll be going to lunch by myself.”

  “Oh no,” I’m quick to say. “I’ll be there.”

  She grabs my wrist. “I’m serious, Sammy—I don’t mind. You should have some fun. I know I would if I were you.”

  Then she leaves me a wink. I turn around to see Alex seated at his desk, watching me. Everyone is gone—it’s just him and me. My heart thumps wildly. He rises from his desk and walks over to me. He doesn’t say a single word at first. He just stares at me, his gaze sliding slowly from my head to my toes. His stare arouses me something fierce—never has a man looked at me like that.

  “I-I didn’t know you’d be…” I’m at a loss for words. How do I explain that if I had known he’d be my art teacher, I would have never dry humped him and told him about my tight ass? Now being around him is super awkward, to say the least. “Let’s forget all about it. I completely understand if you’d prefer—”

  “Why did you leave me like that last night?”

  I’m taken aback. I hadn’t expected that question. “I-I don’t know…”

  “I thought we were having fun, and then you run off, and those thugs finally let me go, I go running, looking for you, but you were gone…”

  He ha
s the saddest face I’ve ever seen, and I realize I may have broken his heart last night. I thought he was a player. He looks like a total player with his messy hair, sexy stubble, French accent, and perfectly worn artsy shirt. I mull this over for a second. He is a player. He’s probably playing me right now.

  “I’m sorry,” is all I can manage.

  He inches closer. “You were done with me,” he says, the words slow and smooth, “but I wasn’t done with you.” He grabs my ass and, in one move, presses me up against him.

  Fuck. I want him again.

  He presses his mouth against my neck, licks a long slow line, and bites gently. I melt.

  “Go lock the door,” he says, his words ragged.

  So apparently he doesn’t have any problems with the student-teacher thing. I feel so aroused, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk to the door, but my feet seem to function well enough as I do what he says. My hands are shaking as I twist the lock on the old-fashioned door handle. I turn back to him, and he motions for me to come to him.

  I do—very slowly. He smiles then looks at the lone stool next to him. It’s one of the old metal industrial stools scattered around the art studio. It may have been the one I was just sitting on.

  “Take off your clothes,” he says.

  To the point… no preamble. I’m speechless. I’d heard French men like to take things slow, but this is anything but slow. But maybe French Canadian men are different.

  “I want to sketch you,” he clarifies. “A quick sketch. Five minutes. You are beautiful…”

  I bring my hand to the top button of my blouse, my fingers still trembling. He inches closer as I start to unbutton my blouse. I get lost in his gorgeous honey eyes as he grabs the button of my shorts and swiftly undoes it. He slides both my shorts and panties off in one hard pull, and my breath hitches and my legs go wobbly—they actually start shaking. My legs have never trembled before. My hands, yes, but never my legs.

  I’m shaking all over as I step out of my shorts, and I’m still struggling to undo the buttons of my blouse. He towers over me, at least a foot taller than I am. His long, agile fingers help me with my blouse. What was so difficult for me seems easy for him, as though he’s done this a million times. He has my blouse off in no time, and I’m left in my sneakers and plain white cotton bra. If I’d known this would happen today, I would have worn something much sexier. But he doesn’t seem to care—he just wants it off.

  He kisses my shoulder softly as he unclasps my bra. I’m a statue, too stunned to move. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I’ve never been seduced, never wanted a stranger so badly. He is still a stranger. I don’t know much more about him than I did last night. I know he paints and teaches art, but I don’t know what is favorite color is, if he has any brothers or sisters, if he’s close to his mother, what he likes to do to relax.

  Well, um… this might be what he likes to do to relax.

  But I don’t care. All I want is for him to touch me. And I want to touch him too. I want to give myself completely to this almost-stranger.

  My bra falls to the floor, and he steps back to take me in. The air coming from the above fan is cool, and I shiver, but as he pins me with his intense stare, a fire builds at my core and follows the line of my spine from my neck to my sex. Heat fills me. My nipples are hard.

  I don’t want him to draw me. I want him to fuck me.

  His eyes are dark, his mouth a straight line. “You are perfect.”

  My gaze travels down the length of his lean torso. I think he’s hard. He wants me just as much as I want him.

  He turns and leaves me standing in the middle of the room in nothing but my birthday suit and white sneakers. He comes back with a folded white bedsheet. He takes great care as he lays it over the stool and drapes it carefully to the floor.

  He motions to the stool. “Please sit.”

  Unsure, I sit up straight on the stool. He touches me softly as he arranges my hips, my legs, my arms just so. He peels off my sneakers with a soft pull. Every single touch lights a fire in me. By the time he’s done, I’m practically ablaze.

  He stand backs and studies me again with a playful smile. “Stay right there.”

  He dashes off and grabs a large clipboard and a Conté pencil. He stands a few feet away from me and scribbles furiously, his brows furrowed in concentration. He looks up for just a second then looks back down for a longer beat. Every time he sneaks a peek at me, he memorizes the curves of my body, every single inch. The thought of him committing the details of my body to memory arouses me. Once in a while, he rests his clipboard against his leg and rubs at the sketch.

  As strange as it feels to be sitting here naked, I love every second. I can hardly believe I’m doing this—the good girl, the boring bookkeeper, the girl who’s usually in bed by ten. I’m naked in front of a stranger, and he knows every single detail of my body—from the tiny mole on my hip to my small breasts, the curve of my too-soft belly, the dark trimmed triangle between my legs. I don’t think anyone has ever studied me this closely, not even Matthew.

  Finally he beams and turns the sketch to me. It’s so beautiful I almost gasp. I can’t believe he’s done this in the span of five minutes—it’s pretty amazing.

  I want it. I want to remember this moment forever. I want to hang it on my bedroom wall and stare at it as I jerk myself off remembering this man. “Can I have it?”

  He smiles. “Of course. It’s yours.”

  He inches closer, and just when I think he’s about to hand me the clipboard, he throws it to the floor, the loud clank and thump echoing off the walls. As he takes my face in his large hands, his fingers dig into my cheeks. He pulls me up to meet him, my ass lifting off the stool, and presses his hungry mouth against mine. I’m already wet for him when my tongue plays with the steel ball hidden in his mouth. God, this kiss is even more amazing than last night’s.

  He hasn’t even touched my body yet, but I desperately want him to.

  6

  I pull frantically at his soft T-shirt and press my hand against his hot skin. He groans into my mouth as my fingers draw soft circles around his navel. They trace the line of dark hair that disappears into his low-cut jeans. And then I reach below. I want to know he’s hard for me, ready to fuck me. I feel him over his jeans, but I want more. I feverishly fiddle with his button-fly jeans… so many buttons.

  He pulls his mouth from mine. “Stop.”

  My whole body sinks. I want this so much. He can’t do this to me. I know he’s my teacher and we probably shouldn’t be doing this. I realize we barely know each other and he’s probably much older than me. I just don’t care. He kneels, and I look down at him, confused.

  “I touch you before you touch me,” he says softly before he wraps his hand around my foot.

  His face travels slowly to my knee and presses a gentle kiss there. I close my eyes as his mouth travels up the inside of my thigh. His stubble feels so damn good. The sensation is foreign—Matthew was always clean-shaven. Both my arms behind me, I grip the curved edge of the stool. I arch my back and spread my legs; I so badly want him to kiss my pussy.

  I’m being irresponsible, but I’m too far gone to care.

  An amazing lover, he knows what I want. He trails his tongue close, so close, teasing. He lifts his gaze to mine. “I want to lick you, Samantha.” Not so much a statement but a question. He’s asking for my permission.

  I throw my head back and spread my legs as wide as I can. “Please,” I moan, the word hoarse.

  He presses his long, skilled fingers against my sex, and I almost die. Those fingers spread my lips apart before he sinks his tongue into me. He slides it up and down slowly, skillfully, bringing me closer to the heavens with every lick. I grab his shoulder with one hand as I press harder against him, my other hand still holding me steady. I could fall off this stool at any second, yet I can’t settle down. I just want him to make me come.

  And he does. As I feel my release build, I grip the s
tool until my fingers ache. I cry out so loudly I fear the people on the other side of the door might hear and think he’s hurting me.

  When I come back to earth, I open my eyes. My body feels as sticky and heavy as molasses. When he smiles up at me, I want to melt into him. He slowly rises and presses his mouth against mine and kisses me. I taste myself on his lips. This is new to me—Matthew never used to kiss me after he went down on me. I love it, but I reluctantly pull my mouth from his.

  “Now it’s my turn to touch,” I say, my words ragged.

  He closes his eyes as I reach into his opened jeans. I study his face and notice he has the most beautiful eyelashes. As I wrap my hand around him and pleasure him, his eyes stay closed. He moans, a soft smile on his lips. I study the shiny ring in his nose, his bone structure, and his thick brows. He bites his bottom lip as he gets closer.

  I work harder at him and whisper, “I want to see you come. I want you to let go in my hand.”

  He growls as he nears his climax. I’m so turned on from watching him. When he finally gets there, he lets go, his moans laced with a hoarse, guttural growl. I feel the heat of his climax all over my hand, and it arouses me like I could have never imagined.

  Damn, this is hot. I never realized how sexy the sound of a man climaxing could be. I don’t want this encounter to be over, but I know it has to be. He opens his eyes, his lids heavy, his smile tired.

  * * *

  We have fifteen minutes to grab a bite to eat before class is back in session. I’m not even hungry. All I can think about is what just happened. I can still taste his lips, feel his touch. I’m so aroused I’m on fire. God, how will I make it through the rest of the class?

  He doesn’t seem to be quite as affected as I am as he scarfs down his tuna sandwich and smirks at me. “Did you see the loveseat at the back of my studio?”