The guy in the back row was going to be a problem.
I knew it the moment I stepped onto the dais and I saw his hand freeze mid-stroke. He was handsome, with messy dark curls falling into his eyes and in a flannel shirt that looked like he’d slept in it. He was holding his charcoal stick like a weapon. Every time I shifted my weight, his head snapped up. He’d stare at me – specifically at the rise and fall of my chest beneath the linen – with a terrified intensity. Then he’d immediately jerk his eyes away, as if I’d caught him stealing.
Sterling had opened with his usual dry rasp – “Today we study weight. Fabric and form” – and I’d twisted the sheet so it bit into my waist and left one shoulder bare. I was used to being looked at. That’s the job. A life drawing class is clinical. Detached. The students see a composition problem. I’m a still life with a pulse.
But this one kept glancing at my face when he didn’t need to – my expression wasn’t part of the assignment. And every time our eyes almost met, he flinched like he’d been caught doing something intimate rather than academic.
Something about that – about being looked at like a person who might look back – made the back of my neck warm.
I decided to have some fun.
I shifted my stance, rolling my shoulders back. The sheet slipped just an inch, exposing more of my collarbone. The effect on him was instant. His hand darted across the paper with frantic strokes. For the next twenty minutes, I made it my mission to make him squirm. I stretched my neck, I sighed audibly, I let the sheet slip lower on my hip. He was sweating. I could see it from the dais.
For the final pose, I sat on the edge of the dais with my legs tucked beneath me, so the sheet pooled in my lap. This angle forced him to look directly at my breasts if he wanted to draw the focal point. His charcoal hovered over the paper. His hand was trembling. He erased the same spot three times. It wasn’t just ogling; it was worship.
“Alright, that is the session,” Sterling said finally.
As I changed behind the partition, I heard Sterling stop at the handsome man’s station.
“Brandon,” Sterling sighed. “Fabric. Folds. This is an obsession with the model’s figure. You have spent the entire hour ignoring the assignment to focus on her chest.”
“I… sorry, Professor. I just… the light…”
“Focus,” Sterling chided, moving on.
I stepped out as the room emptied. Brandon was still there, slumped over his sketchbook, erasing aggressively.
“Rough critique?” I asked, stopping at his desk.
He jumped, nearly knocking his easel over. I leaned in to look at his work. My face was captured with haunting accuracy – the sharp angle of my jaw, the wide eyes. But the further down the page he went, the messier it got. The lines around my breasts were jagged and unsteady, leaving a ghostly streak.
“You’re good,” I said, tapping the sketch of my face. “But you got shaky down here.” I let my finger trail over the charcoal smudges. “Nerves?”
“Yeah. Something like that. You’re just… very distracting.”
“I’m just a model, Brandon,” I teased, leaning against his easel with my arms folded loosely. “You’re the artist. You’re supposed to be in control.”
“I don’t feel very in control right now,” he admitted.
“Maybe you just need more practice. I’m Olivia.”
“Brandon.”
“I know. Sterling has a loud voice,” I winked. “I usually grab a drink after these. Want to join me?”
The bar was deafening, which gave us a perfect excuse to lean in close. We squeezed into a back booth, knees bumping under the table. He wasn’t just handsome; he was quick-witted, making fun of his own “artistic meltdowns” with a self-deprecation that was charming rather than sad. When he reached for his drink, his hand brushed mine, and neither of us pulled away.
“So what happened today?” I asked. “You said you’ve drawn hundreds of figures.”
The nervousness dropped away. “You tilted your head during the first pose,” he said. “And you had this look on your face, like you were somewhere else entirely. It wasn’t really boredom. It was more like… you were so used to being looked at that you’d stopped caring about it. You’d gone somewhere inside yourself.” He paused. “And I thought, that’s the loneliest thing I’ve ever seen. And then I couldn’t stop looking.”
I hadn’t expected that. I’d expected him to say something about my body. Not something that was actually true.
“That’s… surprisingly perceptive for a man who couldn’t draw a straight line below my neck,” I said, keeping my voice light. He’d caught me off guard, and that didn’t happen often.
“The straight line problem was a separate issue. Purely mechanical.”
We ordered another round. At some point I mentioned the shoulder thing – how I’d deliberately let the sheet slip – and he pointed at me triumphantly.
“I knew it. You did that on purpose.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Olivia.”
“And you’re a terrible artist, Brandon.”
He clutched his chest in mock agony, and I laughed. He watched me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Not the flustered panic from the studio. Something warmer. Something steady.
The bartender started collecting glasses around us. Brandon glanced at the door, then back at me.
“My place is around the corner,” he said. “I have better wine. And I won’t subject you to whatever that DJ thinks he’s doing.”
“Lead the way.”
The cold air hit us both at once outside. His hand found the small of my back as we crossed the street, and he left it there. We walked in comfortable silence for half a block letting our shoulders bump.
He didn’t try to kiss me on the street. I liked that. He was letting it build.
His apartment was around the corner. Inside, the noise fell away. I leaned back against the entryway wall, watching him fidget with his keys in a bowl.
“I noticed you back there, Brandon,” I said softly, closing the distance. I rested my hand on his chest, feeling his heart thudding against my palm. “You were trying so hard to be respectful.”
“Because… because they’re…” He flushed, looking away.
I gently turned his face back to mine. “Better yet…” I tugged the neckline of my blouse down, pulled the cups of my bra down, and exposed my breasts to the cool air of his hallway. His eyes went wide, immediately dropping to my chest. He stared, his mouth opening slightly.
“Wow…” he whispered. “They’re absolutely adorable.”
I laughed, utterly charmed by his sincerity. “Adorable?”
“They’re perfect,” he stammered, as if correcting himself. “Absolutely perfect.”
I grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him down into a kiss. His mouth was warm, eager. A little clumsy at first, kind of like his drawings – precise in intent but shaky in execution. Then he found his footing, and the kiss deepened.
We stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding clothes in a trail down the hallway. I pushed him onto his back and straddled him.
“You spent a whole hour trying not to look at me,” I said, brushing my hair over one shoulder. “So now I want you to really look.”
He slowly brought one hand up and placed his fingertips against my collarbone. He traced down, feather-light, following the line of my sternum. His brow furrowed with concentration – the same look he’d had at his easel – and his touch became deliberate, precise. He traced the curve of my breast like he was outlining.
“What are you doing?” I asked, amused.
“Drawing you,” he murmured. “I’m drawing you properly this time.”
“Shh,” he said when I laughed. “The model isn’t supposed to talk.”
He followed the contour of my waist down to my hip bone, then back up. He was retracing the path like he was committing it to memory. When he reached my breasts again, his hand didn’t shake this time. He cupped them gently, running his thumbs over my nipples, and I felt the touch all the way down to my stomach.
“Your hand’s not shaking anymore,” I whispered.
“Different medium,” he said quietly.
I kissed him slowly, then whispered against his lips, “Your turn to use your mouth.”
I crawled up his chest, settling over his face. He gripped my thighs, pulling me down. His tongue found my clit immediately. He was eager and uncoordinated but enthusiastic. I gasped, bracing myself against the headboard. He was messy, licking and sucking with an intensity that bordered on worship. I rolled my hips, grinding down against him, guiding him.
“Right there,” I breathed, my fingers tangling in his curls. “Don’t stop.”
He hummed against me, and the vibration made my thighs clench. The pressure built until I cried out. My whole body shook as I came. He didn’t stop. His tongue lapped at me until I had to pull away because I was oversensitive and trembling.
I slid down his body, kissing my way to his boxers. I tugged the fabric down, freeing him. He was thick and hard, and when I ran my thumb across the tip, it came away slick. He shuddered at the touch.
I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slowly. “You’re so hard, Brandon.”
“You have no idea,” he gritted out.
I took him into my mouth, savoring him on my tongue. I moaned around his length, taking him deep, and swirling my tongue around the head. He swore, his hips leaping off the bed, his hand tangling in my hair. I worked him over slowly, hollowing my cheeks, pulling back to kiss the tip before taking him deep again.
“Olivia,” he gasped. “If you keep doing that, I’m going to-“
I pulled off with a wet sound, stroking him lazily. “Not yet.”
I kissed the inside of his thigh, then looked up at him. “Show me what you wanted to do to me. When you were staring at me on that dais… what were you thinking about?”
Something bolder rose behind his eyes. He sat up, pulled me toward him, and kissed me – harder than before, with more intent. Then he turned me around.
I found myself on my hands and knees, facing the mirror that leaned against his wall – the kind an artist would keep for self-portraits. I could see him behind me, his hands gripping my hips. His expression was now focused and hungry.
He pushed inside me from behind, and I felt the drag of him against my front wall. It made my breath hitch. He started to thrust, and I watched us in the mirror. Watched his face as he moved – the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes traced down my spine. Watched my own expression shift from playful to undone. There was something voyeuristic about it, seeing ourselves from the outside.
“God, Brandon,” I moaned. “Just like that.”
He found a steady, hard rhythm, his hips meeting my ass with each stroke. I reached underneath myself, my fingers finding my clit.
“Spank me,” I said, looking at him in the mirror.
He hesitated for just a second, then brought his hand down. Crack. The sting bloomed across my skin.
“Harder,” I breathed.
He spanked me again, and I watched his handprint appear on my pale skin in the mirror’s reflection. I pressed two fingers flat against my clit and started rubbing in tight, quick circles, doing my best to match the rhythm of his thrusts. Every time he bottomed out inside me, my fingers slid easier, the wetness spreading between my thighs.
I stopped thinking and let my body take over. My hips pushed back against him while my fingers worked more desperately. My whole body began to tense, like a full-body clench I couldn’t control. And then I was cumming. Hard. My pussy gripped him tight as the pleasure radiated outward, making my legs shake and my arms nearly give out. I pressed my forehead against the mattress. I was gasping, riding it out in stuttering waves until my hand finally went still and I could breathe again.
Brandon slowed, letting me come back down. He kissed my shoulder blade, and I felt him smile against my skin.
“You okay?” he asked.
I laughed weakly. “More than okay.”
He pulled out gently and turned me over onto my back. I looked up at him, flushed and spent, as he settled between my legs. He brushed a strand of hair from my face, and the tenderness of it caught me off guard.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi,” I smiled.
He slid back inside me, and this time it was slow. He wrapped my legs around his waist, leaning down to kiss me. I could taste myself on his lips. He started to move, his forehead resting against mine.
I’d had sex like this before – or I thought I had. But something about the way he looked at me made it feel different. He was looking at me the same way he had from behind his easel, except now there was no panic in it. Just focus. Just attention. Like I was the only thing in the world worth studying.
I hadn’t expected that. I’d expected fun… expected heat. But lying beneath him, his eyes on mine, his body moving slowly inside me – I felt something I hadn’t planned for. A softness creeping in at the edges.
“You feel incredible,” I whispered, my voice coming out quieter than I intended. I ran my hands down his back, pulling him deeper into me. Not because I needed more friction but because I wanted him closer.
He picked up the pace gradually, till his breath came in sharp gasps. His thrusts became shorter, more urgent. I could feel him getting close – the way his rhythm faltered, the way his muscles tensed under my hands.
“I’m gonna-” he managed. And then he pulled out suddenly, his hand wrapping around his cock. He stroked himself twice, and with a low groan, he came. His release landed hot across my stomach, a few streaks splashing up onto my ribs. A rope of it hit the underside of my breast.
He froze. His face cycled through about four emotions in two seconds.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to just-“
I started giggling. “Brandon. Relax.”
“I just – it went everywhere-“
I swiped a finger through the cum on my breast and rubbed it lazily into my skin, holding eye contact. His mouth fell open.
“See? No harm done.”
“You are something else, Olivia.”
I pulled him down next to me. His arm draped over my waist. I could feel his heartbeat gradually slow against my back.
After a long silence, he spoke.
“For the record, I was thinking about this.”
“Hmm?”
“On the dais. When I was staring at you. I was thinking about exactly this.”
I smiled, pressing back against him. “Was it as good as you imagined?”
He kissed the back of my neck. “Better. Although my drawings are going to be even worse now.”
I laughed, lacing my fingers through his. “Maybe Sterling will just have to deal with it.”
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