As my most cherished piece.
It is with this thought in mind that I store the paintings and head to my afternoon dance classes. And
for the first time in forever, I feel my heart soar as well as my body when I fly across the studio.
***
I have five minutes until he arrives.
It’s pure torture. The waiting.
I’m already doing what he asked, just in case he comes early.
My body is bent over his desk. Tights cool from the wetness already between my thighs. The
anticipation thrumming through my veins.
My fingers are curled around a graphite pencil, sketching on a piece of paper to pass the time. To
keep my mind occupied and to resist the urge to touch myself.
I’m drawing his face above me. His hand cupping my cheek as I kneel before him. The perfect
mental snapshot of the way he looked yesterday.
His deep commanding voice telling me what to do while his eyes laid claim to my body.
He owns me. And he knows it.
The door opens, and I cease all movement.
Mr. Vaughn takes in the sight of me bent over his desk. Skirt flowing over my hips and legs spread
in my pink tights. Hand around his pencil. The art he compels me to create.
His eyes darken as he flips the lock on the door and shrugs out of his jacket. And then he walks
around behind me, wordless, and bends his body over mine. Covering me with his heat while he grips
my chin and brings my lips to his.
He kisses me hard and possessively. Our tongues dancing and breaths mingling.
He is the purest form of divinity that I’ve ever tasted.
And then he takes it away from me.
“Keep drawing,” he murmurs against me. “Don’t stop.”
It’s an order. And I try my best to follow it, even at the sound of his zipper coming undone behind
me. He lifts my skirt up and lets the material fall around my waist. And then I feel the heat of his cock
pressed against my tights. He’s stroking himself while he watches me draw.
“Don’t stop,” he tells me again. “Or I will.”
I bite my lip and he rips a hole in my tights. Right through the wetness. Where I am soaked for him.