IVAN
Her bedroom.
My guest room, technically.
She's cross-legged on the bed, trying to pretend this is just art, just anatomy practice, just innocent studying.
We both know better.
"Ready?" I ask from the doorway.
Her throat works as she swallows. "As I'll ever be."
I close the door behind me. The click of the latch sounds final. There's no Pyotr. No interruptions. Just us and whatever happens next.
My hands go to my belt. Her eyes track the movement, pupils dilating. She's trying to keep her expression neutral, but I can read her. Can see the want underneath the nerves.
The belt slides free, and I drop it on the floor. My hands move to my pants, and I watch her lips part as I unzip slowly.
The designer slacks hit the floor, leaving me in black boxer briefs that do absolutely nothing to hide how hard I am. How hard I've been since she picked up that pencil and agreed to draw me.
"That's... that's good," she says, voice unsteady. "That works."
But I'm feeling playful. Why not see how far I can push her before she breaks?
"You sure?" My thumbs hook into the waistband. "Seems like you'd get a more accurate reference if I took these off, too."
Her face goes scarlet. "No. Not yet. Top body first. Oh God."
I don't give her time to protest further. The boxers hit the floor, and I'm standing naked in her bedroom, fully erect.
The sound she makes is somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. "Ivan?—"
"What?" I spread my arms slightly, giving her the full view. "You said anatomy practice. This is anatomy."
She can't seem to form words. Her eyes betray her, drinking me in despite her protests. Starting at my face, then dropping lower. Taking in my chest, my stomach, the V of muscle at my hips. Then lower still, and her face somehow gets even redder.
She looks delicious like this. Blonde hair in a messy bun, drowning in my shirt, cheeks aflame. Flustered and trying so hard to maintain control.
I'm going to destroy that control.
My hand drops to my cock and wraps around it. Just holding, not stroking yet. But her eyes follow the movement like she's hypnotized.
"You should probably start drawing," I say, roughly.
"I—" She licks her lips. "Right. Drawing. That's what we're doing."
Her pencil touches paper, but her hand is shaking. She tries to sketch, but she keeps glancing up at me. At what I'm doing.
I start stroking myself lazily. Just enough to keep myself hard, but also because I can't help it. Not with her watching. Not with those green eyes wide and wanting.
"Stop that," she says, but her voice wavers.
"Stop what?"
"You know what."
I stroke faster, maintaining eye contact. "I need to stay hard for the sketch, don't I? Can't have you drawing inaccurate anatomy."
