“Ask,” I encouraged, softening my expression.
Her eyes widened slightly, clearly taken aback by my change. Then she seemed to forget all about it and asked, “What if I mess up?”
I held her gaze. “Then you fix it. Or you start over. You learn. That’s what you’re here for. Once you start working on clients, you’ll have supervision for a while, just so I can catch if you are about to make an irreversible mistake.” I raised a brow and warned, “I won’t jump in and take over, though. You’ll need to move forward on your own. Because eventually, there might not be anyone around to help you with a fuckup.”
She exhaled, her shoulders dropping a little, but her tone was strong when she responded. “Okay.”
When she took another deep breath, I couldn’t help watching the way her chest rose under her shirt. It was subtle, but my cock noticed anyway. The heat didn’t fade, not even a little.
She picked up a pencil again as I set out supplies, and the second her focus narrowed onto the page, something strange happened. The room around her didn’t disappear, but it softened. Like her brain had locked onto a frequency the rest of us couldn’t hear. Her hand moved with quiet certainty, her posture shifting from cautious to sure, as if drawing gave her a spine of steel.
Over the next two days, I learned more than I meant to.
She was disciplined. Showed up early. Stayed late. Asked smart questions. Didn’t try to impress anyone but didn’t shrink when the others gave her shit, either.
She spent most of her downtime with that sketchbook open. And every time I glanced over, I got drawn in. Some of them I recognized as symbols from around the studio. Others were typical designs people ask for, but with incredible variations.Some involved people, and I realized that she didn’t use reference photos. If she looked at something, she memorized it with a glance. Then she worked by feel.
And her lines were clean and confident. Precise in a way I hadn’t seen outside military design or deep archival work.
But it wasn’t just that. It was how she moved when she drew. The way her breath slowed when her pencil touched the page. How her fingers curled just enough to adjust pressure, and her eyes softened slightly when a line clicked into place.
It was sensory. She didn’t just draw, she registered. And she rarely erased. Sometimes she adjusted slightly, but more often than not, she sketched like the shape already lived in her head, and she was just dragging it into existence.
The problem was that she stole my attention along with it.
I caught myself watching her mouth when she concentrated, the faint press of her lips together, and how she chewed the inside of her cheek once when she was thinking. I took in the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, exposing the line of her neck, and my mind immediately supplied my mouth there, my teeth grazing and tongue tasting. I watched her bend over the counter, and the curve of her ass in her jeans made my hands clench like I was already holding her hips, spreading her for me.
It got worse every time she looked up and met my eyes.
She didn’t look away anymore. She tried sometimes, but her gaze always came back as though she couldn’t help it. Like her eyes were learning me the way her hands learned linework, memorizing pressure and spacing, storing me somewhere deep inside.
That had satisfaction blooming in my chest. I wanted to be one thing she couldn’t forget.
By the second night, I went back to my room in the clubhouse, wound tight enough that my skin felt too small. I tried to get some work done, but my concentration was shit. Mymind kept flashing to Elena in the studio, her hands moving, eyes narrowed, and mouth soft.
I needed to get some fucking energy out. And since I couldn’t work it off the way my body screamed at me to do, I grabbed the keys to my bike and headed down to the garage.
The temperature was on the low side for February, so there was a bite in the wind. I didn’t mind it, though. The stinging cold helped to cool the burn in my body and drag my mind away from the sweet woman invading my thoughts.
When I finally climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, my room was quiet except for an occasional burst of laughter or slam of a door. I told myself to sleep. To stop thinking about her. That I was in control.
My body didn’t give a fuck what I told myself.
Eventually, I drifted off, but my dreams were a big-ass sign that I was most definitely not in control.
The light in the studio was dim, and the music still pumped softly through the overhead speakers. Everyone else had gone home except for Elena and me. We were alone. She was at a small table, with her sketchbook open in front of her. I was turned away, facing the counter as I wiped down the last of my tools.
I suddenly felt her heat at my back and knew she was standing too fucking close. Her sketchbook plopped onto the counter next to me, and I twisted around to see her looking up. Her expression hinted that she’d finally decided she was done pretending she didn’t want what was happening between us. She placed her hands on my chest, her palms warm through my shirt.
“You’re distracting,” she whispered.
I laughed, the sound coming out rough. “Good.”
Her gray-blue eyes twinkled, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips, smashing the rest of my resistance.
One hand dove into her hair, and the other clutched her shirt at the small of her back. I yanked her into me just as I lowered my head and took her mouth in a deep, sizzling kiss.
It wasn’t gentle. Or slow. It was the kind of kiss that stole breath, my mouth covering hers like I was stamping my name onto her. She made a little sound that turned my blood into gasoline, and I lifted her without effort, turning and setting her on the counter. Her legs opened instinctively, wrapping around my hips, and I felt her heat through two layers of denim.
