But until he had to deal with that level of discomfort, he first had to make it through this class so he could return to the house and finish his projects. He was so close—so close—to graduation that he could almost taste freedom.
“We will do a series of sixty-second poses to start,” said the instructor, Mrs. Abbot. “Remember that we’re not trying to make things pretty. We’re trying to capture theessenceof the pose. Pace yourself and enjoy this learning opportunity.”
Quinn sighed softly and double-checked that his supplies were ready to go. He didn’t mind doing life drawings, but two hours of rapid-fire sketches sometimes felt like a marathon, and the week had been long already.
The model came in, nude as the class required, but Quinn was used to it now. He had done this so many times and seen many different body types, so he wasn’t phased anymore.
“I will remind you one more time to put your phones away. Taking pictures of the model is strictly prohibited, especially today.”
Quinn nodded mindlessly and took his phone out of his pocket to put it in his backpack for good measure. He grabbed his water bottle while he was down there and unscrewed the cap, lifting it to his mouth, taking a drink as his gaze shifted to the model—
—and spat his water all over his canvas.
White hair. Cyber-sigilism tattoos. Six-foot-seven height. Three distinct scars on a broad, muscular back.
August. Fucking. Snow.
Some of the water had gone up his nose, and Quinn was sputtering, coughing and crying, trying to clear the rest of it from his lungs. Hisclassmate in the next spot over gave him a silent look to ask if he was alright, and Quinn aggressively shook his head.
He was fine. Everything was great. It was just August—standing naked in his classroom with bruises and scratches all over his body that Quinn’s mouth and hands had put there.
“Today, we are focusing on the anatomy of an athlete. Pay close attention to the muscles and how they sit beneath the skin,” Mrs. Abbot said, pacing slowly behind the rows of easels. “Don’t rush the figure—start by blocking in the major shapes. Look at the line of the spine, the tilt of the hips, the weight distribution in the legs.”
August moved into a pose that indeed showed off many of his athletic attributes, but Quinn was more drawn to the fading yellow bruise on his rib cage and the newly forming one on his right thigh. His skin was so pale, and the darkness of all the ink and colours made them stand out even more. It was a great contrast, but this class wouldn’t give him enough time to paint anything, so he had to stick to charcoal.
He began his sketches, hands moving in long, dramatic strokes to catch as much detail as he could before the instructor told August to take a new pose. Quinn suspected that August had an ulterior motive besides showing off his gorgeous body to a room full of strangers, but the man never once made eye contact with him.
August kept his back toward Quinn for the most part, and he followed instructions silently and without complaint. In another life, August could have been a model. His body had such pleasing proportions, and drawing it was relaxing andfun.
When it was time for a break, Mrs. Abbot kept August distracted while she explained what she wanted next, and Quinn got set up for the next round. These poses would be longer, allowing for more detailed drawings, and Quinn was determined to take advantage of the situation to gain experience.
Eye contact continued to be avoided, even when August was facing him while holding five-minute poses. Quinn eventually fell into a rhythm of focus that kept him separate from the world around him, and the moment became nothing more than his eyes, his canvas, and the lines of August’s body put to paper by his hands, as if he were the sole creator of the perfect specimen laid bare before him.
It was raw and intense, and Quinn didn’t know it was possible to fall in love with a person’s body like this, but every detail he drew was bringing him closer to that edge.
Yes, August was beautiful, but it was more than that to Quinn. August was his muse, and it was becoming clearer with every line and every smudge that created shadow and life on a canvas that had once been blank.
The final pose was held the longest. An hour of the same position, which didn’t sound hard, but it was more intense than people realized. August was sitting and facing him, posture casual to show the difference between the muscles when they were flexed and relaxed; an athlete at ease.
Quinn frantically began drawing, heart hammering in his chest as creativity took over. He wanted it to be perfect, and he wanted to do his best to capture August in a way that would do his beauty justice.
He was amazed by August’s level of professionalism, but theywerein public, and the man was a celebrity. How he got permission from the team to do this, Quinn had no idea, but he was happy they let him.
Quinn had expected the fuckboy behaviour of August’s younger years, standing arrogantly and likely with his dick as hard as a rock because he knew people were watching him. Instead, Quinn saw a disciplined adult sitting comfortably in his own skin, unashamed—and not a single erection to be found.
Quinn saved the face for last because it had the tiniest details. His eyes flicked up, and for the first time in the two-hour session, August met his gaze.
His hand paused, and Quinn stared at the man sitting on the stool in quiet composure. August’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes spoke louder than any smile or frown could.
All these people are looking at me, but I only see you.
Quinn moved his hand, ignoring the slight tremor in his fingers. He kept his face blank, but on the inside, he wassimmering. Heat pulsed through his veins, steadily building into an inferno that threatened to devour the last of his restraint. He wanted August so badly that hisneedwas manifesting into physical pain.
“Time is up. Finish what you’re working on, and we’ll have a discussion and critique tomorrow. You all did very well.”
Quinn barely heard her; he was too busy hiding behind his easel, holding a hand to his chest to calm his racing heart.
“Do you think he’s a real athlete?” asked the guy beside him.
