His brows tug together.
“I mean, not that we can’t do that, but I saw you on that call, and I just really wanted to…” I stop myself. It feels so stupid and corny, I don’t want to admit it, but the longer I drag this out, the weirder it’ll be. “I want to paint you.”
His eyes flare. I was right. This was the last thing he’d have considered when I told him to come over. His expression shifts as he bats his eyes dramatically. “You want to draw me like one of your French girls?”
“Yeah, it’s dumb. Never mind. What was I even thinking?”
“Whoa, wait a minute. I didn’t say it was dumb, but you can’t expect to say something like that without someone making aTitanicreference.”
“I didn’t know you were a fan.”
“Of internet memes?”
“Take off your clothes.” That wasn’t a normal response to what he said, and it came out harsher than intended, making his eyes widen again. Seems I can’t act normal even if I try. Or maybe I’m not really trying. He doesn’t make me feel like I have to either.
I wait for him to change his mind or tell me to fuck off, but he glances around, starting to open his mouth when I instruct him, “Over here.”
He follows my directions like the good boy he is, standing at the edge of the tarp, kicking off his shoes as I approach the canvas I set up before he arrived. I study his movements as he undresses, removing his pants with his underwear. He’s half hard, and really, I’m getting hard just thinking about finally being able to do this. It’s been so annoying in class, having to follow our professor’s directions, trying to recreate some basic representation, when I see so much more when I look at him.
Dax discards his clothes on the arm of the sofa.
“Do I keep my socks on?” he asks, and at my glare, he says, “Kidding,” before removing them and throwing them on top of his pile, and then he’s standing in front of me, baring it all.
He really is a beautiful man. It’s no wonder so many guys want to fuck him, even without knowing his many talents once he lets you inside him. Fuck, I shouldn’t think about other guys fucking him because now that’s making me all kinds of agitated.
I study his body, drinking him in, my mouth watering, my cock itching to get back inside. I restrain myself because what I want from him tonight is more important than a fuck.
“What should I do now?” he asks.
“Pose.”
He smiles, surely amused by such an ambiguous direction, but he’s been doing this in class long enough to know some good ones. He arranges himself with one arm against his hip, the other raised, looking off to the side.
“No, that’s wrong,” I snap.
“I didn’t realize I was supposed to guess the pose you had in your head.”
I snicker because, yeah, he’s not psychic.
“Look at me,” I tell him. “And spread your legs more.”
“For you, no problem.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I was too.” His gaze is so playful, so Dax.
Despite being amused, I’m on a mission. “I like the one where you have your hand on the back of your head and the other relaxed at your side.”
He does that, but it’s still not right.
I grunt and abandon my station, approaching. “You mind?” I ask.
“By all means.”
I adjust him, noticing how willingly he goes along with it. Once I’m satisfied, I do a once-over. “Yes, this is good.”
I memorize this position, those lines I’ve become so familiar with in class. Then I return to the canvas and get to work, not wasting a moment, using this visual to guide me.
