“Fuck me,” I say without hesitation, my hands already reaching for him. “Make me forget about accidents and conferences and everything except how good you make me feel.”
His smile is pure sin. “I can definitely do that.”
Pierce takes his time with me, his hands and mouth mapping my body with undivided attention. By the time he’s inside me, moving with slow, deliberate strokes that make me see stars, every worry about the conference has melted away.
“Better?” he asks afterward as we lie tangled together, both of us thoroughly spent.
“Much better,” I admit, already feeling the familiar post-orgasm relaxation settling into my bones. “Thank you.”
“What are you going to do all day?” I ask, tracing lazy patterns on his chest.
“I might explore a bit. There are some bookstores I want to check out, maybe take a walk through the Village.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll be thinking about you though. Wondering how your first conference is going.”
The warmth in his voice makes my chest all tingly and warm. “I’ll text you updates.”
“I’d like that.”
An hour later, I’m standing outside the conference center, portfolio in hand and nerves firmly back in place despite Pierce’s thorough relaxation technique. The building buzzes with creative energy, artists and writers streaming through the glass doors with the kind of excitement I recognize from my own reflection.
“First time at CANVAS?” The volunteer behind the registration desk smiles with genuine warmth as I fumble my ID for the third time. Her name tag identifies her as a fellow illustrator.
“That obvious, huh?” I manage a shaky laugh as I finally extract the right documentation. “Do I have ‘complete novice’ stamped on my forehead?”
“We were all first-timers once,” she says, efficiently processing my registration while I try not to vibrate out of my skin with nervous energy. “What’s your medium?”
“Pencil, mainly,” I explain, relaxing slightly as we discuss familiar territory. “Traditional graphite on paper. I love the control you get with a pencil, the way you can build layers, create texture with different pressures. There’s somethingabout the direct connection between hand and paper that digital can’t replicate. Though I do scan and color digitally for final pieces.”
She nods with understanding. “There’s nothing like the feel of graphite on paper. I love how tactile it is.”
“Exactly. Plus, I can sketch anywhere—meetings, coffee shops, park benches. My sketchbook goes everywhere with me.”
She hands over my badge and conference materials with another warm smile. “You’re in good company then. The traditional media workshop this afternoon has some incredible pencil artists presenting.”
“Thanks.”
Finding a quiet corner, I pull out my phone to text Pierce.
Thatcher:
Made it through registration without setting anything on fire!
His response comes almost immediately, making me smile.
Pierce:
Knew you’d be amazing. Having a wonderful day myself. Currently being lectured about Hemingway by a 75-year-old woman in a bookstore, who decided I looked like I needed literary guidance. She’s not wrong.
The image of Pierce being adopted by a random grandmother makes me grin. I can picture him standing there politely while she rearranges his entire reading list, probably buying whatever books she recommends because he’s too well-mannered to escape.
The thought carries me through the double doors into my first workshop, heart racing with anticipation rather than anxiety. I belong here among these storytellers and dreamweavers, just as much as I belong in Pierce’s arms or at my desk at VSE. The realization feels like freedom, like permission to be exactly who I am in all my contradictory glory.
My hands refuse to remain steady as I arrange my portfolio pieces across the round table. It took me forever to pick the right ones to bring, but I’m happy with my choices. The workshop leader moves between groups, offering critiques. My heart performs gymnastics worthy of Olympic competition as she approaches our section.
The five other artists at my table arrange their own work with varying degrees of confidence. A woman to my left displays gorgeous watercolor landscapes that make my pieces feel somehow less legitimate.
“Interesting technique,” the artist beside me comments, leaning closer to study my line work. “The energy in these pieces is fantastic. Are they part of a series?”
Before I can respond, the workshop leader reaches our table. She pauses longer at my spread than she has at any other, her pen tapping thoughtfully against her clipboard. The silence stretches until I want to apologize for every artistic choice I’ve ever made, but then she speaks. “These have real heart.”
