“Grace?” she repeats, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.
I’ve seen that look a million times. She’s already picturing me with my clothes off. If I lick my lips, she’ll cream all over her chair. If I give her my best eyes, she’ll do anything I want.
“Grace. The head of the Art school,” I reply, my voice as light as whipped cream on a nipple. “Now, Irene, I gotta warn you—”
“Irma,” she corrects me dreamily, her unblinking eyes glued to me.
“Cute name.” I shoot her a wink. “Now, Irma, it’s very possible that the original model might still show up. So, you know, if he does, he needs to be sent away. Grace’s orders.”
“Sent right away,” she agrees, furrowing her brow.
She bought the whole damn thing. I’d laugh if I didn’t think it’d blow my cover. Really, just give me a chance to flash my smile and my baby blues, and I can pretty much get a woman to believe anything.
I lift my brows. “So, doll, wanna tell me which room it is?”
“14 … um, 1401,” she stammers. “Hall A, the first one.”
Of course, I already knew. “Thanks, Irma. You saved my life,” I tell her. That’s what I tell them all—you saved my life. Girls eat that shit up.
The professor waits outside the classroom, a woman who looks like she hasn’t slept in days. She seems confused when I explain the little predicament, but I have her smiling in no time. She gives me a robe and tells me where to change after giving me a surprised once-over she thinks I didn’t notice. Maybe she was expecting an older model.
Maybe I also notice how her breathing changes.
Women is a language I speak fluently.
Behind the privacy screen, I experience a sudden rush of joy. If I squint, I can swear I still see the sweaty silhouette of the dancer I pressed against that wall not two days ago. The thought makes me grin, and the next second makes my underwear drop.
Goodbye, clothes.
When I come out from behind the screen wearing just the robe, I’m faced with the backs of the artists at their easels. I lift my chin and lock my jaw. This is going to be so fucking great. I already can’t wait to see Clayton’s expression when I tell him what the fuck I did today. I’m about to be the envy of every woman and man in this room.
I strut through the sea of art students, drawing their attention one at a time as the professor announces my arrival. The lonely stool in the center of the room awaits my tight tush.
“Whenever you’re ready,” urges the professor, her voice a tad too tight in the throat.
Just when my eyes meet the front row, I see her.
And oh yes, she sees me.
Her eyes tighten with recognition, becoming a squint that nearly burns a hole through me. Boy, she’s one fierce-looking woman. Her jet black hair is swept over the side of her slender neck, and her deep black eyeliner lends the dissecting stare she’s already giving me an even more dangerous allure.
Dangerous to other men. I face her with my boldest grin, undoing the robe, then let it drop to the floor.
The room sees my cock. I observe their collective gaping.
Yeah, I’m used to that reaction.
The woman in front, however, she doesn’t seem to regard it at all, her sharp eyes penetrating me from behind her easel. She crosses her legs, unimpressed, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see a tinge of amusement in her eyes.
I’ve got her.
I take my position on the stool, doing that one-foot-on-the-ground-and-one-foot-on-the-second-rung-of-the-stool thing. I rest my hands comfortably near my hips, proudly on display, and throw my gaze to the side, as if that hot woman whose attention I totally have doesn’t mean a thing. I know how these mind games work, and she’s about to find out how expert-level I am.
The calm room becomes a chorus of pencil scratches, tiny sighs, and creaking from shifting stools.
Unable to help it, I turn my chin slightly, meeting her eyes.
She smirks, bringing the pencil to her lips and biting softly.
Fuck.
Sitting on this stool, totally naked, in front of a class full of women and men who are meticulously drawing my every outline, shadowing my every curve and cut of muscle, right down to my big dick … I find myself suddenly caught with an entirely different, unplanned concern.
I can’t let myself get hard.
Not in front of the whole classroom.
I look away from her. Then, I can’t look away, glancing back.
Her tongue teases out, touching the tip of her pencil as she quietly studies me. Already, I’m imagining what that tongue could do to me.
I’m fucking naked. I have nowhere to hide.
In seconds, I’ve been converted from the cock on the block to … the cock on a block. I’m a dude with his junk exposed to the world, and I’m slowly being worked up and turned on by that evil girl.