Page 61 of Beyond the Lines
I fidget with my pencil case, unzipping and zipping it for the fourth time. This is stupid.I’mstupid for letting his criticism get to me. My grandmother would be appalled—she’d tell me to channel that anger into my art, make it fierce and unapologetic.
And then there’s the other thing.
The thing I’m trying desperately not to think about.
The dreams.
About him.
It was bad enough when he gave me his coat that night outside the art building. The weight of it on my shoulders, the scent of him wrapping around me like an embrace. But my subconscious has taken that moment and run with it, creating scenarios that leave me waking up flushed and tangled in my sheets.
Last night’s dream was particularly vivid—Declan pushing me up against his easel, his charcoal-stained fingers leaving marks on my clothes and my skin as he stripped me bare. His hands hot between my thighs, telling me to “hold still” while he “studied my form,” stroking my clit…
I’d woken up with my hand already between my legs, sheets damp with sweat.
It wasn’t the first time, either.
Before that, it was him bending me over a desk in the empty classroom, his hands gripping my hips so hard they left bruises shaped like thumbprints as he thrust into me from behind, whispering in my ear how the best art comes from filth and pain…
These dreams have been happening with frustrating regularity, and they all end the same way—with me coming sohard my whole body shakes, only to wake up alone, aching and unfulfilled.
But even more frustrating is that these fantasies have invaded my waking hours, dominating my thoughts at any and every minute of the day. I’ll be sitting in class, then suddenly wondering what Declan would look like naked.
Is his chest dusted with the same light-brown hair that grows on his forearms?
Do his hockey-toned abs have that perfect V-shape disappearing into his jeans?
And his cock… is it as impressive as the bulge I felt pressed against me when we kissed?
Argh!I scream silently.This is completely unacceptable, Lea!
Because I’m angry at him.
Ineedto be angry at him.
Anger is safe. Anger doesn’t lead to heartbreak in Europe with beautiful blue-eyed boys who have secret girlfriends. Anger means I won’t get hurt again if I open the door to possibility and attraction just a little, only to have it slammed in my?—
The door to the stairs creaks open, pulling me from my thoughts, and there he is, staring at his phone, completely oblivious to my existence or the fact that he’s almost twenty minutes late. For a moment, I can just look at him without him noticing, and?—
Damn him.
His hair is still wet from what must have been a recent shower, dark strands catching the light. His cheeks are flushed from the cold outside, the tip of his nose just slightly pink. He’s wearing a gray thermal Henley that hugs his torso like a second skin.
It’s like he’s been designed in a lab specifically to torment me.
Andmando I want to draw him.
I snap my gaze down to my sketchbook just as he looks up, pretending I’ve been absorbed in my work. Not that there’s anything to be absorbed in—the page is embarrassingly blank, because I’ve been totally consumed by thoughts of him and fear of his criticism.
Fordays.
“Hey,” he says, dropping into the chair across from me. “Sorry I’m late. Coach kept us for extra conditioning.”
His voice is huskier than usual, like he’s been yelling, and there’s a weariness around his eyes that wasn’t there before. Despite my resolution to remain angry, something uncomfortable twists in my chest. Something that too closely resembles concern, which I squash immediately.
“Whatever,” I mutter, not meeting his eyes, but trying to project the ‘I’m pissed at you but saying it’s fine’ vibe. “Let’s just get started.”
“Are you sure you’re OK?” he asks, and the genuine concern in his voice makes me want to scream.
