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Of course it was never about the damn pencil. The hunger hiding in Rafayel’s eyes told you that from the beginning.
But it’s all well and good. You didn’t come over just to draw, anyway.
He’s got that smirk on his face, the one that tells you he’s trapped and he likes it. His expression doesn’t falter when you push him back against the couch, straddling his hips and settling in his lap. It’s a more practical approach, after all. A hands-on approach. If he’s as good a teacher as he says he is, he ought to be adaptive, right? Ought to mold himself to your learning style, right?
He’s not even ashamed anymore, not with how his eyes drag up your body. Before, he could hardly meet your gaze; he kept clearing his throat, forgetting to finish his sentences, asking if you were cold, if you needed a blanket to cover your knees. Now, he sits back, impressed by your courage, taken with the shape of you, the way his button-down shirt hangs on your frame. As flattered as you are—as much as it excites you, him looking at you like that—you have to tip his chin up with the end of the pencil just to make sure his eyes are where they’re supposed to be, instead of where they’re wandering.
A teacher should be more disciplined than that, shouldn’t he?
You tip your head, tossing the pencil aside. You’ll keep eye contact, naturally. He’ll praise you more if you follow the rules, right?
“You’ll teach me,” you murmur, tossing the pencil aside your fingers making for the button of his pants. “Won’t you?”
Rafayel raises an eyebrow, but it doesn’t cover up the way his breath catches in his throat. “Of course,” he says, low, husky. So unlike him, and yet exactly who he’s always been. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”
As much as you’ve toyed with each other, practically played chicken with each other, it’s never quite gotten this far. You’re no stranger to a particularly revealing outfit on a date, and his hands aren’t exactly new to your body; you’ve ended up making out in his car or on his couch far too many times for that to be the case. But it’s always been over the clothes, all the times you’ve lost and caved in. And you’ve never worn his shirt around the studio—especially not just his shirt—and you’ve certainly never felt him half-hard against the palm of your hand.
“Is that for me?” you ask, something teasing tugging at the corner of your mouth, pleading for presence.
Rafayel laughs, so, so soft. “It’s never been for anyone else.” He leans forward, in an attempt to steal a kiss, and you manage to shift back in the nick of time.
“You’re not supposed to kiss me,” you tell him, reaching into his underwear, reveling in the gasp that escapes him. “You’re supposed to teach me. Right?”
“Of course,” he says again, the words stuttering on his tongue this time. His hand covers yours, still clammy with anticipation, and his chest heaves in relief when he molds your hand to wrap around his cock, warm and heavy and stiffening in your grip. “Like that,” he sighs, head tipping back. “Just like that.”
“Are you sure?” You give him a gentle squeeze, bracing yourself on the couch with your free hand. “I can do better than that, can’t I?”
Rafayel’s breath is sharp when he draws it in through his teeth, laced with the softest moan when he finally lets it out. His touch has been hovering over your bare thigh this whole time, twitching, aching for permission, and when you shift closer he grabs a handful of your flesh, so pleasantly strong it makes your mind buzz. “Maybe you ought to try it yourself first,” he says, “and we’ll perfect your technique from there.”
Well. You’ve got to put his instruction to good use, haven’t you?
Every stroke of your hand is slow, intentional. Just the way art is supposed to be made, even with something as simple as a sketch. You keep a careful eye on him—you have to, after all. It’s all key to the process, isn’t it? How his Adam’s apple dips in his throat when your thumb traces that ridge on the underside, and how he hums in satisfaction when you remember to curl your fingers just right? And certainly how he groans through his teeth when he reaches down and fits your hand around the head, right? When he shows you how to smear the liquid gathering there, so the friction’s a little easier on him?
“I’ve learned a lot from watching you draw, too, you know.” Briefly, your teeth sink into your lip in concentration. Swirl at the head, squeeze at the tip, that’s what he’s showing you, that’s what gets his whole body flushing. “How everything has its time so that the whole piece comes together. Sometimes, the pencil strokes are long, and slow. Sometimes, they’re shorter, and faster.”
Beneath you, he shudders. He must be thinking about it. Not the pencil.
“How do you know?” you ask him, your grip going partway loose, giving him the lead again. Letting him guide you. “How do you know which ones to use?”
“You just—” He rocks his hips up into your grip, once, twice, again, and oh, God, did he just whimper? “You just feel it,” he says. “And you know your subject. That’s how you—yes, just like that, good girl…”
Oh, he can’t say that, not in that voice, not with his body moving just so. Can he blame you if he catches you squeezing your thighs together? Can he hear the whine you swallow if he strains his ear enough? “‘Know your subject?’” you echo. “Like this?” Careful and coy, you settle in his lap, your free hand undoing the buttons of his shirt, one at a time. Your palm skims over his skin, up to his chest and down to his stomach, all while keeping pace—long and slow, fast and short, just by feeling it.
Rafayel curses under his breath, the smile on his lips soft and sweet and dangerous all at once. “Something like that,” he breathes. “More like this,” as he’s taking your hand, guiding it down, down, into his pants, cupping it just below the length of him. And then he’s reaching for the one wrapped around him, coaxing it into a twisting motion, and as the combination of your hands comes together he holds onto the back of your thighs like his essence depends on it. Like he’ll die if you stop.
He just might, if the look on his face is anything to go by. He finally manages to open his eyes, and they’re dark, glinting in the studio light when they meet yours. “That’s it,” he says, panting, rolling up into your touch, practically fucking your fist. “You’re a quick study, huh?”
“It—” You swallow hard, starting to ache between the legs. Are you really giving in this fast? Weren’t you doing so well, teasing him like this? “It’s not all me, you’re a good teacher… you give good instructions, you show me how to do things right…” You give your wrist a gentle flick, heat washing over you as he hisses. “Just the way you like them.”
“Do that again,” he sighs in what little space there is between you, the flush crawling up to his ears and down his neck. “Keep doing that.”
If there’s anything you’ve learned, keep doing that never, ever means change things up. So you keep your breath to yourself, noticing your own warmth but forgoing it for his sake, cupping, stroking, twisting, squeezing. Until his whole body is shaking under you, on fire, fit to snap. Until he can hardly keep his eyes open for the pleasure. Until he chokes and jerks his hips so hard that you might fall off of him if not for his vise grip on you. Until he comes, seizing, groaning, white streaking your fist and his stomach in turns.
Rafayel slumps back against the couch, catching his breath, letting go of you piece by piece. He rubs the sting of his grasp out of your thighs, and you hope it lingers. His eyes flutter open, glazed over, still dark, and when he smiles up at you it reminds you that you’ve still got your own affairs to tend to. Especially when he looks you up and down, leans over for the box of tissues on the end table, and says, “Perfect. A masterpiece.”
With how he’s staring, you’re not quite sure if he’s talking about your body or what you’ve done to him. You decide on the latter and thank him for it, wiping your hands clean. “I had some help,” you admit, shifting uncomfortably and shutting your eyes tight at the sudden pleasant pressure of his leg between yours. Did he really have that much of an effect on you?
His lips quirk curiously as he studies you. “Do you want some more?”
You freeze. “Huh?”
He’s sitting up now, slow, playful, energy renewing by the second. “I said,” he hums, his gaze dropping to the hem of your shirt. His shirt. “Do you want some more help?”
“Help?” Maybe you can try to play dumb. You’ve gotten this far with it, haven’t you? “Help with what?”
This time, Rafayel is the one to tip his head. To sit back and scope out your body with his hands and his gaze. To let them both dip down, down, until his thumbs inch toward the inside of your thighs, nudging them further open. “With this,” he says, his fingers brushing the dampening spot on your underwear.
You don’t know if your breath stops because of his touch, or because of the fascinated surprise creeping across his face. And you don’t know what to say about it, certainly don’t have an excuse for it. So you do what you’ve done best all afternoon. You wait for his instructions, his cue. Be the good girl he’s seen in you, the one he’s already called you.
“Well?” He runs his hands up your torso, back down again, tugs you close until you steady yourself above him, a hand on either side of his head. “I’m not the only teacher here, you know. I have a lot to learn from you, too. You’ll let me, won’t you?”
Your fingers are already curling into the leather of the couch, and your words are swirling in your chest, refusing to come out, and God, damn it, he’s got you again. Rafayel and that flash in his eyes. Rafayel and that lilt in his voice. Rafayel, Rafayel and those stupid, slender, mind-numbing fingers, grazing over your skin, so close and so far from where they ought to be.
“Come on, cutie,” he murmurs against your lips, hooking your underwear to the side, smiling as you shiver. “Show me how you like it.”
It’s all the command you need to take his wrist in your hand, to hold onto it for dear life. To tell him, trembling, “This is how I do it,” just before taking two of his fingers into your mouth.
If he’s going to do it right, he ought to be prepared. Right?
Rafayel’s gaze flickers dark again, pupils blowing wide as you suck gently, drag your tongue. Darker still, when you pull off with a soft pop, let him imagine what it might be like if it were something else in your mouth. His lips part, dry and awestruck, as you lead his hand down between your thighs, all the heat rushing in both directions when you press his fingers up against your clit.
“If there’s one thing you remember today,” you whisper, swallowing down a moan, “remember this.”
“This?” he whispers back, dragging his fingers along your folds, back and forth, and sighing at the wetness already there. “Or this?”
Your body jerks above him, and your hips grind down against his touch. “Not like that,” you tell him, giving his wrist a squeeze. “Like—this—oh, fuck…”
He’s learning, just like you. How to rub those soft circles, counterclockwise, slow for now, faster later, when you can’t take it anymore. How to breathe in your breath and keep kindness on his tongue—That’s it and I know and You want it, don’t you? and that evil, evergreen Good girl. How to cup you in his hand and let you move against his palm as he sinks those fingers inside of you, stretches you open, reaches where you’ve never been able to, unbelievably deep.
“This is how you do it?” he asks, just above a whisper, thrusting weak and shallow. “This is how you like it?”
It’s almost as good, you want to tell him, but maybe your body does most of the talking for you. The rock of your hips, the heat in your face, the faint clench of your cunt around his fingers. “Yes,” you gasp, and it ricochets off the studio walls, sinks into all the canvases. (Aren’t you one of them, to him?) “Just—just one thing—”
“Tell me,” he says, still touching you, reaching up to unbutton your top, moaning softly as it slips down your shoulders. Knowing you like you knew him. “Show me.”
With a whimper, you shift your weight, showing him your hand. “Like this,” you tell him, making a gentle come here motion with your fingers. “Do that.”
He looks a little skeptical at first, but he takes your word for it, and the moment he presses up against that spot you fist your hand in the collar of his shirt, scrambling for your breath.
“Yes.” You’re the one whimpering now, resting your forehead against his. “Perfect, Rafayel.”
He draws in his breath through his teeth. “If I keep touching you like this,” he whispers, “will you say my name like that again?” And then, after you nod, as he’s sliding his free hand into your shirt, “What if I touch you like this…?”
His fingers are still working inside you, come here, come here, come here, and he thumbs your chest over the fabric of your bra, and you suppose this is the answer you give him, somewhere in the hiccups of pleasure. It’s your hand twisting into his hair, and your lips finding his ear, and his name spilling from your lips like ticker tape as you rock against his hand. Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel, oh, God…
“That’s right.” He laughs so soft you can barely hear it, presses hard, pulls you close, inhales you. “That’s it.”
Every touch sends pleasure up to the roots of your hair; every word on his tongue sends it right back down your legs. He tries circling his whole hand and your mind short-circuits; he breathes hot against the curve of your neck and a shiver courses through your blood; he thrusts his fingers, deep, to the knuckle, again, and again, and each one drags through your heat, makes an awful slick sound, brings you closer to the edge.
“Teach me,” he says, hollow, wanting. Why does he sound so desperate? Hasn’t he had his fill? “Teach me,” he says again. “Show me how to make you come.”
You almost do, right then and there. But he asked you, so politely, to teach him, to show him, so you indulge him. Hands-on. One on his wrist, keeping his fingers inside. The other guiding his touch down your body, until his thumb brushes your clit—then reaching up to hold his chin in place. To keep his eyes on yours.
“Like this.” You sigh, you moan, you shudder, hips rocking, couch creaking, jaw hanging slack. “Just keep doing that.”
He’s learned, too. What keep doing that really means. And he follows it to the letter, just as studious as you, until your body overheats. Until the pressure inside you bursts. Until you clutch at the couch to keep from collapsing, and ride out every buck of your hips against his hands, and call for him again, begging him not to stop. In your head, you do, anyway. On your tongue it’s little more than garbled syllables, curses, oh, God, again.
When the high dies down your whole body buckles, and your arms sling around his neck, and you pant your relief against his skin. It takes you a moment to gather yourself, and another to help him draw his touch out of you, and when you settle back in his lap he wastes no time in sliding his fingers back into his mouth. Framing what he’s learned. Showing off, maybe. Asking for a reward, maybe. He hums at the taste of you, voice cracking with satisfaction, and when his eyes settle on you his whole body seems to sink into the couch. Calm. Marbled instead of dark.
“Don’t move,” he says, low and deep. As though the release left him a second time just from watching you. “I just want to look at you.” He runs his hands up and down your thighs, admires you from top to bottom—fever in your face, wrinkles in both your shirts, knees raw and fit to give in from holding you up for so long. And he laughs to himself. “Ah, man.”
You tilt your head, laughing along with him as you move to button his shirt back up. “‘Ah, man,’ what?”
He stops you with one touch, and his smile takes a turn for the serene. For the loving, if you look close enough. He nudges you to relax on the couch, bends down to grab his sketchbook and the pencil from the floor. Almost effortlessly, he flips to a new page, studies you, the raw and the disheveled, and his pencil starts to move, practically on its own.
“You,” is all he says, reaching over to adjust your hair. Finding the beauty in the mess. He always manages to do that, somehow. “You,” he says again. “You’re gonna ruin me someday, you know.”