𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐈𝐧 𝐑𝐞𝐝 ● 𝐉𝐉𝐊

• 6 • papillons

"Stop what, sweetie?"

"Oh, fuck." Your heart beats faster with a large thump. You get startled, making a bad word fly out in a breathy squeak. Your hair fly around in a fan-like pirouette. Your hand goes to your mouth in instant recognition.

You turn around but there's no one there. You peek ahead, glancing past your easel.

Your teacher is sitting on the first bench, his chair facing back. Sitting in that great leisure he always seems to have. The front of the class is lit up in dim lights, maybe that's why you didn't notice him. His cheekbones lift a little, in subtle smugness. You cursed in front of a teacher. Especially, him. You keep getting into fixes.

What a great day!

You look down, flummoxed. You're still breathing rapidly due to the scare you just got. You flush.

You never meant anyone to see you like this. You were behaving so freely a while ago, it was your most natural state. You don't act like that around people, you hardly even want to meet people.

He was with you in the same room, you both were alone. It felt unreal. The art class in the morning comes back to your head, you had to talk to him. You told your thoughts in front of people. To him. He made you so shy.

"I-I'm s-so-sorry." You perk up. Are you apologising for cursing? You have no idea why you apologised. That's just what he does, his effect.

He gives a lopsided smile. It's so close to being a smirk, it feels like it's teasing you.  You look down at your hands which had some paint on them now due to your clumsy fiasco. Your canvas had gotten a big scratch cutting horizontally through it because you had turned around sharply while doing it.

Your teacher stands up finally to reveal his true lofty height. You coil. Not good, not good at all. You are in a perplexed haze. Your hands get clammy. Your irises dilate. You regret standing all over again. He makes you weak in the knees.

He walks towards your petite form which was hiding behind your canvas on which you were doing your palette knife techniques. With every step he takes, you notice his thick thighs tighten in the pants. His long hair sway with the gentle movement of his walk. The familiar tip-top of his boots. The unbuttoned shirt cracks open some more flexing a little of his hard chest and a valley of compact muscles created between his pecs. His tattoos give you so many dirty imaginations, it's unhealthy. His lazy pitch black eyes. His jawline is just breathtaking. You can't seem to find your senses.

Your primal instincts are to close your eyes more than the normal time one takes to blink. And open them back up to see his glorious self standing right next to you. Your breath trembles, seeing him so up close. He makes you feel pointless, small, weak. Every. Fucking. Time.

You notice a bijou mole beneath his lecherous lips. Striking. Sexy. He's more majestic than a lion. And when he's standing right beside you. You feel intoxicated. His smell. So goddamn manly and thrilling. Also a sickening feeling of wanting to be controlled.

"Wet" he speaks in his gravelly, alluring voice.

You freeze up. Now, your mind wants to faint. His voice travels deep into the depths of your body. You feel like one side of your body has been exposed to an open inferno. Your pretty blush turns into a darker, rougher crimson. You bite your lip so hard that it might draw blood. You bite back your whimper. You wanted to moan, after listening to his voice. Feeling his voice inside you. Your thighs clench together.

You did feel wet. Because of the confidence he had in himself. Because his entire being was standing beside you. Because he was being so him.

"It's still wet. You can cover it up." He was looking at your canvas. Then he turns his head to look right into your eyes.