Tempting Teacher (The Pierce Family)

The sketch is rough. A young woman in an elegant gown, sitting on a chair.

She turns the page, and the drawing takes shape.

The woman, on the balcony of a high tower, sitting on the edge of the railing, staring into the distance.

The woman in the ball gown, surrounded by a blur of figures of men in suits.

A fancy party.

A room alone.

Then she's undressing.

The picture isn't erotic, but my blood still rushes south.

I force a breath through my teeth. Force my thoughts to straighten.

This is a figure. An artist. Any figure. Any artist.

I focus on the lines, the composition, the mood. It takes every ounce of my concentration, but I manage to push my thoughts to craft and only craft.

Even as I turn the page and watch the figure step out of her dress.

Stretch out in her bed.

There are dozens of poses, some simple, some erotic,

For hours, I look over Opal's work, I advise, I sketch with her, I ignore the scent of her skin.

Eventually, we finish. I walk her to the subway. Shake her hand goodbye.

I go home. I fuck myself. I barely survive the week.

Rinse.

Repeat.

The next week is the same. Class Monday and Wednesday morning. Meetings at work. Laps at the pool in the building. Pages and pages of drawings in my sketchbook.

Every night, I try not to think of Opal.

Every night, I fail.

Friday, we meet, work on her project.

I smell her shampoo.

I guide her.

I soak up every bit of her warmth.

Then, we do it again the next week.

The next.

Valentine's Day passes without a text from Cassie.

The winter weather fades to spring showers.

I spend the week off school locked in my apartment.

And then, the next week, I meet Opal again. I'm tired and worn. I'm avoiding too much.

Thoughts of Raul.

Thoughts of her.

My intense desire to hold her.

I make it through our session. Barely.

She finally finds it, the style for her project.

And it's perfect.

She stands over my desk, staring at a row of paintings.

Three self-portraits. Each a different style. Dada. Impressionist. Cubist.

All naked.

"Maybe this is it." She studies the contour of her breast.

Or maybe that's me.

"The different styles, together." She looks to me. "What do you think?"

I need to be inside you. "What does it say?"

"Something about self-discovery."

"Does it feel right?"

She nods.

"Then it's right."

She smiles and throws her arms around me. "Thank you, Professor Morrison."

Fuck, she's close. Warm. Soft. "You did the work."

She releases me. "I… we should celebrate. Right?"

"We should get home. It's late."

"Celebrate in a boring way… we can go to the Met."

"It's closed."

"Tomorrow."

"Are you done?"

"No."

"Then you'll be here again next Friday."

She nods.

"And I'll see you in class. Until then"—I motion to the door—"I'll walk you out."

"And meet me at the Met tomorrow?"

"I'm busy." Busy fucking myself, trying to picture anyone else. "Maybe next weekend."

She beams.

My heart thuds against my chest. I want to capture that smile. I want to watch it forever. "Maybe."

"I'm going to celebrate this weekend. You can stay home if you want."

"I will."

She makes a show of pouting. "It's fun for you, not being fun, isn't it?"

"Very."

"I figured." She stretches her arms over her head, pulling her sweater up her torso, revealing a flash of her undershirt. "Okay. Subway. I'm exhausted."

"Call a car."

"That's what my brother would want."

"Is it what you want too?"

"Yes, but if I do it, he'll win."

"He wins by you doing what you want?"

"You have an older brother. How can you not get it?"

"I get it. But I've also learned I win when I do what I want." This, too, is bullshit. I'm not doing what I want. I'm doing everything but what I want. But it's good advice.

Opal shakes her head ridiculous but she takes the advice. She pulls out her cell and taps the screen a few times. "What are you doing tonight?"

"Going to bed."

"Tomorrow."

"Working."

"You really don't have fun?"

"I have my own kind of fun."

"Oh." Her cheeks flush. "Right. Of course."

It's not what I mean. I'm not having fun with other partners. But it's better if she thinks that.

"None of my business." She hugs her sketchbook. "I guess that's just a normal weekend for you. Our, uh, experience."

No. "Yes."

The light fades from her expression.

I'm storm clouds, blocking her brightness. Even trying to protect her, I'm stealing her sunshine.

Fuck.

The pain in her eyes guts me, but this is what she needs, a little hurt now to save a lot of hurt later.

"I enjoyed the time. I needed it. But that's all it was, Opal. One night," I say.

"You've been with someone else?"

No. "Have you?"

"Why do you care? If it didn't matter?"

"I don't want to see you with someone who will hurt you."

"The two-finger rule?"

"Anything."

"Because you want to protect me… even though the night meant nothing?"

It's obvious bullshit. There's no way to explain it. Or justify it.

"So you wouldn't care if I'd fucked Garret?"

"From your class?"

"I don't know another Garret."

"Is he your type?"