Unfortunately finding single men her own age was equivalent to catching the Loch Ness monster with a fishing net. Which brought her right back around to younger men again. She should know better because knowing better was the first step to doing better. And/or being done.
Hell, why fight it? She’d gladly sign up for the support group if she got to enjoy the addiction first.
While she’d been lost in thought, Michael had unzipped his hoodie to reveal his bare chest above his faded jeans. His torso was a virtual lasagna of muscles—layer upon layer of them, all caught mid-ripple as he sat unmoving in a flex pose. The cheese on top were the whorls of light brown hair on his pecs.
No manscaping. Thank Jesus. With a grateful sigh, she started to sketch.
Michael’s dark hair wasn’t straight or curly, more a mishmash of the two, and so thick she imagined he spent a lot of time in the barber’s chair. His eyelids seemed to be weighted, giving him a perpetually sleepy look. He had a lush look about his face that didn’t match the sinewy lines of his body.
She didn’t consider herself a great artist by any means, but she spent what seemed like forever contouring the hollows and angles of his face. His eyes were deep, dark slashes, hidden by the inky fringe of his lashes. She wanted him to look up and see her, to bestow that panty-warming smile.
Then he did. And sweet dandelion wine, her lady parts sang hallelujah.
Michael broke his position and shifted lazily to his feet, shaking his limbs to get the circulation going again. He pulled his hoodie on, his gaze remaining riveted on hers all the while. He bent to gather the backpack he’d dropped at his feet then straightened to speak to one of the ladies, who was much quicker on the uptake than Kim.
When spotting a delicious man in the wild terrain of the suburban classroom, the importance of haste couldn’t be overstated. Yet all Kim could do was shade more lines around Michael’s eyes on her sketchpad and wonder if his irises were one color or every one of them, which was essentially the make-up of black. Black eyes were unique, at least to her mind.
Vaguely, she realized everyone had risen from their seats. To her right, Randall discussed the benefits of using charcoal over other media with a student. All Kim heard was that buzz in her ears that meant she was back in the game.
God help them both.
CHAPTER TWO
The brunette currently eye-mounting him was trouble with a capital F. F for fuck him, he was screwed. Or he would be, if he didn’t watch himself.
Michael Montgomery dug his keys out of his pocket and smiled at one of the other women, expecting the sexy brunette to wander over anytime now. But she didn’t acknowledge him at all. She continued sketching then sailed out of the room without so much as a hello. No phone number coyly dropped on his bag, no wink and an air kiss. Absolutely nothing.
Too late he’d realized why she intrigued him—well, beyond the obvious. She wasn’t some random woman he’d tussled with over melons in the grocery store. This was her. Red glittery dress chick,
whom he’d changed a flat tire for on the side of the road months ago. The one he hadn’t been able to forget for reasons he couldn’t figure out. She’d barely spoken two words to him, so occupied was she with her phone.
He hadn’t recognized her right away tonight because she’d worn little makeup and had her hair down, partially covering her face. That night she’d had it scraped back, showing off her gorgeous bone structure. And that lush mouth, painted a bold crimson.
Something about her had called to him then. The determination he’d sensed in her posture. Her fight to remain stoic. Hell, the way her eyes shone gold under the streetlights. Whatever it was, that same something was currently hammering the back of his skull—and the base of his cock.
The next night, she arrived last to class. He’d already stripped and had just returned from the bathroom where he’d primed his pump, so to speak. The pornographic soundtrack in his headphones should keep all thrusters operational.
Randall had taken his share of flak from the founders of the rec center where the class was held for this aspect of the course, but there was no denying that the session always had a waiting list two miles long. The brass couldn’t argue with money, even if they could with method. Nothing inappropriate had ever occurred between Michael and the students. It was art. A chance for them to draw a man fully aroused, rather than in his less noteworthy state of flaccidity.
The soundtrack in his ears was the audio track to his favorite porno—well, truthfully, it was the only porno he’d watched more than once. Years ago he’d been curious by all he’d been missing, but after a while, he’d realized that seeing the greener grass over the fence only made him want to roll in it even more. For the last year, he hadn’t watched or listened to anything overtly sexual other than when he was in this class. And since that was technically for work, he rationalized he had no choice.
Hey, it was a hard job, but someone had to do it.
An hour later, the class was over, the erection he’d shoved into his jeans ached like a motherfucker and the brunette had booked out the door yet again. Her eyes had said plenty as she examined his length with the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth. He couldn’t say definitively which contributed more to his desire—the moans and carnal demands through his headphones or the occasional swish of her pink tongue over her glossy full lips.
Now she was gone. Again.
He’d had trouble forgetting her after their first roadside meeting, but he knew it would be impossible now that he’d had time to study her when she didn’t realize he was watching. Had his arousal while looking at her the last couple of nights imprinted her in some way on his psyche? Or was it more?
He’d followed his gut with Rochelle. Maybe it was time to follow it one more time.
Michael stepped into the hallway and glanced up, surprise stopping him in his tracks. The woman who lingered in his mind like a favorite song stood waiting for him, one booted foot propped against the wall, the other tapping as if she couldn’t bear to be still. Pleasure smothered shock and his smile widened while his fingers tensed around the strap of his backpack.
“Lost, little girl?” The teasing question left his mouth before he had time to consider the wisdom of setting that tone. She was a student, and he was an employee of Rand’s and by extension, the rec center. Despite the fact that his role in her class had ended, he probably shouldn’t go there. Lonely nights by the side of the road weren’t cause to abandon ethics—his or hers. She most likely didn’t even recognize him as anything but her peter model.
Preening peter at the moment, if the tightness of his jeans had any say in the matter.
Then she grinned at him and he forgot he was even still upright, never mind who signed his checks. Just like that night on the road. Except what had drawn him then was her backbone, not her blinding smile.