12. Stuck in the Middle with You

12

STUCK IN THE MIDDLE WITH YOU

DAISY

After I've taken my sweet time looking around the large studio, I let my body fall backward onto a pretty orange sofa in the middle of the room. A large easel stands before it, holding a blank canvas.

This day couldn't have worked out better. It wouldn't be too far-fetched to say I orchestrated getting into a thunderstorm with Lester, but I really didn't. I just went out this morning and assumed the weather would stay nice all day.

But the universe had other plans.

Lester is quiet as he watches me with his arms crossed. I'm invading his space, and I know how private he is.

His masks are hidden away behind a secret doorway behind one of the closets, and the large table in the corner of the room is where he crafts them. When my eyes scan over it, I notice some of his specific tools are splayed out on top.

My eyes return to him, and he looks like he's about ready to burst.

I've been taunting him all day, making him flustered with my words and undressing with the door open, when I damn well knew he was watching me.

I'm having way too much fun.

"It'll probably be a while before the storm clears. You were planning to paint today, right? I can play muse for you." Stretching my arms above my head, I put my bare feet up on the sofa and lie down. I pose seductively on my side, the hem of the blouse moving up above my hips to expose his boxers.

"Pose me the way you want. Tell me what to do. I'm good at following orders, but only sometimes." I end that sentence with a wink, and it's hard to hold in my impending snort, because he looks like I've just stabbed him in the thigh or something.

"This is inappropriate, Daisy," he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. I don't miss the way his eyes scan over me as if I'm a gift he desperately wants to unwrap. He's trying so hard to suppress it, but I've dealt with the male gaze long enough to know what desire looks like.

"How is it different than the models that pose for us naked at school?" I counter. "Actually, I'm still wearing clothes. I don't see what's inappropriate about it, Professor."

He sighs deeply. "The fact that you're here, in the house of your teacher, is inappropriate enough as it is."

"Well, you were just being nice. I think it would have been worse if you'd let me skate home in the storm."

"Point made." His lip curls up just slightly as he steps closer to me. "You really want me to paint you, don't you?"

"It would be my greatest honor. A memory I'll forever cherish, having my portrait done by the talented Lester Gilbert."

He shakes his head, putting a strand of hair behind his ear. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

I let out a huff, looking up at him through my lashes. "Flattery will get me everywhere , Mr. Gilbert. It's already gotten me pretty far, I'd say." I move my head from side to side as a confirmation that I'm currently in the one space he never lets anyone into.

"That smart mouth is going to get you into trouble one of these days."

"Oh?" I tease. "Who am I getting into trouble with? You?"

"Good God." He gives up, squeezing his eyes shut for just a second before he turns, walking over to a large closet to grab painting supplies.

Yes, yes, yes. He's going to do it.

One step closer to the goal.

My big mouth aside, I still have to be careful. I can't be too forward or I'll scare him off. I know how much he likes his job at the university, and if I go too fast, he'll put a stop to it. To me .

That can't happen.

But even after I leave today, I'll be on his mind. I've left an impression. A mark.

Now all that's needed is just a little more patience.

When he's busy putting some pigments on a palette, I get up and walk over to a record player that I spot in the corner.

"Oooh," I hum as I get on my knees in front of it, going through his stack of records. "What have we got here? The Doors, The Velvet Underground… Jimi Hendrix? Oh, hell yes."

I put one on, the record crackling nicely before Purple Haze starts playing.

Returning to the sofa, I stretch my torso. "How would you like me to lie down for you, Professor? You have permission to touch me."

I can barely contain my laughter when he looks all serious, as if he's making a pros and cons list in his head.

An invincible, terrifying murderer is what he is when no one is looking. Yet, right now, he's just a normal guy with a conscience. And I'm just a girl with the patience of a saint, because all I really want to do is jump him and ride his cock until I pass out.

I need him in ways that are concerning to my anatomy.

He reaches forward, grabbing my wrist. I follow his direction and climb deeper onto the sofa, using my feet as leverage. He grabs a velvet pillow and places it underneath my head along with my right arm, so I'm resting on my palm. Placing my other arm on my hip, I go to lie on my side. Goosebumps cover my skin when his fingers brush through my long hair until it covers part of my shoulders and breasts.

I watch his face above me with admiration. He's so beautiful. An enigma.

Today, he's not the Sculptor. Today, he's just Lester.

And he's perfect.

"Feel free to unbutton a few, Professor." Naughtily smirking, I nod down at my chest. "There's a reason the women you paint tend to be topless, right?"

A pained sigh leaves his mouth. "Miss Burton…" The tone of his voice is disapproving, but I don't miss the way it slightly skips in the middle.

"Don't worry. It's not like anyone's ever going to see the painting, right? You don't let anyone in here." I swallow, my chest rising with anticipation. "It'll be our little secret."

There's a change in his expression, and for a second I think he's going to throw me out. But then his hands reach for the top button of my blouse, the slowness of it a tormenting pain that sears my skin. Getting onto his knees beside me, he unbuttons five more, letting his hand linger for a few breaths. "This is enough."

A portion of my cleavage is exposed, and he rolls my sleeves until they're up to my elbows. As a final finishing touch, he moves my knee slightly upward, until I look like a model on the cover of a magazine.

Then he gets to work.

He grabs his palette and moves the easel to the side for a better view.

And then he starts painting.

I don't even have anything to say right now. I'm at a loss for words.

To be here, with his eyes tracing every single part of me, leaves me with an ache of anticipation.

I'm finally here.

And he sees me.

The Wind Cries Mary plays softly in the background, surrounding us with relaxed tunes of guitar and vocals. Glancing at me, he mixes pigments on his palette before he presses his brush to the canvas, repeating the move over and over.

I could watch him forever.

I imagine him trailing his fingers over my flesh the way he delicately moves the brush over the canvas. Not missing a spot, coloring every bit and piece with his soul.

Because that's what he does with his art―he puts his soul in it.

Times flies when he loses himself in his work, and I lose myself in him. In dark brown irises. In the way he tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear every so often. In the way he puts the middle of his brush into his mouth when he squeezes more paint onto his palette. On the smudge of oil paint that colors his forehead in a dark shade of blue.

The record has long since stopped, surrounding us in silence. Still, I say nothing. I just let him do his work. I don't think I've ever shut my mouth for this long. Not even when I'm alone. I tend to blab to myself a lot .

The silence shatters when a bark filters through the air, which seems to come from the hallway. Lester and I both shake out of our peace.

"That's Holly," I say, my voice hoarse. "The dogs must be done with their naps."

He puts the palette down on the table and smooths his paint-covered hands on his apron. "Stay still. I'll go get them."

I do as I'm told, not moving a muscle. I hear the sound of nails tapping on the wooden floors as all three of the little rascals run into the room. When they locate me on the sofa, they all jump on top of me one before the other. I let out an audible groan when Eliza Doolittle's tongue finds its way in my ear, and another one starts licking my toes―I'm guessing Gaby.

To my surprise, I don't feel a third dog on top of me, and when I look up, I find Lester standing there with Holly in his arms, letting her lick his cheek.

As if the man could get any more attractive to me.

"I'm sorry." I let out a giggle when we meet eyes. "I think I've moved a bit. These damn dogs are having a field day with their tongues and it fucking tickles."

He gives me a wicked grin before giving Holly a kiss on her little head, putting her down onto the floor. "It's time for dinner, anyway. And you did good, Miss Burton. Haven't heard a peep out of your smart mouth for almost three hours. Impressive."

I gasp. "That's how long that was? Holy fuck. That's definitely a record. If you can keep me quiet for that long, you hold the power to make me do a lot of other things, too. Fun things. The possibilities are endless, Professor. You've accomplished the impossible." I wink, then softly push the dogs off me so I can get up and stretch my limbs.

"I see that smart mouth has already returned," he states dryly, his eyes filled with humor.

I lock my fingers together, moving my arms above my head until I hear my bones crack. "What can I say? I like seeing you get all flustered. It's another talent of mine―making grown men blush."

Before he gets the chance to come up with a remark, I stretch my legs until they, too, crack. "Damn. That wasn't the most comfortable position. Could desperately use a massage, Mr. Gilbert."

He mutters something under his breath as he looks at the ceiling, like he's asking the universe for strength. When he returns from his momentary dissociation, he asks, "How about I cook you dinner instead? Do you like Mexican food? Tacos?"

"I love Mexican food! I'll never say no to tacos." I move toward him until our arms brush. "May I see the painting first? I'm so damn curious to see what it looks like."

He huffs an amused breath. "Okay. But it's not finished yet. I'll probably continue later tonight, smooth out the details and such."

I give him a nod, and he moves to the side to let me pass. I hold my breath as soon as my eyes zone in on the painting and my hand instinctively moves over my heart.

"Fuck…" I let out on a curse. "This is unreal."

The canvas is about sixteen by twenty inches with every single part of the surface covered. My eyes scan over all the smooth lines, the way he blended the oil paint together in the perfect shades to match my body.

Lester is a true sculptor, so he has never exposed any paintings in galleries. At least, not in the period that I've known him. Maybe he did when he was younger. But it's a shame that he never does, because this is beautiful.

He has captured the love in my eyes perfectly. I wonder if he sees it too. If just by just looking at my face on the painting, he could recognize the way my soul aches for him.

During the time I've been so consumed by the painting, he has moved closer to me. It would take just one stretch of my fingers to scrape my nails over his thigh.

"It's incredible. You've made me feel like the luckiest girl in the world today. Do you realize that?" I swallow, my mouth dry. "Thank you."

I'm currently just a starstruck university student with the hots for her teacher. Soon to be teacher's pet. That has a cute sound to it. A bit degrading, maybe. But I'm always down for a little degradation.

"Come on." He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes softly. "Let's go to the kitchen and I'll cook us up some food."