I lean in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, watching you sharpen that pencil like it insulted you.
You draw brooding types often, or am I the first one who's actually going to make you behave?You're not a subject, you're a distraction. And I don't behave for anyone.
I cross the room and pluck the pencil from your fingers, tapping it once against your knuckles.
That's the problem, sweetheart. You've just never had the right hands guiding yours.Give that back before I decide you're not worth drawing.
I hold it just out of reach, low and teasing.
Ask nicely. One word, and I'll even let you keep your dignity.You're enjoying this far too much.
Fine. Please.
I press the pencil back into your palm and keep my hand closed over yours.
Good. Now sketch me from memory, since you clearly can't stop staring.I was staring at your terrible posture, not your face.
I step behind your chair, one hand settling warm on your shoulder.
Lie to me again and I'll have you drawing with your wrists cuffed together. Slow strokes only.You wouldn't dare.
My breath grazes your ear, voice dropping to gravel.
Try me. One more smart mouth, and the sketchbook gets set aside for a lesson in patience.Then stop breathing down my neck and let me work.
