by Annabeth Leong
The first time we hung out alone, I took off my clothes so she could draw me.
I still have the picture she made, but it seems lifeless to me. The page couldn't contain the scent that wafted from between my legs as her brightest lamp heated my body and I felt the attenuated caress of her pencil tracing my curves.
I kept taking off my clothes. She continued drawing me. Nothing changed except the way I felt about it.
The last time, I'd been hoping she would suggest it. I trembled as she looked at me, sick to my stomach with visions of possibility. I tried not to squeeze my thighs together because I knew she'd notice the flexing of my muscles.
That night, I dreamed of crawling from my cot into her bed, wrapping my arms around her at last, asking for the touch of her hands rather than her eyes. In the morning, her cold blue gaze sliced from beneath her dark bangs. "You must have had intense dreams last night. I heard you moaning."