tagInterracial LoveFor the Love of Art Pt. 02

For the Love of Art Pt. 02

byouevre©

I suppose when you receive the fourth email hassling you to release part 2, you kinda have no choice. Honestly, the line was plotted out the morning I had the dream, but laziness is me, so yeah, dereliction happened. Anyway, here's part 2. Written with the lovely True Colors - Faux Fix playing in the background. If you guys want more, lemme know and I'll release weekly rather than yearly. Otherwise, tell me how garbage it is and I will abandon it entirely like a bad habit, because God and his angels know I groaned and cried and had to force myself to write this, bahaha.

*****

How does bad become good? How do you erase the past and carry on a clean slate when demons greet you in the mirror?

How do you sleep at night?

I don't.

Dimitri bit down on a groan, the sound caged behind grated teeth. Hand coiled around his exhausted length, he pounded away fiercely beneath the showerhead. Pounded despite the needle pricks of pain, for soon pleasure would spill through their crevice. He stood with his other hand pressed to the shower's siding, calves depleted of energy, muscles numb from the once-hot-now-cold spray of water, and mind dancing the line of comprehension, strung up by the wire in the pouring rain.

His cock pulsed, throbbing for release or a means to an end of the self-inflicted assault, his fingers curling against the glass. With a warning grip, pain slithered up the base of his length, clenching his abdomen as waves rocked through him. Still, nothing would free his mind of her. No matter how tight he squeezed, how unforgiving his jerks became.

If she were with him now, beneath the shower sprays with nothing shielding her from him . . . He swallowed the roil of sick need, blinking rapidly as his vision disconnected at the edges, his hands moving harder, faster. His breaths hitched in agonized recollection. Her tits had been a notch above the perfect fit in his hands, urging him to squeeze, her ass teasing his cock trapped behind the material until he was absolutely certain he would erupt in his pants and expose what little self control he truly had.

If she were with him now, those distraught curls slick and dripping down her gentle cheekbones, that natural dark tint to the rims of her eyes as she gazed up at him, lips slightly parted, droplets gliding over them, he would be lost. Oblivion. Her body his for the taking. He would drive into her until her image reformed, from demure and innocent to confused and gracefully broken. And even then, it would never be enough.

Even now, as he wrung his length until his breaths ejected sharp as razors, until the foggy white semen spurted from his tip onto the shower's stormy tiles at his feet, thoughts of her left an appetite in his head, his chest, beneath his skin.

Fucking maddening. Legitimately disturbing how ingrained into his brain that female was. She existed in the nuances of his day, forefront of his thoughts, and her voice—that low, subtle purr only insecure things made, drowned out the noise of his everyday thoughts. It made functioning without a damn hard-on to accompany him impossible.

Such as now. He balled his hands into fists and put them to the shower's glass door, slowly resting his head against the pane. His cock was retreating gradually into its sheath, flaccid and misleading. Hung and dormant, as if, in minutes, it wouldn't be raging again. As if he wouldn't be raging again.

He couldn't tutor her. What part of him rationalized the thought into a probable reality? Having that female here, in his territory. Where he ate, pissed and slept. Where society did not impose on his fantasies. The perfect concoction for disaster.

The problem persisted past this, however. A deeper analysis told him where the root of the situation lay.

How do you erase the past and carry on a clean slate when demons greet you in the mirror?

Beyond Miss Larson's profuse stutters, rabbit-like jitters and meek foundation, she had an artist's eye. All the bad he had done in his life, his past—how long had he sat in the basement, crafting a mask acceptable for society? Testing out the plastic smiles and carving his defects from his eyes? Just to have this little . . . little colored princess from the states swirl into his life, and look at his mask—and see right through it. She knew what he was, what existed behind the beauty, and when she looked up at him, those permanent, dark shadows encasing her eyes, enunciating their stark intelligence . . .

A hard throb attempted to move through the dim pain of his cock, but it hung lifeless for the time being, already depleted by the recurring thoughts of her.

The moment he stepped from the shower, the laughter from outside the bathroom brought him pause. Those plebs, friends he hadn't had over in . . . was it three years now? The cutting edge of their brusque jubilation always played the role of lifesaver, preventing him from sinking to the bottomless abyss of his personal perdition.

He toweled himself dry, listening as Donnie made the vulgar suggestion of what his co-manager could cradle his nutsack with. The circulating groans said the verbiage was too explicit. But honestly, Dimitri felt it was just what he needed to clear his head of her. He could stop wondering what she was doing, what expression claimed her face this exact moment, the thoughts swimming in the ocean of her. Or if she was thinking about him. Because clearly he was seventeen and had yet to graduate high school. What next? Eager to know if she had e-mailed him yet? It wasn't like he had his phone turned up as loud as it could go and posted on the sink's charging dock.

It was consuming.

It wasn't going to continue.

He grimaced as he dried his member, the head raw and sensitive, reminding him that the session in the shower had been one of many today.

Not going to continue.

He dressed in slacks and a loose t-shirt, discarding the towel into the hamper. His guys may have thought he was a foppish oddball for showering right in the middle of a redundant card game, but had they taken note of the tint of his pants, maybe it would not have been objected.

He removed his contacts and rubbed at his eyes, preferring the purple-green blotches behind his lids over the pulling features of Miss Larson. Unhooking the phone from the dock, he navigated to the university's mail page. He had to tell her the offer was cancelled. A no fly. This was supposed to be a winter break, and while he wholly intended to spend it perfecting his portraiture projects down in his gallery, he did need a break from her.

He opened the door to a cool draft and the uproarious party in the other room. They were seated at the kitchen's ceramic, marble-encrusted island. Bottle caps lay beside a pizza box that hadn't been there before. It was only Donnie, Nathan and Viktor, but already, thirty minutes away and his spot was taken over with snack bags, empty beer bottles and swaddled up napkins. That's right, he'd forgotten they were allergic to cleanliness.

"We ordered pizza," was the first thing Nathan said, a slice between his fingers. He shoved half of it down, using his free arm to push all of the trash to the edge of the table. Problem clearly solved in his eyes, he nodded for Dimitri to sit. "Viktor was just saying we never get to hang out like this. He started getting emotional. We ordered pizza to quell his aching heart."

No doubt, they used his credit card. Not that he cared as he sat at the junk-infused island, typing in Miss Larson's e-mail address.

"Can you believe Gavin had the temerity to hand my position down to Big Tits Ruth?" Viktor asked, trying to rein him into the conversation.

"No. What. Really." Drimitri stared at his phone, then started with the formal 'Hello Miss Larson,' then erased the greeting portion. Much better.

"I know he's the CEO—and whatever, and she was head of the department over in Vancouver. But, like, really? He said he was assigning me to another department, but that's bullshit, right? I mean, we know that's bullshit."

"Bang her," Nathan suggested before taking a swig of his beer. "Works with our students, right, Dimitri? Knocks the competition right out of them. Position'll be all yours."

Dimitri turned his attention to the short Biology and Organic Chemistry professor. "I'm certain I hear my students telling one another of That Perv Nelson. The one who's always making the inappropriate fuck-me-breed-me-fuckcuntity jokes? Sorry, but don't categorize me with you. And I don't sleep with my students."

At least, he was trying not to.

Nathan cut him a serious expression. "It's Fecundity Selection, and the girls needed to know the phenotype of our hypothetical children's offspring."

"My statement stands." How was this for candor: 'Miss Larson, I regret to say, but I am unable to follow through on my offer. Sorry for any complications this may have caused you. Be safe and happy holidays. - Professor Ryne' Simple, to the point, no emotional attachment file.

He was prepared to press send when his phone vibrated, and beside the Inbox was the sinful (1). The (1) he was possibly losing hair waiting for? Or maybe one of the hundreds of professor automatic meeting reminders, which he could have sworn were to be directed to the trash folder.

"You're right. Never seen him use technology this much," Donnie said.

He clicked Inbox and sure enough, the sender name 'Grace Larson' taunted at the top of the list. No matter what it read, the offer was still rescinded. For both of their sakes. His sanity. Her safety. His cock's well-being.

But when he opened the e-mail, he knew immediately from the nauseating jolt of need, he was too far in to ever cancel the chance to have her in his presence. In his home. To have such an art piece decorating his furniture. Sitting out on his terrace, the back foyer, the mezzanine's leather sofa. He stopped there, envisioning her poised on the leather. She would be wearing that long sleeve plaid shirt. The one that consumed her frame and made his hands eager to press against the loose fabric, discover the slender, warm body beneath it.

Her curls were the exact color as the sofa, a deep brown that, only when the sun glided in through the bay windows, lightened to a glistening almost-burgundy. Her hands would be curled, her eyes filled with lust-shroud-doubt, fear peppered in between. And he would stand there, leaned against the banister, the mere weight of his gaze saturating her surroundings with discomfort until she breathed deep and unsure, the way he liked.

He let out a shuddered breath, reading the e-mail with forced placidity. 'Dear Mr. Ryne' it started, the formality unique to the only student who insisted he be Mr. as opposed to Professor (he'd never stopped it, because it never failed to drive him over the edge). 'I would be grateful if you are still interested in tutoring and helping me hone my craft. Unfortunately, the latest I can come is 9 in the a.m. tomorrow. If I've messaged too late, then I am sorry to have waited and I hope you have a happy Xmas and great New Year. - Grace Larson'

What being in their right state of mind would rescind their offer? He couldn't message back soon enough. 'Miss Larson, it is not too late. Be here at 7 a.m. and we will work out a schedule. - Professor Ryne' An address was attached at the end.

He blackened the screen, remembering the company he had over. He needed to sleep now, get his rest and lay out the supplies for the morning session. Waking up early wasn't his strong suit. It was why he taught strictly evening classes, but apparently Miss Larson had to be that woman.

His eyes fell on his situational friends. "It was nice catching up with you all, but I'm afraid I have to head in early."

Viktor was quick to express his annoyance. "It's barely ten! You've been dodging us for damn near three years."

So it had been three years.

"Only you, Viktor," Donnie defended. "We work with him, so we've had our dose of the pritsy man."

But Nathan wasn't having it either way. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

He had nothing to hide. "Teaching a student early tomorrow. I'm going to sleep."

"And you said you don't sleep with them."

"Statement stands."

Nathan sucked his teeth at him. "I'm driving. If I leave now, I can't finish my drink until I got home. You ever drink low-carbonated, settled beer?" he asked incredulously.

"Shit's not the same," Viktor agreed and they all looked at him as though that comment was point made, checkmate, case settled and won. They went back to their hybrid game of cards and shoveling pizzas into their orifices.

He rose and headed toward the sink.

"Ah Jesus, he's going for the sink hose." They hopped up, grabbing for their belongings.

His indifferent gaze met their glaring ones as he aimed the nozzle at them.

Viktor tapped Donnie's chest. "Get the pizza. We were leaving anyways. Only depressed people decline Pizza Hut, and none of us need that kind of negativity in our lives."

Dimitri watched them go with no love lost. He had bigger problems on his hands. Grace Larson problems.

----------------

"No. No. No." I glared at Becky and her preposterous suggestion of clothing. No, I would not wear a dress better suited for clubbing and trying to score a free drink. No, I would not even look at that black top that was missing vital discretions. And I definitely was not wearing those heeled boots, even if the weather outside was frightful.

"I thought the entire point was to seduce the grade out of him?"

Unbelievable. "Becky, he's already given me a good enough grade." I hadn't divulged the entire digression of that memorable evening, only that I'd had to stay after class to make up my portfolio's grade. Becky was simply fond of beelining to conclusions. Still, I frowned to think of how close she flirted to the truth.

It hadn't been seduction, per se. But inappropriate actions hadn't been in absentia. The memory of unyielding muscles lined at my back threatened to leave me breathless before my roommate. The iron intrusion of his elongated member pressed against me with clear intention . . . My stomach knotted.

"You can't show up naked," she concluded, but when her eyes lit with a sudden change of heart, I had to lay the matter to rest.

"The brown blouse." I sat on her bed of unmade sheets, surrounded by her militia of clothing. Of the choices, the chiffon blouse bled with silk underneath seemed the least threatening of them all. It was two sizes too small for Becky's bust, meaning it fit mine perfectly. "And the black jeans."

Her understanding ended there. "You would think an art major would have better style than a bland pair of jeans." Regardless of the disagreement shining through her hazel gaze, she relented, tossing the denim pair of pants my way.

"You do understand we'll be practicing with paint and other unfriendly mediums, right?" I didn't understand why she insisted she dress me. Granted, I was appointed her wardrobe model day one of our meeting, but until today, I'd never given her a reason to exercise her full potential. Now, she was trying to rub some of her beauty off on me.

Becky's eyes was on my hair, calculation fleeting through her gaze. "I choose to focus on the 'other'."

I stared at her, deadpan, hoping she didn't mean what I thought she meant.

"At least do something with your hair. Ponytail? Pins?"

An objection rest at the tip of my tongue, but one glance into her bedside mirror showed me the disaster of curls. I'd sworn I would get it trimmed and contained this winter break, but procrastination was a loyal friend of mine. Times like these I envied Becky. She had chestnut locks to the waist. The kind that a brush just glided right through in the morning without protest.

One might wonder why I put up with the makeover. The answer was simple: she had a car; I only had my two feet. The weather forecast for this week said my two feet would hardly suffice.

"Fine." Ten minutes later, the mass of briers and hell was miraculously pinned back, the hassle of curls resting low at the shoulder blades. The blouse was admittedly perfect, modest. The jeans thankfully didn't require a belt and by the time we were working on footwear, I found myself getting rather into it.

Was Mr. Ryne's someone who admired the embellishment of heels? Would his eyes skim over the light, feathered brown boots with quiet approval? Did his eyes spy name brands? No . . . he preferred a divergence from current trends. The flat boots then, woolen and so warm I debated buying them off Becky. Their somber shade of brown was a deadringer for the blouse, a victory I gladly appraised myself as I tied their laces.

Only then did I wonder why I cared. This was a tutoring session. Last time he had commented on my apparel because his students was a direct reflection of him (let him tell it), but now it would be only the two of us. Despite that unnerving fact, I reassured myself with the recollection that he had called me beautiful.

Well, he hadn't outright said I was beautiful, but implied it through a hypothetical scenario. Even then, the implication had been enough to cast aside my doubts and fear of the man, to where the word had hung like pax between us. And the way he'd whispered it . . .

In the end, even if I didn't get Mr. Ryne's approval, I certainly got the thumbs up from Becky. She admired me from the doorway, her keys in hand. "You have the address?"

I nodded. The text had come yesterday night, and while I didn't recognize the area, I was surprised to find it was twenty minutes from the main campus. "He didn't say how long the session would last, but I know you're meeting with Brandon at 9."

If the session ended too early and Becky was still out, I had no qualms with chancing the snow on two feet to the nearest bus station. Especially with these boots.

She gave me one last once over. "Got it. Good to go."

When we arrived at the address shown in the email, the snow had really fallen—just as our mouths did when we regarded the estate.

"A-are you sure you don't want to try seduction?"

For a brief second, I considered it. Not that I said that to her. No, I was still too busy gaping and wondering if I GPSed the correct address. I'd known Dimitri Ryne was a beloved international artist, his name commonly passed around top tier exhibitions, but I hadn't known the extent of his success. I hadn't known he was loaded.

Iron gates resurrected around an acre of land. Two diverging paths wended around a stone fountain disabled for the winter. Sentinel pine trees watched over the white pastures in a crescent arch around the perimeters of the home, their pines full though glazed with white flakes of frost. The home was a hybrid of neoclassical and Italian revival, its flagstone portico a winter wonderland of terracotta and snow mesh. The eyes of diamond pane windows were set on equal columns, complete with a scaling bay window on the second level, overlooking it all. The perfect place to observe.

Now it really made sense. Money held hands with unstable minds. Money fed the grimmer side of every spectrum. It made sense that he would have it. Though it did nothing but cause my second guessing to become fifth guessing, and honestly, I may not have gotten out of the car at all had the gates not opened and Becky pulled inside.

In that moment, I wanted to close my eyes, chide myself for succumbing to the temptation of a personal tutor, but lately, closing my eyes meant welcoming the tantalizing strokes of fantasies. Hands—his hands, holding me in place. Imprisoned between the unyielding wall and contours of him. His lips against mine as he caressed my fears, fed pain to my desires.

"Grace?"

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