“Well, I’m glad that I make this boringness a bit better,” I laugh.
“Me too,” he says softly.
I smile and look down at my art book, letting my hair fall and cover the warmth of my cheeks.
“What are you drawing?” he asks.
“Some Aztec sort of stuff. I like how there is no particular way to do it or pattern to follow. You just create your own.”
Sir gets up from his seat and sits down in the other chair under my table.
My heart beat picks up almost instantly.
“Oh, wow,” he says. “That’s so cool. How long does it take to do that much?” His fingers trace the felt tip patterns that cover half a page. My eyes watch them closely.
“A few days or more. Matters how often I work on it.”
“Can you teach me?”
I laugh. “And so the student becomes the teacher.”
His eyes gleam as they look into mine while he smiles. He’s so close I could lean forward and feel his hot breath against my skin.
“You’ll need some paper to start with,” I say, ripping out one of mine. I sit it in front of him and he scoots his chair closer.
“What’s the first step, Miss Mills?”
“Um, hold on.” I grab another black felt tip pen from my pencil case and hand it to him, my fingers brushing his.
I flip to a new page for myself and start with the basics. “Just remember, don’t think too much about it. Put the pen to the paper and let it go where it wants to.”
“Now there is some solid advice,” he chuckles.
“Yeah,” I whisper and clear my throat.
He works away at his not too bad drawing while I go back to my other one.
“Crap,” he curses. “Sorry.”
I look at his paper and laugh.
“Here,” I say, using my own felt tip to fix a mistake that he made. As I draw on his paper, my hand rests against his, as he didn’t bother moving it. My breathing becomes harder to control with every passing second. I don’t think as I do it, but I slowly raise my hand and rest it on his. My eyes trail up and meet his. I can feel his hot, ragged breath on my cheek as he entwines our hands. My heart hammers against my ribs as I wait for what is going to happen next.
Then the bell rang, loud and clear. Sir looks away, slipping his hand from mine and stands up. “You’re free to go,” he says bluntly, holding his hands together over his stomach.
“Thank you,” I mutter, packing up everything in a rush and scurrying out of the classroom with my head hung low.