Midnight Muse

He looks like he might say something more, but the professor enters the room and calls his name. He shoots Rory and I a cheeky grin. “That’s me.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll come grab your numbers after class, if that’s cool. We should hang out sometime, neighbors,” he says, turning on his heel. Before he takes a step, he’s winking over his shoulder and tossing out a, “Try not to enjoy class too much, ladies,” before he’s gliding across the room with an ease someone built like a brick wall should not have.

My gaze follows him as he reaches the professor, all grins and radiant energy. Maybe he isn’t like his brooding, rude roommates. The professor asks him something and Slate nods along as if he’s done this before and is being reminded of what’s expected of him for this class. He roots around in the bag slung over his shoulder and pulls something out as he makes his way towards the door but I can’t see what it is.

“Welcome to Drawing 201,” the professor greets, clapping her hands together to gain the attention of the room. Her dark eyes are bright, her smile welcoming and happy, as if teaching hungover college students how to draw is her life’s passion. I’m thankful, though, because she seems sweeter than honey. “My name is Ms. Woods, but you can call me Beatrice.”

It’s impossible to miss Slate slipping back into the room while Beatrice briefly explains the syllabus and what’s expected of us before shuffling us right into drawing warm ups and best practices for the class.

The charcoal is dry against my fingers, coating them black as I sweep the stick in loose strokes, working on getting Rory’s figure down in the one minute we’re allotted for this exercise. It doesn’t look much like anything, more like a mess of abstract Cheerios that have made it off the conveyer belt in a bunch of mismatched shapes.

The curves of my drawing become more fluid and refined as I fall into the familiar motions of drawing. I never seem to have enough patience and I’m always reminded of it when I’m forced to warm up. The act of letting go and scribbling through warm ups is unsettling to me. I prefer to have a perfect piece as soon as I set my charcoals, pencils, paints to the paper, otherwise I begin overthinking, second guessing my lines, wondering if anything I’m doing is even good enough, if I’m even exploring the right things, if I should even be majoring in art at all…

“What do you think he’s doing here?” Rory asks, nodding at Slate. Her gaze keeps flickering up from her drawing pad to our neighbor, where he’s once again speaking to Beatrice.

I try to shake the dreadful thoughts from my head, focusing my attention to where Slate is leaning down to hear the professor as if he wouldn’t be able to standing at his full height. I mean, sure, Beatrice isn’t that all, but I bet she has a set of lungs on her from teaching as long as she has.

I shrug, studying the lines of Rory’s face as I dig into my paper with the tip of my eraser, pulling out some of the charcoal to create the highlights on her skin from the lights reflecting off of her nose. “You don’t think he’s the?—”

“Class, this is Slate,” Beatrice interrupts, stealing my attention from both Rory and my drawing. It doesn’t really look anything like her yet, but I’m trying my best to trust the process, and the few minutes I’ve used to get something down was nowhere near enough time; which, might be the point, but it leaves me feeling unsettled.

Slate’s no longer wearing his loose jeans and tight t-shirt. Instead, he dons a thick, gray robe. The fabric doesn’t drape down far enough, his gloriously tanned and muscular legs on display for the class to see. There’s an intricate tattoo starting above his knee, creeping up underneath the fabric of the robe, a similar pattern to those on his shoulders. My mouth goes dry at the sight, following the lines of muscle all the way up as Beatrice continues. “He’s going to be our model for the day.”

I’m not the only one who makes a choking noise at this news. Girls and guys alike are blushing in their seats and avoiding eye contact with each other. Slate looks like he can hardly contain the smug smirk threatening to split his face in two, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. He winks at Rory and I again when he sees our faces, and we share a wide-eyed look of shock. At my side, Reid scoffs lightly and my jaw snaps shut, heat seeping into my cheeks as well.

Busying myself, I flip to a new page in the large drawing pad propped up in front of me. It’s crisp and creamy, not at all as interesting as I’m trying to make it seem as I steer clear of Slate’s mirth-filled stare. Smoothing out the paper with my hand, I realize it’s shaky with anticipation, a nervous excitement. My new neighbor who has just offered a truce, and I’m already going to see him naked.

Would it be weirder to still be mad at him and stare at his naked form, or now, when a ceasefire has been declared and we’re somewhat on the road to becoming friends? Or would he have used his glorious body to sway us into forgiving him? Because I know that his body is nothing short of a Greek statue.

I admit, that might have worked on me.

I don’t have the chance to think further on the matter because Slate’s moving into the circle towards the long mattress on the floor as Beatrice explains how the rest of the time in class is going to be divided.

There will be a few three-minute sketching sessions where we’re supposed to get down as much of his form as we can, while Slate changes poses every time the clock runs out. Following that exercise, there will be two fifteen-minute sessions, a break, and a final, longer session where we will be focusing on more detail than form.

I can’t wait.

Slate slides out of his shoes and I swallow roughly as he undoes the ties to his robe.

Thankfully, he’s not looking at me, watching how intently my gaze is pinned to his tanned skin. I might be able to pass it off as using my artist’s eye to capture every moment of his body on display, but Slate seems like the kind of guy who can see though obvious lies. He also seems pretty damn comfortable in his own skin, if he’s offering to model nude for the drawing classes.

Or, maybe he just wants everyone to know what he’s packing.

The fabric slides from his broad shoulders, exposing the muscles of his back. I’ve seen his tattoos before, when he hadn’t been wearing his shirt that night he answered his door, but with the bright lighting of the room shining down on him, I realize just how intricate they are. Ink weaving in and out of each other, sharp, complex lines that form a pattern across his shoulders and creep down his arms. I want to lean forward for a better look.

His waist pulls in tight and I have to bite my lip to hold back the noise threatening to break the concentrated silence of the room. His muscles flex as he moves, corded and thick in all of the right places. I can’t help myself, staring unabashed because he’s turned away from me, letting my eyes fall from the inky whorls down to the cavern of muscle lining his spine, all the way to his tight ass.

The entire class seems enraptured with his beauty, as if he’s a god reincarnated. It’s obvious that the boys want to be him and the girls want to be with him.

Two dimples poke in at the base of Slate’s spine that glisten as if he’s spent hours oiling up prior to class. Jesus, Quinn, pull yourself together, I try to remind myself, shifting in my seat and suddenly wishing I’m not currently straddling the drawing horse.

Slate shifts, turning, and his cock is on full display.

The stick of charcoal in my finger’s snaps in half.

I hope I get that facing me for the few hours we’ll be here because holy fucking shit is that a nice cock.

Next to me, Reid tuts under his breath, but even he can’t seem to look away from Slates body any more than I can.

We’re all human, after all.