Oh. My. God.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
I let out a pained yelp and scurried from my seat, but he was there before me, my sketch firmly in his grip as his eyes roved over my dirty secret.
I felt sick and the world lurched around me, my cheeks burning as I fought back the panic. I gathered up my materials in a flurry and threw them into my art case.
“Helen…” he began, but I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t bear it.
“I’m sorry,” I whimpered. “I’m… I’m just… I’m so sorry. Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
“Helen,” he said again, and this time he reached out for me, his hand so hot on my wrist that I jolted away.
“Please, please may I have my sketchbook?” I didn’t sound like me. I sounded like a little mouse, a terrified little mouse.
He flipped it shut and handed it over without argument, and I dropped it into my case like a hot potato. Then I was up, on my feet and ready to go, clumsy feet tripping over each other in my haste to escape, but he called me again, and this time his voice was firmer.
“Sit back down,” he said. “We should talk about this.”
I shook my head. “No need, it won’t happen again, I promise. It will never, ever happen again.”
“I’m not looking for apologies or assurance, Helen, I just want to talk.”
Talking was the last thing I wanted to do. I could have cried with relief when the door swung open and Lizzie’s little pigtails came into view over the paint stand.
“I’ve got to go,” I said, slinging my bag onto my shoulder. “Please?”
He shrugged in defeat. “School’s over, Helen, you’re free to leave.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, and I was away, clattering into Lizzie by the whiteboard and grabbing her by the elbow. I frogmarched her out of there and didn’t dare look back.
I’d never be able to look back. Not ever.
In fact, I doubted I’d ever be able to look at him again.
***
Helen
“Whoa. Just… wow. Ok.” Lizzie’s face said it all, and mine burned all the brighter for it. She turned the sketchbook in her hands, admiring the embarrassing sketch from all angles. I wished the ground would swallow me up. “Do you really think he’s that well hung? You’ve probably flattered him, at least.”
“I don’t think flattered is the right word for it. How about mortified?”
Her eyes twinkled. “He isn’t going to be mortified by this, Hels. It’s quite something.”
“And he’s quite my teacher. He’s going to be utterly, totally, abysmally, horrifically mortified.” I pressed my palms to my cheeks and they were still hot. “How will I ever be able to look at him again?”
“It’ll take more than this to stop you looking at him,” she laughed. “Old habits die way harder than that.”
“I can’t believe you’re laughing. This is a total disaster.” She’d started flipping back through the pages before I had chance to reclaim my sketchpad, and slapped my hands away as I tried to protest.
“You may as well let me see the rest now! How much worse can they possibly be?”
Much worse.
Much, much worse.
My dirty obsession really knew no shame.
But I did. Shame and I were getting a solid introduction.
Her cute little eyebrows rose on her forehead and her mouth curved into a grin. “Dirty minx. I thought you were over all the kinky stuff?”
“Said who?”
She shrugged. “It’s been ages since we talked. You know, talked.”
“No it hasn’t,” I scoffed. “We talk.”
“Yeah, just not like we used to.” She flipped another page. “Wow.”
My stomach lurched. “He didn’t see that one. Praise Heaven for small mercies.”
“Shame.” Her smile was full of glee as she held up the page. One of my favourites. Me, bound to a bed, spread-eagled and at the mercy of the man at my feet. He was in shadow, ominous but beautiful, the outline of his tousled hair captured perfectly, even if I did say so myself. My lips were parted, eyes glazed and wanting. My back arched, my weight heavy on my shoulders as my body strained for him, powerless against the invisible call of his touch. “I think he’d have liked this one.”
“He’s not going to like any of them, Lizzie. He’ll think I’m a weirdo.” She flipped another, onto my very favourite, the one where Mr Roberts was angry, eyes burning, taking me hard over the art bench where I spent the majority of my school time. He had my hair in his fist, forcing my cheek flat to the wood, my splayed palms smearing paint over a half-finished canvas. A tumbler of water had been knocked clean over, rivers of paint-dirty water snaking away from us and dribbling into the foreground.
“I think you should drop your sketchpad more often,” she giggled. “I think you might get somewhere.”