I was early. Seven twenty-two.
The old Victorian building loomed like something ripped from one of her paintings—peeling paint, narrow stairs creaking under my weight. Her door was black, chipped, a single raven sticker glaring from the peephole. My pulse was already a war drum.
I knocked.
The door opened just enough for one storm-gray eye to appear, framed by thick kohl and lashes that cast long shadows on her pale cheeks.
"You're early," she said, voice soft but steady.
"You told me not to be late."
A quiet exhale—almost a sigh—and the chain slid free. The door opened wider.
"Come in."
I stepped inside, and the world narrowed to her.
The apartment was small, but it felt infinite in its darkness. Black walls drank the flickering light from dozens of candles—black wax weeping down silver skulls, glass bottles, iron candelabras. The air was thick with vanilla incense, clove, and the sharp bite of fresh oil paint. Shelves sagged under jars of brushes, tubes of paint, dog-eared copies of Poe, Shelley, Anne Rice. A massive canvas dominated one wall: crumbling cathedral arches dissolving into ravens, strokes so raw they looked wet. Real feathers scattered the floor like fallen wings.
Her bed sat in the corner like a throne: black velvet comforter, wrought-iron frame, pillows piled high. An easel stood beside it, another work in progress—a pale figure half-emerging from shadow, eyes unfinished but already watching me.
She closed the door. Locked it. The click echoed like a heartbeat.
She wore an oversized Siouxsie and the Banshees shirt that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of collarbone. No bra. The soft weight of her breasts shifted under thin cotton when she moved, nipples faint shadows that made my mouth go dry. Black lace panties peeked when she turned. Torn fishnets clung to her thighs.
She gestured to a lone wooden chair by the desk.
"I'll be on the bed," she said quietly, already climbing up, cross-legged, laptop balanced like armor. "You sit there."
I set my bag down. "Why the distance? Thought we'd sit side by side. Collaborate."
She didn't look up. "Stop daydreaming."
The words were firm, but her voice stayed soft—shy, almost swallowed by the room. She tucked a strand of short black hair behind her ear, fingers paint-stained, and started typing.
I sat. Pulled out notes. Pretended to work.
God, she's beautiful.
Every small movement was torture. The way she bit her black-lined lip when concentrating. The subtle rise and fall of her chest under that shirt. The occasional shift that made the fabric ride higher on her pale thighs. I wanted to crawl across the floor and bury my face between them. I wanted to hear that soft voice break on my name. I wanted to ruin her and worship her in the same breath.
An hour bled away.
She wrote. I watched.
Finally she glanced up.
"Why are you just staring?" Soft, but direct. "This is a group project. Do something."
"You told the professor you'd do it alone," I said, leaning forward. "So do it."
Her brows lifted slightly. "Then why are you here?"
"To watch you closely." My voice dropped. "It's better than binoculars."
She stilled. "You're crazy."
"For you."
She looked away first, a faint flush creeping up her neck. Strong girl. Didn't crumble. Just absorbed it and kept breathing.
She has no idea. No idea how many nights I've spent with my hand around my cock, imagining those gray eyes looking up at me while she takes me deep. How I've memorized the way her skirt flips in the wind. How one confession from her could end me.
Another stretch of silence.
Then, quietly: "Do you ever… say anything you don't mean?"
"Rarely."
She nodded, almost to herself. Typed again.
A few minutes later: "People don't usually volunteer to be near me."
"I'm not people."
She paused, fingers hovering. "No," she murmured. "You're not."
The air felt heavier. Charged.
Then, so softly I almost missed it over the candle crackle:
"What you said yesterday… was it true?"
I didn't flinch. "Yes."
She didn't look at me. "You don't even ask which part."
"I don't need to," I said. "Everything I told you in that studio was true."
A pause. Her fingers hovered over the keys.
"Even the nine thousand dollars?"
"Except that."
Silence wrapped around us again, thicker now, humming with something unspoken.
She tucked hair behind her ear again, stared at her screen like it might protect her.
Then, in the smallest whisper, like she was afraid the walls would hear:
"Do you know almost every girl in our class has a crush on you?"
"I don't care."
Her breath caught—just slightly.
"Including me."
The air left my lungs.
My heart slammed once, hard, then raced.
She still wouldn't look at me. Kept typing, fingers steady even as her shoulders tensed.
Strong. So incredibly strong.
But she'd just cracked the door open.
And I was already stepping through.