The sculptor; part 5

"If I had known you always made this effort to clean the shower...in this...luring...way...I would have appreciated it more...."

He says, standing with his arms crossed and an obvious bulge in his pants. A crooked smile on his beautiful face.

Startled I try to hide behind the shower curtain, which at that moment decides not to glide over the rail but cling to my body instead. Making my embarrassment even bigger.

"How long have you been standing here?" I exclaim.

"Long enough." Raising one brow suggestively and then looks down.

I shriek. "Eeeew! Go away."

"Why?"

"So I can wash myself."

"Go ahead. It's ok. In fact....I want to take a shower too." And he starts to open his pants. Slowly walking in my direction.

"Fuck off!" I cry and throw my wet bathing sponge at him.

Laughing he tries to catch the thing, but it hits him right on the chest. Soaking his tee.

He clasps it in his hand, brings it up and wrings the rest of the water over his face, his mouth open to catch the drops. Fascinated I watch the water drip in his neck.
Then he shaking his hair. With his other finger he makes a warning gesture.

"Next time." He says, and with the stealth of a panther he leaves the bathing room.
I lean against the cold tiles. Panting suddenly, my hands pressing my burning cheeks.

It's half past eleven. I just drank coffee with my friends Sas and Martin in the canteen of the academy and am on my way to give a presentation to one of my professors about a project of mine.

I'm nervous.

I walk through the hall to the marble stairs that lead to the workshops for Spatial Design. Halfway on one of the broad steps sits the sculptor. He is all crumbled up and focused on drawing in a notebook.

My heart skips a beat.

He looks so unearthly beautiful. With his mouth half open, unknowingly stroking his lips with the tip of his tongue. His hair tucked away in a backward cap, but a strand escaped and is partly hanging over his eyes. His perfect limbs cloaked are in torn shorts over grandpa long johns, his broad shoulders in a clean but wrinkled t-shirt.

"Hey." I say and stop to see what he is doing.

He doesn't respond. Keeps on drawing.

I continue my climb. But after three or more steps I turn to look over my shoulder.

He looks up at me.

Smiles.

The presentation goes horrible. The professor was real offensive and he hated my project. He said this wasn't high school and I couldn't get away with a lame, childish concept like this. Back to the drawing room - and read! Give it some depth, some substance, was his advice. No silly schoolgirls frills.

When he left I couldn't help myself. I cried. I couldn't understand how he could be so cruel. I had really worked hard on this project.
I sit with my head in my arms, sniffing, when I feel a warm hand in my neck - stroking me.

"He's an asshole. Always has been. Don't let him upset you. He just hates pretty girls."

As I lift my head I look into the eyes of the sculptor. The deepest blue. Inches from my face.

"He was so mean." I sniffle.

"Aww, poor puppy." He says and leans in to softly take my bottom lip between his teeth. Tenderly tugging.

I think I'm drowning in his eyes, because I feel so breathless. My heart is bounding so hard.

And when I feel his tongue stroking my captured lip I can do nothing else than let out a soft moan and kiss him.
I suck at his upper lip and when his mouth covers mine I feel a current running through my body. His warm tongue twirling around mine makes me long for more.
With a shaking hand I carefully explore his shoulder, the muscles under his skin.

He grabs a handful of my hair, cupping the back of my head and with his other hand caressing my cheek.

And then, suddenly, the kiss is over. He pulls back.
A rueful grin on his face.

"Not here." He says. "Not now."