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  Art of Desire

  Helena Harker

  When Jenna runs into a former student she used to have a crush on, she decides to make her lusty fantasies a reality. Justin is studying Fine Arts in university, and when he asks Jenna to pose nude for a sculpture, her inner cougar tells her to go for it. But while Jenna can’t wait to teach him how to pleasure an older woman, Justin turns the tables and decides to teach her the art of patience.

  Art of Desire

  Helena Harker

  Chapter One

  His arctic-blue eyes met mine, and shivers of recognition danced through me.

  I hadn’t seen him in a year, but it felt like only days. As gorgeous as ever, Justin arched his brows in surprise, giving me a shy smile before pouring red wine into two long-stemmed glasses.

  So he worked as a bartender in a hotel restaurant. Maybe I’d ask him for a Sex on the Beach or better yet, a Screaming Orgasm. I grinned. Still eyeing his dirty-blond hair, neatly trimmed beard and square jaw—God, I’d love to trail my fingers along that jaw—I walked to the bar, swept my short ruffled skirt under me and sat down. Long, black hair fell past my shoulders. I tucked a few strands behind my ear, glad I’d taken extra time this morning to apply Bold Bordeaux, my favorite shade of lipstick, and matching eye shadow.

  Hey, scrumptious, I wanted to say, but opted for a more acceptable, “Hi, Justin, how have you been?” My teeth snagged on my lower lip, and butterflies came alive in my stomach. Why the hell was I this nervous?

  Because he’s half your age, my conscience snapped. And in case you’ve forgotten, he’s your student.

  Former student, my inner cougar growled back. He graduated last June, remember?

  “Hi, Mrs. Fall—”

  “Jenna!” I corrected him. No need for formalities, especially since they reminded me of my age. “I’m not your teacher anymore.”

  “Jenna,” he said slowly, savoring every syllable as it rolled off his tongue. He returned the bottle to its shelf and offered me the wine list. “Great to see you. I’m going to the University of Montreal now. I started a massage therapy program last summer, but I quit. Needed something more intellectually stimulating.”

  Oh I could stimulate you in all kinds of ways, the cougar inside me purred.

  In my media class, he’d always made insightful comments about current events, and he eagerly dissected social issues. University suited him better than massage school. Although massage school had its perks. I pictured myself lying on a table, a towel draped over me from the waist down, Justin’s oiled palms sliding down my back, and then creeping under the towel, reaching all the way to my ass. In long, firm strokes, his hands glided upward, along my spine, past my shoulders, his thumbs working at the muscles, melting the tension at the base of my neck. Another smooth descent, his touch making me wet, his index finger slipping into my crack, still lower, until it dipped into my moist folds. My definition of bliss.

  The waitress whisked the wineglasses off the bar. Except for two other women chatting away in cozy armchairs by the window, the place was empty. Good. We had privacy.

  Running my fingers along the gold chain at my neck, I asked, “What program are you in?”

  “Fine Arts.”

  “Photography?” In one of his oral presentations, he discussed depictions of the female form, and showed the class a few photos he’d taken of a nude model. Tasteful shots, I had to admit. He had talent.

  “I’m mostly into lifecasting.”

  “What’s that?” I opened the wine list and pretended to look through it, gliding my red fingernail along a blur of names.

  “Casts of live models that are made into sculptures. I’m completing a series.” His face lit up and he spoke faster, clearly passionate about his creations. “Would you like to see?”

  “Of course.” Pushing the wine list aside, I placed my elbows on the edge of the bar and leaned forward.

  “I set up a website to post pics of my art. Hopefully, I can sell a few pieces to help cover the cost of materials and tuition.” He reached into his pocket for his cell phone, punched in a few keys, and showed me a sculpture of a woman’s torso, including the lower half of her face. Her arms modestly covered her breasts, and her chin turned shyly to one side.

  “Breathtaking. It’s so lifelike.”

  “Thanks,” he said, beaming. “It’s my best casting work so far. There are more.”

  As he handed me the phone, our fingertips touched, and a tingle of electricity raced up my arm. After fifteen years of teaching, Justin was my first crush. I loved his humor, intelligence, maturity and irreverence. He’d made quite an impression. The fact that he was forbidden fruit made him all the more delectable. Every week, I’d looked forward to my media class, because I knew he’d be sitting in the back row, paying attention to every word I said.

  The way he used to look at me sometimes, I wondered if he felt the same way. Did he have a thing for me too? Did he fantasize about me the way I did about him? When I curled up in bed at night and pulled the sheets over my bare skin, I’d think of Justin. My hand would slide down to my wet pussy, and then to my clit, making it slippery with my juices. I imagined kissing his lips, plunging my tongue into his eager mouth. Overcome by lust, he kissed me back, pressing his body against mine.

  Forbidden fantasies. One hundred percent taboo.

  Now that he’d graduated from high school, I could make a move.

  No you won’t, my conscience nagged. No sex with young men who used to be in your classes. It’s unethical. It’s immoral. He’ll brag to all his friends that he banged the teacher, and your reputation will be screwed.

  I’d love to be screwed, my cougar snarled.

  I flipped through more sculptures of women’s bodies. Sensual. Carnal. Sexy. Flirtatious. He’d captured an amazing range of moods and poses. “Is it difficult to find women to model for you?”

  “Not really.” Justin smiled. “It’s all in the approach. If you make a woman feel good about herself, and explain that the sculpture is the expression of her inner goddess, she often agrees.”

  “You phrase it so eloquently. It’s that easy?”

  “It’s that easy.” He shrugged. “Most of the time. Some need more convincing than others. And it’s very important to make the model feel comfortable during the casting process.”

  With his lean, wiry build, he’d make a damn fine sculpture himself. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a pale-gray shirt. The top three buttons were undone, and he’d rolled up his sleeves. Sunlight streamed through the window, kissing his smooth, suntanned skin and the fine, golden hairs on his forearms. He had an artist’s long, slender fingers. I wanted to touch him so badly. I wanted him to touch me. My pussy ached, and it took all my self-control to stop from rubbing my thighs together.

  “Since you don’t seem interested in the wine list, why don’t I fix you a cocktail?”

  “Sure, I’d love a cocktail.” I bit back the urge to add extra emphasis to cock. “How about a—”

  “Don’t tell me.” He held a finger to his lips. “Let me guess.”

  “You know, I’m very selective when it comes to what I drink.” No beer, no straight-up hard liquor, no wine except for the occasional spritzer, maybe champagne every now and then, with a maraschino cherry at the bottom of the glass. Cocktails, now I was partial to those. Sweet and soothing, they swept a girl’s cares away and transported her to a world where problems didn’t exist.

  His initial shyness vanished and cool self-assuredness took over. “Well, if you’re selective, I’ll have to give this extra thought.” A smile played on his lips. “A good bartender can anticipate the needs of his patrons.”

  Skeptical, I raised my eyebrows. “Can he?” As much as I had a thing for Justin, I didn’t think he cou
ld read my mind to discover that I wanted a margarita.

  “Absolutely.” His voice grew rough and husky, and he rested both elbows on the bar. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. You’re a woman. In a bar. Alone. Based on those facts, I can make certain deductions.”

  “What are you insinuating, Dr. Freud?”

  As if teetering on the edge of a cliff, I waited breathlessly for him to speak. What did he think of me? At forty, I still looked good in killer high heels and form-fitting tops. A lot of men told me I did, anyway. I took cardio kickboxing three times a week and yoga on weekends. When Justin looked at me, what did he see? A woman old enough to be his mother? His former teacher? Or a woman he’d like to take to bed?

  “My diagnosis?” All of a sudden, he became serious. “You’re lonely.”

  Justin found my weakness, and it hurt. He seemed a little taken aback by my reaction. The pain must have registered on my face.

  “You’re a great teacher. You were strict and fun at the same time. I learned a lot about critical thinking. I shouldn’t believe everything I see on the news or read in the paper.” Justin paused, licking his oh-so-kissable lips. “But sometimes you seemed… wounded. Alone.”

  Perfect description. “Bitter breakup,” I said. “I’ve moved on.” A three-year relationship flushed down the drain. An emotionally abusive relationship. To make a clean start, I sold the house we lived in and moved into a condo downtown. In the condo, there were no memories to haunt me, no taunts or putdowns lurking in the shadows.

  “Does that explain your lack of patience?” Justin reached into the small fridge below the bar and removed a tray of ice cubes. “The breakup, I mean.”

  Lack of patience? “I don’t understand.”

  “Sometimes you snapped at the students. Me included.”

  “You needed somebody to snap at you. You always showed up late.” Tardy students were a pet peeve of mine. “Sometimes I wish I taught at a university and not in high school. Patience is my weakness.” One of them, anyway.

  “Patience can be learned.”

  “Do you think so?” His eyes, twin bits of blue ice, drew me in and sent a chill down my spine. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. “Maybe teachers don’t make good students.”

  “That remains to be determined,” he said, reaching for a tall bottle of clear liquid. “As well as my choice of drink for you. What does a lonely woman want? What works best as a mood enhancer? Something sweet? Something colorful? Served in a fancy glass?”

  I hadn’t been with a man in months. After all this time, I wanted someone nonjudgmental, someone I could have fun with, who wanted mind-blowing sex as often as I did. I needed a smart, easygoing guy.

  I needed Justin.

  “Well, I can’t wait to see what you come up with as my mystery cocktail,” I said coyly, my breasts pressing against the bar.

  “Keep looking at my artwork,” he said. “Your drink is on its way.”

  The next pic showed a—oh my fucking God—a huge penis sitting in the middle of an empty room. The caption read: “Phallus—Two hundred forty pounds (medium— concrete).”

  Uncontrollable giggles escaped my throat. “Sorry, Justin. There’s a double entendre. If this is a medium, I’d hate to see a large.”

  He looked a little embarrassed and brushed his longish hair off his forehead. “Leave it to my teacher to spot a problem. I’ll change the wording.”

  Justin had a one-track mind, all right. Every paper he handed in, every oral presentation he did, related in some way to perceptions of women’s bodies, whether in men’s magazines, or porn videos or issues of Cosmo. How could I get him to focus on my body?

  “What inspired this two-hundred-and-forty-pound symbol of virility and manhood?”

  “In modern society, men think their penis is the center of their existence. It defines them. It has a mythology that’s larger than life,” he explained. “My ex-girlfriend says I’m making up for my shortcomings. My brother says I’m trying to brag about my assets.”

  Which was it? I’d love to find out, to undo the top button of his jeans, tug on his zipper, slide my hand down his flat stomach until I reached his cock. I’d straddle him, my pussy swallowing him whole, and—

  With a flourish, Justin placed a margarita in front of me. A margarita! Just the way I liked it, on the rocks, with a wedge of lemon perched on the side and salt along the rim.

  “Mind reader!” I said.

  “I don’t read minds. I listen,” he said. “You mentioned once that a margarita was your favorite drink.”

  After all this time, he remembered. My insides turned to Jell-O. “You were a very attentive student.” My cougar twitched her tail, inwardly pleased. I sipped the margarita, a perfect blend of sweet and tart. Delicately, I licked salt off my lips. “You always earned high marks.”

  “Except for my last oral. I ran out of time and didn’t prepare properly.”

  Ah yes, his final oral. No argument to defend, just a long rambling monologue about a book he’d read on the social ramifications of the porn industry. What a disappointment.

  “I gave you a sixty-nine.” The innuendo didn’t register until after I said it out loud. Oops.

  Justin’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. Was he picturing us in that position—because I sure as hell was—his face buried against my mound, his tongue licking my clit while I hungrily sucked his cock. I might as well go with it and make a not-so-subtle move. “Considering the sexual content of your presentation, I thought the number was quite appropriate.”

  “Did you?” His voice lowered to a deep, sexy timbre. He leaned forward, our faces only a few inches apart. “Maybe I should have asked for a make-up.”

  “It’s never too late to ask for a make-up.” Slow fire kindled inside me, and when I pressed my thighs together, my pussy throbbed. I had to make him mine, or my fantasies would remain fantasies. I’d lived off them way too long. Lightly, I traced the length of his index finger. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Well, I started seeing one of my sister’s friends a few weeks ago.”

  Shit. My fantasy plummeted out of the sky as fast as a kamikaze fighter plane, landing in a fireball.

  “Sort of.”

  Hope staggered from the ashes. “She hasn’t staked a claim yet?”

  “Not sure I want her to.”

  “Why?”

  “We went on a few dates. She wants to see me again. But she’s…immature.”

  He likes mature women. Reel him in! Taking another long, slow sip of the margarita to inflate my courage, I thought about what to say next. Come on, Jenna, my cougar growled. Corner him and pounce, baby! As brazenly as I dared, I whispered, “What if I give you the opportunity to improve on your sixty-nine?”

  For about half a second, a stunned look appeared on his face, followed by an exhilarated this-is-too-good-to-be-true. “I’d say that’s an opportunity I wouldn’t turn down.” Briefly, his fingers wrapped around mine and squeezed.

  The air between us sizzled. My nipples hardened at the thought of him running his hands over my breasts. “Do you have plans later?”

  “No plans. I get off work in an hour.” His eyes roved over my hair and to the front of my blouse. “How about if I show you my art first? I have a small studio in my apartment.”

  “Great idea.” Art first. Sex later. He wanted the anticipation to build.

  Although I’d asked a lot of men out in the past, this felt different. Vaguely taboo. Probably because of Justin’s age. Yes, most definitely because of his age. How much experience did he have with women? How much would I be able to teach him? Possibility after possibility churned in my brain.

  When his shift ended, we climbed into my red car. He adjusted the seat to make room for his long legs. Having him this close, I thought I’d spontaneously combust. At every red light, he placed his hand on mine and teased me with long, slow strokes that traveled from my wrist to my forearm.

  “You learned that in massage class?
”

  “I learned a lot of things in massage class.”

  “You’ll have to show me.”

  “I plan to.”

  Damn, he was hot. As my foot shifted from the gas pedal to the brake, my already short skirt hiked up, revealing most of my thigh. Justin slid his fingers down my leg, leaving trails of fire on my bare skin. He did it again, this time on the inside of my thigh, stopping inches from my pussy. Please keep going. A little farther. Please.

  His hand returned to his lap. Clearly, my attempt at telepathy didn’t work. Men aren’t psychic, Jenna. Be obvious. Tell him what you want.

  “Touch me again,” I said.

  His long fingers rested on my knee and began their journey toward my mound, kneading the muscles on my inner thigh along the way, making the breath catch in my throat. I swallowed. Exactly like last time, he stopped just short of my pussy.

  Damn! This foreplay was making me wild. “Don’t be shy. All the way up.” I shifted in my seat, spreading my legs to give him free access.

  Justin turned slightly, took the hem of my skirt and lifted it all the way up, exposing my thong. With a deft move of his hand, he slid his thumb over my throbbing nub, down to my pussy. I bit back a moan.

  “Slip your finger inside me,” I said urgently, turning right at the next intersection and hoping I didn’t slam into a tree. “Now.”

  “You’ll drive off the road if I do.” His voice had a humorous edge to it, as if he knew he was in complete control of the situation. Justin pulled my skirt back to my knee. “Let’s wait.”

  What? Did a twenty-year-old guy just tell me he wanted to wait? Did he just pull my skirt back to my knee instead of hiking it around my waist? I wanted him to put a finger inside me right now. Not later. My hormones raged.

  “You always wear the sexiest clothes,” he said.

  Clever way to change the topic, Justin. I shouldn’t be frustrated. Most women would be thrilled to be with a guy who wanted to take his time instead of jumping her bones in the car. Take it easy, Jenna. There’ll be plenty of time to enjoy him when you get to his place.