I stand naked in her bathroom doorway. She lies still slumbering in the large bed in the center of the spacious room, right where I left her. It baffles me that she's still there, and still perfect.
Morning light streams through the windows at precisely the angle to accent the supple curves of her sleeping body. Her long, tan legs are tangled in crumpled sheets, her tawny hair strewn in messy tendrils across the pillow.
My groggy mind awakens by increments, the night before coalescing into memories almost as tangible as my growing hard-on. In spite of that, my first coherent thought is how much I want to find my sketchbook and capture the scene.
It’s a compulsion, needing to capture her beauty on paper before it disappears, before I lose this creature that should never have been mine even for a moment.
I find my sketchbook and move a chair to the foot of the bed, then sit.
My eyes drift over her. Moments of indecision make me pause to wonder whether I should just crawl back into bed with her, to wake her up and relive the night before. But the opportunity to catch her sleeping like this is too good. I’ve had plenty of inconvenient erections. I know I can ignore this one... for now, and for her. She belongs to someone else, and memories can be fleeting, but a drawing is more permanent. My fingers tingle with the urge to capture her on paper, to keep this moment with me so I can revisit it in crisp detail without the muddled filter of a fading memory.
Suppressing my other urges, I prop my feet on the end of the bed and begin to draw her naked, sleeping figure in the morning light.
For what seems like hours, I sketch.
She changes positions and I flip to the next page, starting anew as the light brightens and the shadows shift.
She rolls onto her back and tosses one arm over her eyes to shade them from the light. Her erect brown nipples cast perfect small shadows onto her beautiful, bare breasts. I bend my head to the page to capture the detail.
When I look up again, she's shifted onto her side. I flip pages and begin sketching again, starting with the plane of the bed, the rumpled sheets, then the quick lines of her legs. As my pencil renders the shapes on the page, one knee bends beneath the sheets causing them to slip down to her thighs. My hand pauses above the page and my eyes drift up those golden thighs and higher. I catch the movement of her hand near her face. Her eyes open and she gives me an amused and sleepy smile.
"Were you drawing me?" she asks, her voice still rough and sexy from sleep.
"The light was right. And you're a great subject… at least when you're sleeping."
"I could still be a good subject," she says seductively.
She kicks the sheets off her feet. One hand slides across her skin, over her breasts and down her stomach, stopping with her fingers just above the floral scrollwork tattoo that graces her bare mons. Her fingertips slip lower in tortuously slow increments.
I'm torn between watching to see how far she'll go and joining her to take care of business myself. I know it's a deliberate ploy at seduction, and it's working. My groin aches, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing she's gotten to me. I know she’ll accept me when I’m ready. At least I hope she will.
I reposition my sketchbook more strategically to hide my arousal and begin sketching again with abandon, my first strokes rough and quick to catch the basic outlines of her form. After that I attend to details.
The graphite of the pencil drifts smoothly across the surface of the page, the soft curves of her face coming into focus with each stroke. The pencil's tip traces her eyes, low-lidded and seductive, her full lips, parted in invitation. I remember how sweet those lips felt against my own hot skin the night before and quickly quash the memory. I need to focus.
Her cheeks appear flushed so I add quick smudges to the page to represent her apparent arousal.
The pencil traces the delicate line of her neck, down over her shoulders, teasing out the definition of her collarbone and the hollow at the base of her throat. My tongue tingles with the memory of the salty flavor of her in that spot and the flavor of other, less visible places. Saliva irrigates my mouth and I swallow.
My fingertips direct the pencil lower, sketching the weighty curves of her breasts, shading the undersides just so, tweaking the tip in gentle little arcs to define the outlines of her nipples, then shading those with care. The memory of their texture tingles on my tongue. I involuntarily lick my lips and my erection twitches, beckoning me toward the bed, but I still have work to do.
The pencil skims across the undulating landscape of her torso, her narrow waist leading smoothly up the curving slope of her hip and sweeping over and down her thigh. I continue to explore every visible inch of her, seeking out highlights and shadows, shading in the dramatically darker areas attentively, defining each curve and swell with gentle smudges of graphite on the page.
I want to be inside those curves and shadows, to lose myself in them again, and I will... just as soon as I finish capturing her. I need to have this image for a time when we won't be together, which I know is inevitable. She isn't mine, except for in this moment and on this page.
As her toes begin to come into focus I am increasingly aware of her agitation by the shift of her thighs and the twitch of her hips. I trace the pencil back up her lower leg, drawing out the definition of her calf and her knee, then the curve of her inner thigh, remembering the silky smooth skin and the small sigh she made when I caressed her there last night.
She shifts again and lets out an exasperated sound, her position changing before I can go any higher. I pause, lifting my eyes to her face.
"You're right. I'm a terrible subject." Her lips are pressed together in irritation and she drops back onto her pillow in a huff. She turns to stare at me, a look of blatant challenge in her eyes: If I don't take control soon, I may lose the opportunity. Her fingertips slip down again as if to warn me how close I am to missing what may be my last chance to have her.
The pencil hovers over the sketch. I glance at the marks on the page, the perfect rendering of her perfect form. It's enough, I decide, and close the book with the pencil marking the page.
I set the sketchbook on the floor then climb onto the bed and crawl over to her. She turns toward me, slipping her arms around my neck.
"You weren’t even trying," I admonish, pinching her backside playfully. The harsh attention elicits a sharp breath, causing her breasts to graze my arm. She looks into my eyes with a sly smirk and pulls me closer.
"I can't hold still when you're looking at me like that. It feels like your hands are already on me."
I speak in a low murmur as I lay down against her and begin exploring, drawing my palm down over her soft curves. "They were… in a way. If you hold still for a minute I'll show you."
I proceed to demonstrate the process in detail, using my fingertips and the tip of my tongue on her skin rather than pencil on a page. My newest rendering is my masterpiece.