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The art studio is quiet except for the sounds of your brush stroking the canvas, and the soft jazz music playing off your phone. You're lost in the painting—the ebb and flow of colors, the way the brush strokes so smoothly, the way the simple shapes take form into something greater. That's when you feel it.
It's a gaze, not a harsh one, but one you're familiar with. You look up, and turn around to see Jean leaning in the doorway with a dopey smirk on his face. "Looks nice," he begins, "but I think you could do better."
You scoff, "better? You don't even know what I'm trying to make." You set the brush onto the tray, and turn your body towards him.
He enters the room, "I don't need to," he says. "I just know how you work—always holding back... always playing it safe." He sits down next to you on an old wobbly stool, covered in years of built up paint and clay.
You don't answer him—not right away. You pick up the paint brush, and continue to paint on your canvas, brushing off his comment. He stares at you, at the way you hold your brush, the way you stroke the canvas with such grace. His words stir something deep in you, like he sees a part of you that you were unaware of. He hums along to the soft jazz playing on your phone while he watches, and eventually he speaks again.
"You like to be in control, don't you?" He asks lowly, inching closer to you ever so slightly.
You freeze, your brush hovering above the canvas. You slowly turn to look at him with a puzzled look on your face. "Yeah?" you question, who isn't in control of their own paintings? Hello?
He smirks, and leans closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "Maybe you should let someone else take the reins, eh?"
You can feel your pulse quicken as his hand brushes against your waist, just a touch, enough to make you aware of how close he is. The air between you is thick now, heavy with unspoken tension. You want to protest, but the words get caught in your throat. His fingertips trail lightly down your arm, making goosebumps rise on your skin.
Jean leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks, his voice barely audible. “I know you want to. You’re just too scared to admit it.”
You close your eyes for a moment, trying to regain some resemblance of control, but the weight of his words settles over you like a blanket. “Scared?” You finally ask, your voice shaky. “What makes you think that?”
He grips your waist, and spins you to face him, causing you to gasp, the paint brush falling to the floor to be forgotten. "It's easy," he whispers, pulling you closer to him, his mouth against your ear lobe. "You're afraid of losing control. But honestly? I think you'd like it more than you'd be willing to admit..." his fingers brush a loose strand of hair out of your face, and he grips your chin lightly, forcing you to look at him. Your breath catches in your throat, and you swallow nervously.
You've had a thing for Jean for a while, pretty much ever since the first day of classes. You never thought you'd get in a situation like this with him—you didn't think he thought of you in that way.
But before you could even respond, his hands are slipping up your shirt, and slinking around your back, unclipping your bra with ease. He slips it off, along with your shirt, leaving you partially bare in front of him. "J-Jean," you whimper, "we're in—in the classroom..."
He shrugs, "it's after hours, no one will come in, I promise..." he kisses your jaw softly, earning a soft moan from your lips—it's music to his ears. "If you're really worried," he continues between kisses going down your neck, "we can go into the storage closet, where we won't be seen..."
You think about it, and you give in. You nod, and he smirks against your skin, pulling away reluctantly. He stands up, helps you up, and leads you to the art room's storage closet in the back of the classroom—containing more paint and supplies than you could ever dream to count.
He lets you in first, and he follows, closing the door behind him. He pulls on the drawstring light, the warm yellow glow lighting up your faces. He smiles softly at you, and closes the distance between you two. He pushes you gently to the wall—his right arm is next to your head against the wall, and his left hand is cupping your face softly, and his lips are back on your jaw. His mouth is warm and his kisses are soft and wet, and his lips find their way to yours, hovering above them ever so slightly.
His hands cradle your face like you're made of something fragile, but there's fire in the way he looks at you—like he's been holding back for too long. "Can I?" he asks, voice low, thumb brushing your cheek.
You nod before the word even forms, breath catching just as he leans in.
The kiss starts slow, like he’s memorizing how you taste. His lips are warm and careful, but his grip tightens just slightly, grounding you against him. Your fingers tangle in the collar of his hoodie, pulling him closer, and that’s when he groans—deep, quiet, but so real.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and suddenly you feel it: that spark, that rush—like falling and flying at the same time. His hand slides to the back of your neck, and his tongue brushes yours, coaxing a soft whimper from your throat.
Jean pulls back just barely, breath mingling with yours. His smile is crooked, eyes half-lidded. "Been wanting to do that for a while," he whispers, lips still brushing yours. "You’re addictive, you know that?"
You barely have time to reply before his lips are back on yours, a little more urgent this time—like he's chasing the taste of you. His hand travels down your waist, his fingertips ghosting above your hips, causing you to shiver under his touch.
"Jean—" you breathe, but it comes out more like a sigh.
"Shh," he murmurs, mouth ghosting over your jaw. "I got you."
He kisses you like he’s been holding back for months—tongue slick and slow, teeth nipping just enough to make your knees buckle. You’re pressed against a shelf stacked with canvases and jars of brushes, the scent of turpentine and old paper hanging in the air. His hands brace beside your head for a moment, but they’re twitching—he needs to touch you.
"You’re shaking," he says softly, lips brushing your cheek. "Is this okay?"
You nod, already breathless. "Yeah. It’s more than okay."
"Good," he murmurs, and his mouth finds yours again. His hands slide down, fingers curving around your waist like he’s scared you’ll slip away. They dip lower, gripping the backs of your thighs. "Jump."
You do, trusting him without hesitation, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you onto a low shelf that creaks under your weight. You're surrounded by shadows and the smell of paint, but all you can focus on is Jean... Jean, whose hands are now skating under your skirt, calloused fingers mapping out the soft skin of your thighs like he’s sketching them in his head.
"You’re so warm," he says, almost to himself. "Like a fucking dream in my hands."
He kisses you again, but this time it's slower—almost like he's worshipping you. His hips press between your legs, his breath catching when you roll your hips in return. A groan rumbles in his chest. "Fuck," he breathes. "I'm so glad you let me," he mumbles against your skin. "I had a feeling you wanted to by the way you looked at me in class."
You grip his hoodie, pulling him closer, legs parting without thought as he slots himself between them. "You planned this?"
"Hell yeah, I did." he grins against your skin, fingers skillfully pushing your panties to the side, causing you to gasp. "Closet’s quiet. Door locks. No one checks it during afternoon studio hours."
You’re breathless, laughing, arousal twisting tight in your stomach. "You’re such a menace."
"Only for you," he says, and that cocky little tilt to his voice makes your head spin.
His hands explore your body like they’re working from memory—like he’s drawn you a hundred times but now he finally gets to touch. "You still good?" he asks, thumb brushing your soaking pussy just barely. Teasing.
"I want you, Jean," you whisper.
His mouth is back on yours instantly, hotter this time, more desperate. "Then let me show you what you do to me," he murmurs against your lips.
You can feel how hard he is through his jeans as he presses closer, the friction sending a gasp tumbling from your lips. He groans at the sound, burying his face in your neck as his hands slide up your waist, palms hot and trembling just slightly. It’s not nervousness, it’s restraint.
"You drive me crazy," he mutters, like a confession. "I should’ve done this sooner."
Your fingers tug at the hem of his hoodie, eager, needy, and he helps you pull it over his head, along with his shirt, revealing toned arms and a lean torso flecked with faint freckles and a soft trail of light brown hair trailing down his waistband. His lips find yours again, slower now, but no less intense.
His voice is rough in your ear, "just say the word and I’ll stop."
You shake your head, heart pounding. "Don’t you dare."
He chuckles, the sound low and warm in his chest, and then he’s guiding your back against the cold wall of the closet, lifting one of your legs to wrap around his waist. "Good," he breathes. "Because I’m not holding back."
His hand slips into your waistband, fingers dipping between your thighs like he already knows how wet you are for him—and he does, because the way you whimper into his shoulder gives you away. "Already so soaked for me," he murmurs, kissing down your neck again. "I barely even touched you."
You’re trembling now, both from anticipation and the weight of his body against yours. Jean touches you with reverence—like he wants to worship every inch, not just fuck you, but feel every reaction you give him. He pushes his fingers past your wet folds slowly, earning a gasp from you. He pushes them in to the knuckle, and his fingers move slow at first, teasing, then deeper, curling just right as he watches you fall apart for him.
"You look so pretty like this," he says, lips brushing your temple. "Wish i could sketch you—just like this. Beautiful, falling apart, just for me."
You’re panting against his lips, trembling a little as his fingers work their magic, grazing again that spot that makes you gasp every time. His thumb meets your clit, drawing slow circles that match his pace. He presses it slightly, and you bite your lip at the pressure. Your head is cloudy, thoughts spinning as you try to focus on Jean.
The weight of his fingers pumping in and out is intoxicating, it makes your mouth slack as you feel him inside of you. His fingers continue to curl upward, meeting that sweet spot every time. His fingers spread wide, stretching you out deliciously, and his thumb increases the pace against your clit, earning a: "Jean!" from your swollen lips.
His fingers pull out, not wanting you to cum yet, but giving you a taste of what's to come. His fingers leave your soaked panties clinging to your thighs—your body still buzzing from the way he touched you, gentle but firm, like he needed to feel every reaction, every gasp, every needy moan.
And then you’re looking up at him, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown. Your voice is soft, almost shy. “Can I…?”
Jean freezes for half a second, like the words short circuit his brain. Then he huffs a breathless laugh, head dropping to rest against your shoulder. “Fuck,” he mutters, “you’re gonna kill me.”
You reach for his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle as he watches you with heavy lidded eyes. “I want to,” you say, bolder now, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “You’ve been so good to me.”
Jean swallows hard, cupping your jaw and kissing you slow, sweet and sinful at once. “You really want to? You don’t have to, baby girl.”
"I want to," you murmur against his lips.
His jeans are already half undone, and you sink to your knees on the dusty linoleum floor, not even caring about the grime. His breath catches as you tug down his boxers, freeing him—and you gasp. He's huge—thick and dripping with anticipation. He’s already so hard for you, tip flushed red and leaking.
You glance up at him through your lashes, and the way Jean looks down at you? It's like he might explode on the spot. His hand finds your hair, gentle but possessive, brushing it back from your face.
You start slow, kitten licking the tip just to tease, making sure not to miss the underside. He groans, deep and wrecked, his hand tightening slightly in your hair. “You’re gonna drive me fucking insane.”
You take him deeper, inch by inch, relishing the way he hisses your name like a prayer. He’s trying not to buck his hips, trying to be good for you, but you can feel the tension in his thighs—he’s holding himself back.
“Shit, baby— fuck , that mouth of yours…”
He starts whispering your name between ragged moans, hips twitching as you hollow your cheeks, hands stroking what your mouth can’t reach. One of your hands gently cups his balls, massaging them in time with your strokes. His praise is breathless, desperate. “So fucking good… you’re perfect—fuck, you’re perfect—”
You splay your hands on his thighs as you continue to take him deeper, your nose practically flush with the base of his girthy cock. His neat pubic hair tickles your nose as you bob back and forth on his cock, drool rolling down your chin and jaw. Your head feels dizzy from the lack of oxygen, but you couldn't care less.
His fingers cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as his body trembles, so close to the edge already. His breathing’s ragged now, every muscle in his body pulled tight. “Baby,” he pants, tugging gently at your hair, trying so hard to be gentle even though he’s falling apart, “I’m not gonna last…”
You hum around him, eyes fluttering closed, and that’s it—he curses under his breath and pulls you off him, shaky hands guiding you up to your feet. “C’mere. Fuck, come here—”
He kisses you hard, needy, a little messy, and you cling to him like you’re the one about to fall apart. “You okay?” He murmurs between kisses, breath hot against your lips.
You nod, grinning breathlessly. “Yes, I'm okay. Better than okay.”
His hands grip your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto a low shelf, shoving aside a box of charcoal pencils and some abandoned sketchbooks. He tugs your panties the rest of the way off and shoves them into his pocket like a fucking trophy.
“You sure about this?” He asks again, always asking, always checking even with his voice rough and his cock pressed against your thigh.
You bite your lip and nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Jean, please.”
That’s all it takes.
He lines himself up, and with one slow, deep thrust, he’s inside you—stretching you open so perfectly it knocks the air out of your lungs. The stretch burns in a good way, the stinging eventually turning into pleasure. The angle’s tight, intense, with your back pressed to the cold wall and your knees bent up high around his hips.
Jean groans, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathless. “Fuck… so warm. So tight. Feels like you were made for me.”
He starts to move, slow at first, rolling his hips just right, and every stroke hits so deep. You’re clinging to his shoulders, trying to stay quiet even as soft gasps slip out.
“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice low and sweet, “just like that, baby. I got you.”
His hand slips between your bodies to rub slow circles over your clit, and your thighs start to tremble. “Feel that?” He whispers. “That’s me. Makin’ you feel good. Makin’ you mine.”
You nod frantically, words lost to the way he’s fucking you—slow and deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world and wants to memorize every second of it. His cock brushes every part of your walls, every ridge and vein of him getting well acquainted with your cunt. Every time he thrusts in, your cunt seems to suck him in deeper and deeper, never wanting to let go. His tip presses against your cervix every time, causing your eyes to roll back in your head. Your moans are loud, fervent. His name falls off your tongue constantly, and he's loving it.
He grips your thighs tightly as he continues to thrust into you—to claim you. "You're so good for me, baby," he whispers as he fucks you, his thrusts getting harder, faster. The shelf creaks beneath you, the smell of sex overpowering the paints, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the small closet.
You’re getting close, and he knows it—he feels it. His lips find your neck, mouthing at the sensitive skin there, whispering praises against your throat. “Cum for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “wanna feel you. Wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.”
"J-Jean, I-I—" you cum hard, clenching around him with a soft cry, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving marks that you know he'll be admiring soon after. Jean groans your name like a prayer, hips stuttering before he buries himself deep and spills inside you, holding you tight while you both tremble through it.
The air’s heavy and hot between you, filled with your uneven breathing and the quiet creak of the shelf behind you. You’re still clinging to each other—sweaty, flushed, completely wrecked. Jean kisses you again, slower this time, thumb brushing tenderly over your cheek. “Fuck,” he whispers against your lips. “You’re unreal.”
You giggle, dazed and glowing. “You’re not too bad yourself.”
He chuckles, resting his forehead against yours for a second before pulling back to look at you—really look. “You okay? Not too sore?”
You nod, but there’s this glint in your eye that makes his heart thud all over again. You lean in close, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper: “I think i need you again.”
He blinks, almost laughs, but you grind your hips against his softening cock—still inside you, and all the amusement dies in his throat. “Holy shit,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “You’re serious.”
“Mmhm,” you hum, dragging your fingers through his messy hair. “You started this, remember?”
He swears under his breath and presses his forehead to your shoulder. “Give me two minutes. or—shit—keep touching me like that and it’ll be thirty seconds.”
You laugh, wicked and breathless, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Fine. but this time…” your voice lowers to a whisper, sultry and teasing, “you stay still. Let me ride you.”
Jean looks up at you like you’ve just handed him the keys to heaven. “Oh my God.”
His cock’s already twitching back to life, still sticky and warm between your thighs, and the second he’s hard enough, he pulls out—your juices and his cum pouring out of you causing him to groan deeply, and you slide down from the shelf. You spin him around, and push him gently back into one of the spare chairs across the closet—the one students have used a hundred times for sketching models, Jean never once imagining he’d be in it like this.
You straddle his lap, guiding him back inside with practiced ease, and he throws his head back, cursing under his breath.
You start to move—slow and sinfully deep—and Jean? He’s done for.
“Baby,” he breathes, grabbing your hips, letting you take what you want, “I’m so fucking in love with you. Use me, use me however you want, please—”
You roll your hips with practiced grace, your hands braced on Jean’s chest while his jaw hangs slack, head tilted back against the chair. His hair sticks to his forehead, flushed skin glowing under the dim overhead light. He’s trying to let you take the lead—he really is—but the way you’re moving, dragging every inch of him so slowly in and out, it’s driving him insane.
“Fuck, baby…” his hands squeeze your hips tighter, trying not to thrust up into you. "Your pussy feels so fucking good, you were fucking made for me. God, you're gonna kill me..."
“Then die quietly,” you tease, breath warm against his ear as you lean in to nibble his jaw. “This is my turn.”
He groans, fingers twitching where they grip you, but he lets you stay in control—at least for now. The sounds of slick skin and desperate breathing echo in the tight space of the storage closet, mingling with the low creak of the chair under your rhythm.
Your pace quickens, thighs starting to tremble, and Jean brings one hand to your chest, cupping a breast and thumbing over your nipple, eyes half lidded as he watches you fall apart on top of him.
“God, you’re so fucking pretty like this,” he mumbles, voice hoarse. “So good for me. Takin’ me so deep…”
You bounce on his cock faster, his hands traveling down to your ass. He grips it tightly, and lets out a soft "Fuck—" as he starts moving you up and down at the pace he wants. You swear you feel him deeper inside this time than the first round, and you moan loudly against his shoulder.
"Yeah, who's fucking you this good?" He asks, feeling cocky. He's finally got the girl of his dreams falling apart on his cock, of course he'd be feeling this way.
"Y-You, Jean!" you respond, breath shaky and his name falling out of your mouth in a gasp.
"Good girl," he groans, his cock thrusting harder—faster—inside of you.
Your fingers find his shoulders again, gripping hard. “Jean, I-I’m close,” you pant, hips stuttering. “You feel so good, I-I can’t—”
“Look at me,” he breathes, tilting your chin up until your eyes meet. “Come on, baby girl. Wanna see you.”
That’s all it takes. Your whole body tightens as your orgasm hits you like a wave, gasping his name while you shake in his lap, riding it out as he praises you through every second.
And when your walls clamp down around him again, Jean finally loses it with a deep, wrecked moan—his head falling to your shoulder as he pulses inside you, heat spilling between your legs. He holds you tight, arms wrapping around your waist like he can’t bear to let you go.
You both sit there for a while, tangled and breathless, hearts pounding in sync. “…we should probably clean up,” you whisper eventually, lips still ghosting over his temple.
Jean groans. “I’ll never be able to sit in this chair again without getting hard.”
You laugh softly and press a kiss to his cheek. “You saying I ruined you?”
He looks up at you, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Completely.”
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