Sketching Samantha
he was eighteen and in her fourteenth week of college. As the clock ticked
away the minutes, she sat behind her desk at work and waited for the phone to ring so she could
have something to do. Finals week was rapidly approaching....and so was a blue-eyed perfection
in male anatomy.
Suddenly, she sincerely regretted having such little experience with men. Had she more, she
would have known how to attract this heavenly vision. As it was, she doubted she would know if
he was attracted to her. As the student assistant in the University's Art Department, she had met a
lot of interesting and diverse people. However, this had in no way prepared her for, nor taught her
how, to deal with men as an available young woman. And another gorgeous chance at a
relationship was coming her way.
Blue eyes, the color of a clear summer sky, sparkled from a warmly tanned and exquisitely shaped face. A dazzling smile greeted her; she suddenly wanted to run her fingers through that beautiful mass of black curls atop his head. She wished for Superman's x-ray vision as she took in the sight of broad shoulders, a powerful chest, and muscular legs - each covered by one of four terribly masculine materials: denim, flannel, cotton, and leather.
Lips made for kissing parted and he spoke. "Could I borrow your stapler?"
Honey, she thought, you can have anything you want. "My stapler? Sure," she said, fool that she was. She smiled, hoping that a flash of her dimples would grant her another of his smiles. When it did, her heart flip-flopped.
His long fingers gripped the stapler and plunged the bit of metal deep into the stack of papers. Is it getting hot in here? As he hammered another in, she took a deep breath and caught the lovely scent of his cologne. He replaced the stapler on her desk and gripped the papers. After a moment he was still, and she looked up.
Finding her staring at him, he now stared at her. She blushed at having been caught; he smiled in a way she thought was very sexy. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice a distant caress as he turned away. She said nothing because seconds later he dropped the papers on the floor. Bending to retrieve them, he presented a wonderfully rounded backside for her to remember vividly for days to come. Never had she suspected that taunt denim over a masculine curve would be so provocative. She cleared her throat to prevent a sigh from escaping. It is definitely getting hot in here.
A second later, he straightened and went for the door. As he stepped into the hallway, he cast a glance back toward her. A grin, a knowing and flirtatious grin, lit his face. Softly chuckling to himself, he walked away.
She waited until he was out of sight before releasing a whoosh of air and dropping her forehead to the desk. Six more minutes before she could go home. What a day.
Clomp, clomp, clomp. That is the sound shoes make when they are too big for the feet wearing them. And no amount of tissue paper was going to stop them from voicing their size. Clomp, clomp, clomp. She was beginning to think she sounded like a big draft horse in rubber horseshoes. It was getting downright embarrassing. Clomp, clomp, clomp.
Sticking to the most crowded routes, she made her way to work, hoping that the noise around her would drown out the noise she was making all by herself. Unfortunately, it was just causing lots of people to look around for the Clydesdale. Finally, she cut into the alley that would take her right to the front door of the Art Department. It was affectionately called Graffiti Hall by those students who had helped improve its white stone walls by taking their supplies outside. She rounded the corner at the end of the alley and stopped.
Her hand trembled up to her throat and rested there as her eyes grew round. Immediately, her mouth was as dry as the Sahara. Perspiration broke out on her forehead; her knees grew weak. Any second she would pass out. But first, she was going to visually absorb as much of him as possible.
After that evening a week ago, she had dubbed him "Max." It sounded just masculine and sexy enough to fit him as well as the jeans he had worn. The same jeans she had dreamt about being flung over the chair in her bedroom. He wasn't wearing denim now, but a material way above that. Spandex. God help every woman when a Greek-statue-come-to-life wears black spandex on his lower half. And what a half.
She stood completely mesmerized by the sculpted thighs, and thick calves as he came jogging toward her. His faded white tee-shirt, with a plea for Co-ed Naked Soccer on the front, fluttered around his hips. As her eyes traveled up his divine frame, she came to a smiling mouth, round black sunglasses, and a pitifully ancient baseball cap turned backward. Suddenly, those glasses were being removed by long fingers, revealing azure eyes that sparkled with mischief.
"Hello, again."
"Oh, wow," she breathed, then gasped, when she realized she had said it out loud. She could feel the hot blush starting at her toenails and working its way up to the roots of her hair. Now she really was going to pass out.
"I'll take that as a compliment," he chuckled.
Play along, she told herself, go with it. She smiled, hoping she didn't look as brainless as she felt. "It was meant as one. You surprised me."
"It wouldn't have been a surprise if you had been at work in the evenings." She nearly swooned with delight. Had he come looking for me?
"I-I had to switch with one of the other girls. I've been doing afternoons." Suddenly, she felt very possessive. Had that girl tried to get his attention with one of her obscenely low necklines?
"Mm, yes. I've met her." He rolled his eyes skyward. "So, you're heading in to work now?"
Did he sound hopeful? "Yes, are you heading to a class?"
"No, I have the rest of the day off from those." He smiled. "I was on my way to find something beautiful to sketch."
"And you found me." She knew better than to hope he would want to sketch her.
But his eyes twinkled with delight. "Yes. I did."
Never in her wildest dreams did she ever think she would be someone's model. And never did she think it would be so hard to look natural while a man watched her. But then, she supposed any woman would be nervous if a man sat staring at every part of her, actually putting every flaw down on paper for others to see.
She was a nervous wreck.
He said he didn't want her to sit perfectly still, she did have to work after all, but when she moved, he watched. Every little flaw in her face and body, she was sure, was boldly staring right back at him. Every zit she had ever had was coming back to haunt her. Why, oh why, did I ever agree to this? "Sam," he whispered, "stop being so nervous. If you don't like what I draw, I'll get rid of it. Relax."
So, she tried to relax. After a while, when the phone started ringing off the hook and people came in with complicated and bizarre questions, she forgot all about him. Only when someone stopped him with a hello or a compliment did she realize that he was still there, watching and sketching. Those were also the times when she realized that he had gone through nearly half his pad of paper. Each time she looked up, he would smile at her as his pencil flew across the page. The one time he got up to sharpen it, she tried to sneak a peek, but he caught her. "Ah! I'm not done yet."
During the slow times, she would contemplate all the things she was learning about the vision of masculinity across from her. He was very well known in the Art Department. From the directors and professors, to the students; everyone seemed to respect him and his work. When the head of the department came in, he made everything clear to her.
"Tiernan Lord, it's good to see you again." He clapped him on the shoulder and peered at the latest sketch. "I had heard you were coming around this way. Very nice work, as usual." He turned to her and smiled. "Tiernan Lord sketching our own little Samantha."
She sat staring at them both with her mouth hanging open. "The Tiernan Lord? Of Dragon League?" Dragon League was the latest virtual reality game that put the player into the middle of a world full of dragons, elves, knights, fairies, and damsels in distress. Dragon League's creator was a young man named Tiernan Lord. She had heard that he was coming to give a few free drawing lessons.
"The same," he said, a little uncertainly.
She sighed. "Well, you should have told me sooner. Then I wouldn't have been so nervous. All the women you draw for Dragon League look the same."
He chuckled. "They do not."
"Yes, they do," she insisted. "They're all tiny, with big eyes and long lashes," she held her hands about a foot from her chest, "plenty of bosom. And they always make complete fools of themselves around the knights-" She stopped because he was smiling and holding up the sketches.
She looked down at herself in surprise.
She had described exactly what he had drawn.
Exactly what she looked like.
And one of them showed how she had looked when she saw him in the alley.
Exactly how she acted around him.
The head of the department laughed long and hard as he went to his office and closed the door. She looked at the man across from her, who just sat there, grinning, his arms crossed over his thick chest. "Okay," he said, "they do look exactly like you. I've always been attracted to women who looked like that."
Her eyes grew round; she almost swooned. She felt like jumping around the room. Wouldn't that girl with the low necklines be jealous now! She felt like Cinderella. Hel-lo, Prince Charming!
She smiled big and bright as he asked, "So, are you busy tonight?" ??
