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“I can’t help it. Finish it another time.” she yawns and stretches. “I don’t know how anyone can stay still like that for long.”
“I think that’s why they pay them.” I smile. I’ve drawn her down to her waistline, with a sketch-out to her knees. It’s good enough for now.
“Can I see?” she comes over, swinging her empty glass. I turn the pad in my lap so she can get a look. She leans over and I feel very warm as her bare skin is so close to mine.
“Hmmm….not bad. Maybe we can finish it sometime.” she plays with her hair, looping it over her ear.
“I’d like that.” I’m having a hard time breathing, with her so near. I want to look at her, but at the same time, am afraid. Afraid of this overwhelming feeling in my body, and of not being able to control it. What is wrong with me?
“I’ll do the dishes, Miss Artiste.” she straightens up, and turns back to the table, reaching for her top.
“Don’t.” somehow my hand is on her wrist. She turns and looks at me, frowning. I swallow hard, trying to think of what to say.
“You’re not really going to draw me doing the dishes, are you?”
“Unh.” I grunt, glad she’s found words for me. She rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head. Bending over the table, she scoops up our cups, carrying them into the kitchen.
In the kitchen I cannot help but stare at her bare back, watching her muscles glide from every movement as she fills the sink and sets her work area in order. I set my tablet down and move over to her as she busily scrubs a pot.
“Kirika!” she gasps out my name as my arms go around her. She freezes for a moment, but I hold still with her, barely allowing myself to breathe. Slowly she resumes her work. I begin to breathe again. This new sensation is almost too much for me to take in. The skin on her belly, so soft and smooth under my hands. She’s so soft, everywhere my skin touches hers…I lay my cheek on her back, dragging my face slowly across her skin. I reach the hollow of her spine and without even thinking, turn and press my lips into her.
There’s a loud splash and suddenly I’m stumbling back, water in my eyes, as she whirls about. Through the blur in my eyes I see something heading for my face but before my hands can go up, a sharp sting cracks across my left cheek.
“Get out!” she yells at me. I wipe my eyes, and see her standing in front of me, water dripping from her upraised arm. She’s holding a spatula. Did she really hit me with that thing?
“Get out now!” she brandishes the spatula at me. I back up, grab my tablet and run from the room, my face stinging with pain, my eyes stinging with tears. What have I just done?

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