His eyes dart to the paper and he examines for a minute or two before he shrugs, "It's nice, I suppose."
"You're really great help," I drawl sarcastically. "What the hell are you doing anyway? Aren't you supposed to be helping?"
"I am," He says, "Supervising is hard work, you know?"
I scuff. How is sitting down with your feet propped up on a desk and leaning back in a chair hard work? "Why'd you even sign up for this if you weren't going to do nothing?"
"So I get to to be with you," He admits. "Don't you want to hang out with me too, princess?"
"No," I lie, "I want peace and quiet. If you're not going to help, than leave."
"What happens if I still don't want to help and won't leave?"
"I'll tell Ms. J you're a lazy, incompetent, egotistical, ass-"
"I get it," He says, cutting me off in mid sentence.
I glower at him, "Do you really?" I thrust the pack of pencils in his direction. "If you do, than you'll get down on your knees and help me draw this."
He stays seated for a minute and I raise a eyebrow at him, challenging him to test me. He stands finally and grabs the pack of pencils - while keeping his eyes on me the whole time - and pulls one out. He kneels down by the edge of the canvas and glumly asks, "What do I draw?"
I smirk in triumph and gesture to the notebook by my side. He places it by his side and we fall into a silence. The only thing that's heard is the pencil scrapping against the paper. I'm able to concentrate enough that I get most of the work down. Once my knees began to ache so much from crawling around on the floor is when I decide to relax.
Liam doesn't rest though. Instead he works on the canvas with knitted eyebrows in concentration and also frustration. He has a death grip on the pencil as he tries to copy my portrait from my sketchbook. He lets out numerous curses under his breath and erases furiously each minute or two. Than the pencil ends up in snapping in half.
"Damn it!" He hisses and chucks the broken pencil along with the others. I don't flinch like I did the first time or two. I watch in amusement as he breaks yet another one and tosses it to the side. I stop him before he can get another pencil and break that one in half too.
"Your strokes are too hard." I tell him, "Hold the pencil a little more lightly. And just let it flow."
"Easy for you to say, little miss Picasso." He mutters and grasps another pencil, again, he breaks it. I sigh and decide not to be heartless.
I move back down the floor and clasp my hand around his much larger one. I press myself to his side, ignoring the tingles that threaten to overwhelm me and lead his hand down to the paper. "Let me help you."
He nods stiffly and surprisingly, he lets me direct his movements. I gently show him how to stroke the pencil properly, and once the picture slowly starts to appear perfectly, I smile lightly. "Beautiful."
"Very." His minty breath brushes my cheeks, causing a shiver to ripple up my back. My breath catches in my throat and I turn slowly to where are noses touch and our breaths mix. "You have a smudge on your face," He mutters and I reach up to rub it away. But he beats me to it.
His fingers graze my cheekbone lightly, even by this small little touch, all my senses seems to come awake and I feel myself suddenly heating up.
He rubs his thumb over the spot where he claims the smudge is and keeps eye contact with me the whole time. I let out a shaky breath when he leans down further and his lips are just a inch away from me. If I leaned further just a inch more, I could catch his lips with mine. The thought is tempting and just like him, we forget about the canvas.
Painting & Plotting.
Start from the beginning
