The studio room smelled of fresh paint and charcoal and the whisper of parchment and canvas being removed from portfolios filled the air. The easels were arranged in a circle and in the center sat a raised platform with a bowl of fruit and a thin drape.

Lucien Blake took his seat by the open window, sunlight filtering in across the room directly in front of him: the perfect spot. Art school was hardly his father's choice (who had pushed and pushed and pushed for medical school), but it was his mother's dream for him.

And after she passed away, each stroke of his brush and each smudging of ink made him feel closer to her; as if her spirit lived within his art. So he had packed up his belongings and headed for art school and endeavored to learn every medium. Today's class: figure drawing with a live model.

The other students filtered into the room and soon the class was starting, the instructor going over the preliminary parameters of the projects and the general rules of respect when working with a model.

Today's model would be clothed, but tomorrow the model would be nude. The weeklong project would start with a female model for the first few days and then a male model would be brought in.

Lucien had been nervous that he'd be unable to concentrate with a naked woman in the room but the instructor made everything so clinical and straightforward. His nerves were finally dwindling down and he felt at ease, the art and creation ready to flow through him.

And then the model walked in.

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever had the good fortune to look upon. Gently curling hair falling about her shoulders in soft waves, bright blue eyes, her face devoid of any trace of make-up, and her figure slim with an alluring curve to her hip.

She was wearing a thin nude-colored camisole and nude-colored shorts. Even from this seat, Lucien could see goosebumps prickling across her skin. He noticed, with a wave of heat to his cheeks, that her nipples were erect and visible against her camisole.

Lucien swallowed harshly and picked up his drawing pencil, watching the woman climb up on the platform, contorting her body as directed by the instructor. Each pose seemed to showcase her elongated legs and elegant arms and fingers, every movement effortless.

They were meant to sketch bits and pieces to get a feel for working with the nuances of working with a live model–adjusting for breathing and stretches and movement. But Lucien was locked in, his pencil flying over his sketchpad and sketching the curve of her knee and the arch of her eyebrow.

He captured her sharp eyes and the soft bow of her lips. His pencil shaded the soft swell of her breasts and the shadows that fell across her body.

The hour felt like a minute and before he knew it, the instructor was calling time and his fellow students were packing up and turning their back on the goddess in the middle of the room as if she was just another mortal amongst them.

But Lucien knew better and he was reckless and arrogant and already half in love with her. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he approached the woman. She was sliding a ridiculously thick, pink fluffy robe over her form and he already hated the thing for hiding her from him.

He cleared his throat, ready to introduce himself, ready to work up the courage to invite her out for a cup of coffee or a drink–whatever she wanted. But before he could get a word out, she was turning to him, eyes flashing.

"You're not supposed to talk to me."

Lucien frowned at her, hiking the bag up on his shoulder more securely. "What's that now?"

The woman tightened the sash around her waist and glared. "Students aren't supposed to interact with me. It helps keep boundaries and, you know," she gestured around her. "Keeps me safe."

He couldn't help it: he laughed. This didn't seem to endear him to her any and he quickly muffled his laughter, turning serious once more. "No, of course," he held up his hands as if in surrender. "Safety first, after all."

A smile still played about his lips and he fought the urge to bump her shoulder with his. But she just pursed her lips at him and turned back to the platform, gathering her bags.

Lucien felt the opportunity slipping away from him and he scrambled to introduce himself to her, finally. "I'm Lucien, by the way, Lucien Blake." He stuck his hand out between them, offering her a handshake.

The woman turned back to him with a heavy sigh, eyeing him critically and flicking her eyes to his outstretched hand. "You don't give up do you?"

He grinned boyishly at her, "Nope!" He popped the 'p' sound and he was delighted to see the first flickerings of a smile upon her face.

She shook her head at him, "You sound like my son, you know."

Lucien stared at her, already cradling that piece of information close to his heart. She had a son. A surreptitious glance at her left hand revealed a bare finger and the mystery surrounding her deepened.

He was definitely intrigued.

Finally–finally–she took his hand and he couldn't help but notice the way her hand fit in his perfectly, the skin of her palms calloused and rough. With her free hand, she tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear.

"I'm Jean. Jean Beazley."

They stood there for a moment, slowly shaking the other's hand and smiling at each other. After a moment, Jean pulled away, cheeks decidedly more pink than they were a few minutes ago.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Lucien Blake."

He grinned at her, waving her goodbye. Lucien watched her go, trying his hardest to be a gentleman but failing utterly and his eyes fell to her backside, admiring the curve of her backside as she sashayed out of the room.

Tomorrow–nude day–was going to be a nightmare. He couldn't wait.