Chapter 9: Clandestine Lessons
The sharp metallic bang of Mark’s palm hitting the locker vibrated through Alison’s skull. His breath, hot and uneven, fanned her face. The fierce intensity in his eyes, so unlike the easygoing Mark she’d known forever, pinned her more effectively than his arms caging her against the cold metal. Confusion, fear, and a treacherous flicker of raw attraction warred inside her. This wasn't the stunned, awkward boy from the kitchen. This was something primal, unleashed.
"Look at me," he repeated, the command raspy and low.
She couldn't look away. The hallway noise – the lockers slamming, the chatter, Jenkins' distant drone – dissolved into static. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She saw Chloe frozen a few feet away, eyes wide with disbelief, backpack slipping forgotten down her arm.
Before Alison could form a word, breathe, or even process Chloe’s presence, Mark moved. Not away, but into her space. His hands dropped from the lockers, but only to clamp onto her upper arms. His grip was firm, almost bruising, propelled by a frantic energy she didn't recognize.
"Hey—!" Alison gasped, stumbling as he pulled her forward.
He didn’t stop. He yanked her past Chloe, whose mouth opened in silent protest. Mark’s gaze snapped to her. "You too. Now." It wasn’t a request. It held the same rough urgency as his command to Alison.
A flicker of defiance sparked in Chloe’s eyes, quickly chased by intrigue. A slow, dangerous smile touched her lips. "Okay, cowboy," she murmured, falling into step behind them without hesitation, scooping up her dropped bag as she moved.
Mark shouldered open the heavy, scuffed door to the art supply closet halfway down the quieter corridor. He practically shoved Alison inside the dim, cramped space, Chloe slipping in behind her before he slammed the door shut, plunging them into near-darkness punctuated only by a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. The air was thick and stale, saturated with the pungent smells of drying oil paint, turpentine, dust, and the faintly sweet decay of old paper. Canvases leaned precariously against metal shelves stacked with jars of pigment, brushes in cans, and rolls of newsprint.
Alison bumped into a stack of stretcher bars, the wood digging into her back. "Mark, what the hell—?"
He ignored her. The frantic energy hadn't dissipated; it had condensed, focused. His breathing was ragged. He fumbled for her in the gloom, his hands clumsy, landing on her shoulders, then sliding down. One hand caught the thin strap of her tank top, tugging it roughly off her shoulder. The cool air of the closet hit her exposed skin, raising goosebumps.
"Show us," Chloe’s voice was a low purr, suddenly right beside them in the confined space. Alison hadn't even seen her move. Chloe pressed herself against Mark’s back. Her teeth grazed his earlobe, a sharp, possessive nip that made him jerk. "Show us what you learned last night," she breathed, her breath hot against his neck. Her hand, quick and decisive where his were awkward, slid down his arm, guiding his fumbling fingers. Not towards Alison’s bared shoulder, but lower, slipping under the hem of Chloe’s own skirt, pressing his palm firmly against the warmth of her thigh, high up, beneath the fabric. "Here."
Mark froze. His hand, trapped under Chloe’s guidance against her skin, trembled slightly. The intensity that had propelled him into the closet warred visibly with his ingrained uncertainty. He remembered the desperate fumbling in Alison’s bed, the overwhelming sensations, Chloe’s impatient guidance. He remembered feeling utterly out of his depth. "I… Chloe, I don’t…"
Alison watched, pressed against the wooden bars, a confusing cocktail of emotions churning. The sight of Chloe guiding Mark’s hand under her skirt sent a sharp, unexpected pang through her – jealousy? Arousal? Fear of being excluded? The fading tenderness of the hickey Mark had left throbbed in counterpoint. She saw the panic flicker in his eyes, the raw need warring with his fear of inadequacy. The predator from the hallway was gone, replaced by the vulnerable boy she’d always cared for.
"Stop thinking," Chloe whispered, her lips moving to Mark’s jawline, her hand still holding his firmly against her leg. Her other hand slid around his waist. "Just feel. Like last night." She looked past Mark’s shoulder, her eyes locking with Alison’s in the dim light. There was challenge there, but also an invitation, a shared understanding. We’re in this together. With him.
Alison took a shaky breath. The scent of turpentine was sharp in her nostrils. She pushed off the stretcher bars, ignoring the wood digging into her back. Her hand, trembling only slightly, reached out. Not to push Mark away, but to touch his face. Her thumb brushed the line of his tense jaw, mirroring Chloe’s kiss. "It’s okay, Mark," she murmured, her voice softer than she felt. "We’re here. Just… be with us."
Her touch, gentle and grounding, seemed to break through the last of his frantic tension. The fight drained from his shoulders. He turned his head, just slightly, his gaze shifting from the shadowed depths of the closet to meet Alison’s eyes. The raw need was still there, but the panic had receded, replaced by a desperate sort of wonder. His hand, still under Chloe’s guidance, flexed slightly against her thigh. Chloe let out a soft, approving hum, her teeth grazing his earlobe again.
Encouraged, or perhaps simply overwhelmed by the dual sensations – Alison’s gentle touch on his face, Chloe’s demanding heat under his hand and at his neck – Mark turned his body towards Alison, pulling her against him. His free hand, the one not trapped under Chloe’s skirt, tangled in Alison’s hair, tilting her head back. His kiss was clumsy at first, too hard, fueled by pent-up frustration and desire. Alison gasped against his lips, her hands instinctively coming up to brace against his chest. But then he softened, learning, adjusting, his mouth moving over hers with a tentative hunger that made her toes curl in her sneakers.
Chloe watched, pressed against Mark’s back, her hand still firmly guiding his beneath her skirt. Her other hand slid down his side, then around, her fingers finding the waistband of his jeans. Her own breathing hitched as she felt his reaction to Alison’s kiss, the hardening against her hip. She nipped his shoulder through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. "Good," she breathed against his skin. "Now… touch her too. Like you want to."
Mark broke the kiss with Alison, breathing heavily. His eyes, dark and dilated, flickered between her face and Chloe’s presence against his back. Chloe’s hand pushed his further up her thigh. Alison felt his other hand, the one that had been in her hair, slide down her neck, fumbling again, but with more purpose now. His thumb brushed the edge of the fading hickey, sending a jolt through her, before sliding lower, tracing the neckline of her tank top, dipping beneath the fabric where Chloe had pulled it down, his fingertips grazing the swell of her breast.
A small, involuntary sound escaped Alison’s throat. The combination – Mark’s rough exploration guided by Chloe’s whispered commands, the illicit thrill of the closet, the mingled scents of paint and sweat and their own arousal – was dizzying. She leaned into his touch, her hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down for another kiss, deeper this time.
They shifted clumsily in the tight space. Mark, trying to navigate the conflicting impulses – Chloe’s insistent hand under her skirt, the feel of Alison’s breast beneath his fingers, the overwhelming heat of them both pressed against him – stumbled. His hip caught the edge of a leaning stack of blank canvases.
The stack teetered with agonizing slowness. Chloe yelped, trying to pull him back. Alison instinctively stepped sideways, bumping into another shelf. A cascade of smaller canvas rolls and tubes of paint tumbled down with a clatter, rolling across the dusty concrete floor. The noise was startlingly loud in the confined space.
They froze. Panting. Disheveled. Alison’s tank top was halfway down her arm. Chloe’s skirt was rucked up where Mark’s hand still pressed beneath it. Mark stood between them, wide-eyed, breathing hard, paint tubes scattered around his feet like fallen soldiers. The frantic energy of moments before evaporated, replaced by the sudden, stark awareness of where they were, what they were doing. The bare bulb swung slightly, casting long, dancing shadows over their flushed faces and the chaotic mess.
A muffled voice drifted faintly from the hallway beyond the door. Footsteps approached.
Chloe reacted first. With a swift, fluid motion, she pulled Mark’s hand out from under her skirt, smoothed her own down, and stepped back, putting a fraction of breathing room between them. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, but her voice was remarkably steady, laced with her usual wry humor despite the tremor underneath. "Well," she breathed, looking at the scattered canvases, then back at Mark and Alison, a shaky grin spreading across her face. "Definitely more exciting than the Congress of Vienna. Think we can blame the Impressionists?"