Chapter 6

The air in the private studio was thick, heavy with the scent of turpentine, linseed oil, and the musk of our bodies. Outside, the industrial hum of the city’s warehouses provided a low, constant drone, but inside, the world had shrunk down to this single room. Canvases leaned against the exposed brick walls, some still wet with bold strokes of crimson and gold, others stacked in chaotic piles like discarded dreams. The floor was concrete, cool and hard beneath my bare feet, scattered with empty paint tubes and rags stained with pigment. But I wasn’t looking at the art. I was looking at him. He stood near the center of the room, his shirt unbuttoned, revealing the damp sheen of sweat on his chest. His eyes were dark, predatory, and fixed entirely on me. I had kicked off my heels, my dress still clinging to my curves, though it was slipping off one shoulder now. We had been talking for an hour, just talking, the tension between us building like a pressure cooker about to explode. But the conversation had died, replaced by a silence so loud it rang in my ears. He reached out, his hand rough and warm,