I told myself it was just art. No touching. No talking. Just pose, hold still, and let him capture my body, shadows and light. That’s what I agreed to when I stepped into the studio—bare walls, paint-thick air, and a stranger with a brush who refused to show his face.
But the moment I dropped the robe and slowly laid on the couch with practiced efficiency, something shifted.
The silence wasn’t professional. It was charged. The kind that clings to skin, hums in your spine. I could hear the scrape of charcoal on canvas, slow and deliberate, as though each stroke etched desire itself.
"Don’t move," he said, voice smooth but low, like it had been dipped in sin. "You’re perfect like this."
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I didn’t. His words didn’t feel like flattery. They felt like possession
