The Woman In The Canvas
Rain streaked the gallery windows in silver ribbons, softening the city’s neon glow into something almost holy. Inside, the hum of conversation dulled to a low murmur as the midnight showing reached its final hour. Rina leaned against the marble counter, her glass of red wine untouched, her body thrumming with the kind of restlessness that only came when a night was almost over but not quite finished.
Her heels ached from hours of standing, but she didn’t care. Not tonight.
Because she was here.
Selene was halfway across the room, standing before the largest canvas in the show—a riot of crimson and black, layers of oil paint knifed into sensual textures that seemed to pulse under the track lighting. Rina had noticed her immediately when she slipped in, late, as if she owned the hour. Tall, dark-haired, wearing a fitted black suit with nothing beneath the jacket except bare skin and a thin gold chain.
No one else dressed like that for a gallery show. No one else could.
Selene tilted her head, studying the canvas with an intensity that made Rina’s throat go dry. She moved closer, the air shimmering around her with something electric. Rina had been running this gallery for eight years, and she had seen every kind of patron—the collectors, the posers, the drunks, the bored wives—but this woman… this was something else.
Rina didn’t realize she was walking toward her until Selene turned, their eyes locking.
Those eyes—dark, nearly black, framed by thick lashes—flicked over Rina in one slow sweep. Rina felt the heat bloom low in her belly, sharp and sudden, like a secret whispered in her ear.
“You’re the owner,” Selene said, her voice low, rich, and accented—French? Maybe? The words curved like velvet. “Aren’t you.”
Rina forced a breath. “I am. I’m Rina.”
Selene’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Of course you are.” She stepped aside, gesturing to the painting. “Tell me… what do you see here?”
The question was a test. Rina felt it in her bones. She moved closer, close enough to smell Selene—something smoky, like sandalwood and warm skin after rain.
“It’s violence,” Rina said softly. “And hunger. The brushstrokes are desperate. It feels like—” Her words faltered. Because suddenly the painting wasn’t all she was looking at. The curve of Selene’s throat caught the light. A single drop of water from the rain lingered at her collarbone.
Selene’s gaze flicked to Rina’s mouth. “Go on,” she whispered.
“It feels like someone,” Rina said, voice barely audible, “wants to be devoured.”
Selene’s smile deepened, slow and knowing. “Interesting.” She stepped closer, so close her suit jacket brushed Rina’s arm. “And what if I told you I painted it?”
Rina blinked. “You’re the artist?”
Selene tilted her head, a shadow of amusement in her eyes. “Does that surprise you?”
“No,” Rina lied, though her pulse was hammering. “But you’re not on the roster. None of your pieces are signed.”
Selene’s fingers—long, ringless, tipped with dark polish—trailed lightly along the frame of the painting. “Some things are meant to be hidden. Until the right eyes find them.”
Rina swallowed hard. The right eyes.
“Where did you learn to paint like this?” Rina asked.
Selene leaned in, her breath warm against Rina’s ear. “I didn’t learn. I remembered.”
Rina’s knees went weak.
She managed to step back, needing space, needing air—but Selene’s gaze followed her, pinning her in place with effortless gravity. “I want to show you something,” Selene murmured.
“What—now?”
Selene’s lips brushed an almost-smile. “Unless you have somewhere better to be.”
Rina thought of her empty apartment, her chilled bottle of wine waiting in the fridge, the safe, dull ritual of showering off another night and curling into bed alone. She thought of the way Selene’s voice felt like fingers tracing her spine.
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
Selene offered her hand. Rina hesitated only a moment before taking it, feeling the shock of skin against skin—a spark that traveled up her arm and down, pooling between her thighs.
The rain had slowed to a mist by the time they stepped into the alley behind the gallery. Selene led her through the slick streets without a word, their joined hands swinging slightly, casually, though the touch was anything but casual. Rina could feel her pulse in her fingertips.
“Where are we going?” she asked, voice hushed.
“You’ll see.”
Selene guided her into a narrow building lit only by a single red lantern. The stairwell smelled of old wood and something sweet—incense maybe—and as they climbed, Rina’s body prickled with anticipation, nerves, desire.
On the third floor, Selene unlocked a door and pushed it open. The space beyond was dim, lit by scattered candles and the neon wash of the city through tall windows. Paintings leaned against every wall—abstracts, bodies, shadows and curves. The air was thick with turpentine and something warmer, more intimate.
“This is my studio,” Selene said, letting go of Rina’s hand. “Close the door.”
Rina did. Her breath caught as Selene shrugged out of her jacket, letting it slide to the floor. Bare skin gleamed in the candlelight. The gold chain lay between her breasts, drawing Rina’s eyes to the steady rise and fall of her chest.
“You brought me here to… see your work?” Rina asked, her voice trembling.
Selene stepped closer, her fingers ghosting over Rina’s arm. “To feel it.”
Before Rina could speak, Selene’s hand slid to her waist, pulling her in, and then their mouths collided—hungry, molten. Rina gasped against her, and Selene took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, her tongue tasting wine and desire in equal measure.
Rina’s hands found Selene’s shoulders, then her bare back, smooth and strong beneath her palms. She felt herself melting into the heat, the dizzying rush of sensation as Selene pressed her against the studio wall, lips trailing down her jaw, her throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin.
“You taste like trouble,” Selene whispered, her mouth hot against Rina’s collarbone.
“And you,” Rina gasped, her fingers tangling in Selene’s hair, “taste like… sin.”
Selene laughed softly, low in her throat, and slipped a hand beneath Rina’s silk blouse, fingers spreading over her ribs, sliding upward until her palm cupped Rina’s breast. Rina moaned, arching into the touch, heat coursing through her in sharp, liquid waves.
The city hummed outside, oblivious. In here, there was only breath and skin and the scrape of Selene’s teeth as she claimed Rina’s mouth again.
Clothes began to loosen, buttons yielding under urgent fingers. Rina’s blouse fell open, her bra pushed aside as Selene’s lips closed around her n****e, sucking, biting just enough to make her cry out. Selene’s other hand slid lower, over her stomach, the waistband of her skirt, dipping under—
Rina’s knees buckled as pleasure flooded her, raw and exquisite. Selene’s rhythm was slow, teasing, until Rina grabbed her wrist, desperate. “More,” she whispered, voice ragged. “Please—”
Selene’s dark eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “Oh, little muse,” she purred. “We’re just beginning.”
And then there was nothing but sensation—fingers, lips, the scrape of nails, the sharp edge of something both dangerous and beautiful.
Outside, the rain began again, a steady rhythm against the windows. Inside, Rina surrendered, her cries swallowed by the night and the paintings watching silently from the shadows.
