Velvet Knives

A Taste That Lingers

The night should have been a blur, but Rina remembered every second.

She woke to the pale light of dawn spilling through Selene’s studio windows, the paintings now nothing but shadowy silhouettes. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache, pleasure humming in her like an aftershock. Her blouse was somewhere on the floor, her skirt tangled around one ankle. Selene’s gold chain lay abandoned on the nightstand, catching the sunrise like a thread of fire.

Selene herself was standing by the window, nude, a cigarette burning between two fingers, her dark hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. She looked like she belonged in one of her own paintings—bold, raw, and untamed.

Rina pushed herself upright, clutching the thin sheet against her chest even though Selene had already seen everything. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” Selene murmured without looking back. Smoke curled in the air, mingling with the scent of paint and sweat.

Rina rubbed her eyes. She had work. Meetings. A life to return to. But the thought of leaving this room, of stepping back into that predictable world after what had happened here, felt unbearable.

“You should go,” Selene said softly, as if reading her thoughts. “Before the day remembers you.”

Rina swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Is this… something you do often?”

Selene turned, leaning one shoulder against the window frame. Her body was all sleek muscle and languid grace. “What do you think?”

Rina hesitated. “I think you’re dangerous.”

Selene’s smile was slow, sharp. “Then you’re paying attention.”

She crossed the room and crouched in front of Rina, her fingers brushing Rina’s cheek with a gentleness that made her throat tighten. “Last night was not a mistake,” Selene whispered. “But you must understand—being close to me… it changes things.”

Rina searched her face. “Changes how?”

Selene’s dark eyes glittered. “You’ll see.”

And then she kissed her, soft and unhurried, as though last night hadn’t happened, as though this was the first kiss and also the last. Rina felt herself lean in, wanting more, but Selene pulled back with a wicked smile and handed her the crumpled blouse from the floor.

“Go. Work. Dream of me.”

Rina dressed in a daze, the city’s noise already bleeding in from the street below. When she turned to say goodbye, Selene was already at the canvas again, brush in hand, bare skin spattered with paint, utterly absorbed. Rina opened her mouth but no words came. She slipped out quietly, heart pounding.

The gallery felt hollow when Rina returned that afternoon. She should have been exhausted, but instead she was sharp, wired, every nerve still alive with memory. Her assistant, Carla, raised an eyebrow.

“You look… different,” Carla said, handing her a clipboard.

“Different how?”

Carla smirked. “Like you’ve been… inspired.”

Rina ignored the comment, diving into the day’s routine: phone calls, invoices, meetings with clients. But every pause, every quiet moment, her mind slipped back to Selene—her lips, her hands, the way her voice dropped when she said little muse.

By evening, Rina couldn’t take it anymore. She closed the gallery early, grabbed her coat, and hailed a cab. The city outside the window blurred past, all neon and rain-slick asphalt. When the cab stopped in front of Selene’s building, Rina hesitated on the curb, nerves fluttering.

What if Selene didn’t want her back? What if last night had been just that—a night? But something deeper pushed her forward. She climbed the narrow stairs, heart hammering, and knocked softly.

The door opened almost instantly.

Selene stood there, dressed this time in a white linen shirt knotted at her waist, paint smeared on her fingers. Her eyes swept over Rina slowly, deliberately, until Rina felt heat rush to her cheeks.

“I was hoping,” Selene murmured, “that you’d come back.”

Rina stepped inside, her breath catching at the sight of the studio in daylight. The paintings were even more intense now—swirls of bodies, sharp lines of teeth and tongues, shades of red so deep they seemed to bleed. One canvas in particular caught her eye: two women entwined, their faces almost—but not quite—kissing.

“Is that…” Rina began.

“You,” Selene finished for her, moving behind her to stand close. “And me.”

Rina’s skin prickled. The figures in the painting weren’t literal portraits, but the shapes, the energy—it was unmistakable. She turned to Selene, breathless. “When did you paint this?”

“Before last night,” Selene said, her lips curving. “I dreamt you before I touched you.”

Rina’s knees went weak again. “Selene, what are you?”

Selene stepped closer, tucking a strand of Rina’s hair behind her ear. “Hungry,” she whispered.

The kiss was inevitable, urgent this time. Selene backed her against the door, the heat of her body pressing in, the smell of turpentine and skin making Rina dizzy. Fingers slid under Rina’s coat, pushing it off her shoulders, and then Selene’s hands were everywhere—tugging at her blouse, tracing the curve of her waist, slipping under her skirt.

Rina moaned, arching into her touch, as Selene’s mouth moved to her neck, biting softly, then harder. Selene’s hand found her thigh, sliding higher, thumb brushing heat through thin fabric. Rina gasped, her hands clutching Selene’s shoulders.

“Here?” Rina whispered, breathless. “In your studio?”

Selene’s laugh was dark silk. “Where else should art be made?”

She sank to her knees, pushing Rina’s skirt higher, kissing the inside of her thighs until Rina trembled. Fingers hooked into the edge of her panties, pulling them down slowly, deliberately, as if unwrapping something precious.

Rina’s back hit the door as Selene’s mouth replaced her fingers, warm and wet and devastating. Her hands tangled in Selene’s hair, pulling her closer, gasps turning into broken cries as Selene teased and tasted with expert precision.

Every flick of Selene’s tongue was a brushstroke, every bite a signature. Rina’s legs trembled, pleasure building fast and sharp until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel. When release hit, it was like falling through color, every nerve lit in molten white.

Selene rose slowly, her lips slick, eyes dark with satisfaction. She cupped Rina’s face in paint-streaked hands. “You feel,” she murmured, “even better than you look.”

Rina couldn’t speak. She leaned forward, kissing Selene with desperate gratitude, tasting herself on her lips. Selene responded eagerly, pressing her against the door again, one thigh sliding between Rina’s legs. Rina moaned into her mouth, hips rocking instinctively.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, flushed. Selene rested her forehead against Rina’s. “You’ve ruined me,” she whispered.

Rina laughed softly, still trembling. “I think you did that to me first.”

Selene smiled, slow and wicked. “Good. Come back tomorrow night. I’ll paint you again… properly this time.”

Rina nodded, already addicted, already lost. “Tomorrow,” she breathed.

Selene kissed her once more—hard, claiming—and then turned back to her canvas, picking up a brush as if the moment hadn’t just shattered them both.

Rina stood there, dazed and aching, watching the woman who felt like danger and home all at once. She didn’t know what she was stepping into, but she knew one thing with absolute clarity.

She wasn’t stepping back.