focus on my body was hard.
It was nothing compared to having Gil’s fingers tilting my chin this way and that, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip in concentration, his steady talent transforming my cheeks into art and my hair teased with whatever shade he’d chosen.
At one point, he tugged my hair into a tighter bun and the wash of passion made me jerk with need. His breath caught; the air gun faltered.
I swayed as he held my jaw, carefully sponging colour over my forehead and eyebrows.
“Close your eyes.” His fingers dug into my skin as if such a command affected him as much as it did me.
I obeyed, grateful to cut him from my vision when he was all I could see. The softness of his paint and the heat of his presence magnified, adding another dimension to my troubles.
But then, it was over.
He stepped away.
Coldness returned, and aloneness resettled.
My first time as a canvas, and it was finished.
Tossing his brushes away, he jumped off the podium and stared at me from a few feet away. His head cocked, assessing each angle and curve, not looking at all happy with his creation.
With me.
He didn’t inquire if the pose was comfortable or if the foreignness of being covered in paint was acceptable.
I wasn’t Olin.
I was merely his.
With the scent of paint in the air and hunger pangs growing more insistent in my belly, Gilbert came back, added a splatter of rhinestones across my hip bone and brow, then towered over me to paint an area of my shoulder in glue before dabbing turquoise and black glitter over my collarbone.
He leaped off the platform with nimble grace and cupped his chin with paint-speckled hands. He didn’t just cock his head this time, he pinned me to the podium with his assessment. His eyes were never still, judging, deliberating.
He stared at my breasts, hips, and legs with more intensity than any man before him.
He only saw flaws and areas of improvement.
Having him a few metres away instead of a few centimetres allowed me to breathe for the first time since I got naked. My knees quaked, and I thanked every star above that he’d only painted my front. I didn’t know how I could’ve coped with him behind me. His breath on the back of my neck. His fingers on my ass. His palms skating down my spine.
Stop it.
It’s done.
When the silence became too much, I murmured, “Now what?”
My voice broke the spell.
He jerked as if I’d dragged him away from something painful. He cleared his throat all over again from the crackling tension. “I’m not happy, but it will have to do.” Marching away to a cupboard in the shadows, he ordered, “Stay there.”
I did as he said, waiting as he pulled open a drawer and came back with an expensive-looking camera. Depositing the camera by my feet, he stalked toward the large spotlights and other photography equipment tucked out of paint’s reach and rolled them around the podium.
With no warning to guard my eyes, he turned them all on, blinding me in white intensity.
I winced, squeezing my eyes shut as the heat of the lamps instantly warmed the chill in my bones. The thud of Gil’s boots paced around me as he prepared things. Slowly, I cracked open my gaze, getting used to the brightness.
He stood with the camera in his hands and a haughty, hungry look on his face. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.” Bringing the camera up, he framed me in a picture and pressed the button. The soft click sent another wash of goosebumps over me.
Time slipped into nonsense again as Gil took a copious number of photos from every angle, all with the black matte bricks behind me as the backdrop. Some he came in for a close-up on specific areas on my skin, others he took from far away. He even climbed up a ladder and took some from above.
Through it all, I stayed the perfect mannequin, doing my best to keep my face impassive, breathing light, and muscles smooth.
By the time he clicked the last photo, my stomach wasn’t just grumbling for food it was growling, and my feet ached from standing so long.
Gil didn’t say a word as he returned the camera to the cupboard, turned the spotlights off, and raked a hand through his hair, smoothing back the roguish strands. He didn’t care he had as much paint on his fingers as I did on my body, just like he