Chapter Twelve
Mason
I stand before my canvas, a beautiful woman sprawled across the long table, her body bare, waiting for my touch. Normally, in this moment, I’m awake, turned on, and ready to make magic happen. For some reason, though, I can barely look at the canvas before me.
The scent of fresh paint lingers in the air, mixing with the intoxicating aroma of warmed skin that normally fills me with anticipation. I should feel something — excitement, hunger, even the smallest flicker of desire — but the only thing burning in my veins is frustration.
My brush hovers above her stomach, the bristles barely grazing her soft flesh. Normally, this is the moment I relish the most, the first stroke, the first transformation of a normal human body into a perfect piece of art. But as I trace lines of crimson and sapphire across the rise of her hip, all I can think about is Chloe.
Chloe’s body should be the one beneath my hands, writhing as I turn her into my own personal masterpiece. She should be gasping as the cold paint kisses her skin, trembling from the sheer anticipation of what comes next. I can already see it — the curve of her waist, the perfect expanse of her thighs, the way she’ll melt beneath me when I finally take her.
The woman currently lying on the table arches, a definite invitation. I’d normally be tempted. I’d sate my needs as I’ve never been one to hold back when I want to press forward. But this woman isn’t Chloe.
I tighten my grip on the brush, forcing myself to focus. I sweep bold strokes along her stomach, my hands steady as my mind races with thoughts of the woman I truly crave. The brush trails upward, circling her breasts, then moving down along her thighs, but it all feels mechanical... meaningless.
By the time my piece is finished, a stunning display of abstract color is coating her body like silk. I’m still numb. I feel nothing for my art, and nothing for this woman I’ve just panted, making her chest rapidly rise and fall.
“We’re done,” I murmur as I step back, my voice hollow.
The photographer enters, camera in hand, and immediately gets to work. Flash after flash illuminates the studio, but I’m already away from here in my mind, retreating to the only place that matters, to the image of Chloe, naked and painted beneath me.
The photography session ends quickly. The model reaches for me, her painted fingers brushing along my wrist. I step back, pulling away, my skin recoiling at the wrongness of her touch against me.
“You need to help me clean up,” she whispers, her voice husky, her lips curving into a knowing grin.
“Not tonight,” I tell her, my voice devoid of emotion. She gives me a confused glance. I turn to my trusted employee. “Escort her out.” Then, without another glance, I turn on my heel and leave the room.
By the time I reach my private bathroom, I’m already unfastening my belt, my arousal pressing painfully against my zipper. The cold tile beneath my feet grounds me, but it does nothing to quench the fire raging inside my body.
The shower roars to life, steam curling around me as I step inside, my head falling back against the cool marble. My hand wraps around my length, and I groan, my need unbearable. Chloe has done this to me.
I think of her, of her lips, her skin, her scent. I think of the way she looks at me when she thinks I don’t notice, the way her breath hitches in my presence. She will be mine. I need to make her see that.
I stroke myself harder, the water cascading down my shoulders, my body tensing as the fantasy of her sucking my cock overtakes me. I imagine her beneath me, whispering my name. I hear her moan as I finally make us one. My release crashes over me like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming, my groans echoing against the shower walls.
It’s not enough. It’s never enough. I need the real thing. Soon, I’ll have her — no matter how long it takes. Until then, I’m left doing this because no other woman will do.