Chapter 4
Sophia
I spread my sketchbooks across the desk, pushing aside empty coffee mugs and dried-up paint tubes. The afternoon light streams through my window, catching dust motes dancing above fresh charcoal sketches.
Adrian's commission looms large in my mind as I flip through supplier catalogs. My fingers trace over listings for specialty paints. The budget he's offering means I can finally work with materials I've only dreamed of using.
"Technology and emotion," I mumble, scribbling notes.
The concept both thrills and intimidates me. My usual style leans organic. But there's something compelling about exploring how cold circuits connect to human hearts.
I never officially agreed to take on the project, but a silent understanding seems to have passed between us. With all my hesitation, I can't bring myself to say no. It feels like I'd be blowing a huge opportunity. So I'm throwing myself into my work.
I pick up a worn graphite pencil, letting my hand move freely across a blank page. Fractals emerge, both digital and natural. Like the patterns in my thoughts about Adrian.
The way he watched me at dinner, like he already knew every move I'd make before I made it.
My hand trembles slightly as I jot down "large-scale mixed media." His suggestions weren't exactly demands, but they carried weight, the same weight I feel when I'm around him.
I grab my phone, checking prices for the materials I'll need. Premium acrylics, specialized brushes, larger canvases than I've ever worked with. The numbers make me dizzy, but Adrian's advance payment sits untouched in my account.
That's what pushed me over the edge. He sent a payment before I even said I'd do it.
Picking up a half-used tube of cerulean blue, I squeeze out the last drops onto my palette. This cheap paint has served me well, helped create pieces that caught Adrian's eye. But why did he notice my work in the first place?
My pencil moves again, sketching interconnected nodes that morph into crying eyes. There's something about Adrian that makes me want to impress him. To prove I deserve this chance. But another part of me whispers warnings about strings attached to such generous offers.
I pull out my largest canvas, still tiny compared to what the commission requires. Running my fingers over its texture, I think about Adrian's strong hands, the way they moved when he spoke about my art, like he was already shaping it.
"Focus," I tell myself, returning to my supply list. But the moment his careful control slipped, something underneath was revealed—something I want to see more of.
My phone buzzes—a message from my art supply store about a sale on premium brushes. Perfect timing, almost too perfect. I shake off the paranoid thought. Not everything is a calculated move, even if Adrian makes me feel like it could be.
I push back from my desk, stretching muscles stiff from hours of sketching. The commission brief sits next to my laptop, its crisp pages covered in my scrawled notes.
"This is my chance," I whisper, but the words catch in my throat.
The sketches scattered across my workspace show promise, human figures dissolving into circuit boards, faces emerging from static. But each time I start to lose myself in the creative flow, I remember Adrian's "suggestions" at dinner.
Have you considered incorporating more surveillance elements? His voice had been silk-smooth, reasonable. The interplay between watching and being watched...
My hand clenches around my pencil. The theme isn't bad—it could work beautifully with my vision. That's what makes it so frustrating.
I pick up my favorite brush, its bristles frayed from overuse. Soon I'll replace it with top-quality materials. The freedom should feel exhilarating. Instead, there's this weight in my chest, like invisible hands trying to shape my work. Adrian's eyes follow me even here in my studio, measuring each creative decision against some hidden standard.
"It's still my art," I say firmly, pinning up a fresh sketch. The figure in it reaches through a tangle of wires, either being consumed or breaking free, I'm not sure which yet. Maybe that's the point.
I grab my phone to check the supply delivery status. Everything's falling into place, thanks to Adrian's generosity. Or his control.
My reflection in the window catches my eye—determination mixed with uncertainty. I've fought too hard to let anyone dictate my artistic voice again. Not after Daniel. But this opportunity...
I turn back to my sketches. I'll take Adrian's suggestions as exactly that—suggestions. I'll steer this project my way, defending each mark I make as my own.
A notification chimes from my laptop, cutting through my concentration. I glance over, expecting another supply chain update. Instead, there's a blank subject line from an unfamiliar address.
My cursor hovers over the message. After a moment's hesitation, I click.
Sometimes the ones who admire you most are the ones you see the least. They know more than you think.
I blink, re-reading the cryptic words. My throat tightens. The message carries weight beyond its simple phrasing, like a stone dropping into still water.
"This has to be spam," I mutter, but my finger trembles as I scroll through the email headers. No identifying information. Just those two loaded sentences floating in white space.
Adrian's words from the gallery echo in my mind: I recently discovered your work. But something in his eyes that night... the way he spoke about specific pieces, like he'd spent hours studying them.
I minimize the email, trying to keep my thoughts on my sketches. The lines blur as my thoughts race. Could Adrian have been watching my career longer than he admitted? The idea sends a chill down my spine.
My gaze drifts to the commission brief with his requirements. The suggestions suddenly feel less like artistic guidance and more like planted seeds.
"You're being paranoid," I tell myself but open the email again. The words stare back, stark and knowing. They know more than you think.
I click through my social media posts, scanning comments and likes with new scrutiny. How long has Adrian really been following my work? What else might he know about me that I haven't shared?
The late afternoon light catches the dust motes differently now, like tiny cameras watching my every move. I shut my laptop with more force than necessary, but the words have already burrowed deep into my thoughts.
* * *
My dreams take shape in my studio. The familiar scent of oil paint and turpentine fills my nostrils. My hand moves, working on one of the commission pieces. The colors flow, deep blues merging into violent reds, circuitry patterns weaving through human forms.
I feel someone behind me. Adrian's cologne hits my senses before I feel his chest press against my back.
His hand slides down my arm, fingers wrapping around mine on the brush. His grip is like iron, controlling every movement. The brush sweeps in ways I didn't intend.
"Let me show you what you're capable of." His breath tickles my ear. "You need guidance to reach your full potential."
I try to pull away, to assert my own vision, but his hold tightens. My heart pounds against my ribs.
"I know what I'm doing," I protest. It comes out like a whine.
"Do you?" His low chuckle makes me tingle. "You can't break free. You don't want to." His other hand secures to my hip, holding me in place against him.
Heat floods my body. The loss of control terrifies me, but underneath that fear runs a current of excitement that makes my knees weak. The brush moves in ways I never imagined, creating something dark and beautiful. My breath catches as his lips touch my neck.
"See how magnificent we are together?" His words drip like honey. "Stop fighting what you want."
I shouldn't enjoy this. I should hate how he's taken over, but my body betrays me. His dominance awakens something primal in me that I never knew existed.
"Your strokes are too timid," Adrian's voice rumbles against my neck. "You're holding back."
His fingers tighten over mine on the brush, forcing more aggression. Red paint bleeds into black, creating violent swirls.
"I-I'm not holding back," I whisper, but even I hear the tremor in my voice.
"Yes. You are." His free hand slides from my hip to my stomach, pulling me tighter against him. His touch burns through my thin shirt. "You're afraid to truly feel. To let go. See how the colors blend?" His teeth graze my earlobe. "That's what happens when you surrender to sensation."
My legs shake as his hand guides mine in circular motions, paint dripping down the canvas like tears. Or blood. The image emerging is passionate, frightening.
"Please," I breathe, though I'm not sure if I'm begging him to stop or continue.
"Please what?" His voice drops lower, dangerous. "Tell me what you need to feel."
The brush clatters to the floor. His now-free hand slides up to my throat, applying the slightest pressure. My pulse races against his palm.
"I need you to understand," he murmurs, "that art comes from here." His fingers tighten. "From the places that make you afraid."
I feel Adrian's fingers slide beneath my shirt, his warm palm pressing against my stomach.
"You have so much passion inside," he whispers. "Let me help you release it."
I should step away. I know I should. But my body betrays my better judgment, responding to his touch like a flower to the sun. His hand moves up, thumb grazing just below my breasts. I can't hold back a soft gasp.
"That's it, Sophia," he murmurs, his lips against my neck now. "Feel it. Embrace it."
His hand cups my breast, thumb brushing my nipple. My breath quickens. I want to tell him to stop, but the words die in my throat. His other hand slides down my body, tracing a path along my hip and thigh. My entire body buzzes with anticipation. As if reading my mind, his hand slips between my legs, pressing against my most intimate place through the fabric of my leggings. I can't help but buck my hips, needing more.
"You want this, don't you?" he whispers, his mouth curling into a satisfied smile.
I'm mute, my body paralyzed by his touch and my own conflicting desires. I can't move, but I don't want to. I want him to keep taking control, to push me past my boundaries.
He starts to move his fingers in slow circles, applying just the right pressure. My breath comes in sharp gasps, my heart pounding in my chest. My body arches toward him, craving more.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice low and commanding. "Let go, Sophia. Feel the power of submitting."
His fingers expertly bring me closer to the edge, hovering there, on the cusp of something extraordinary. I'm entirely in his control, a realization that both excites and frightens me. My hips rock back and forth, seeking more of him, and he chuckles.
"My, my," he murmurs, his tongue finding my neck. Adrian's touch grows more insistent, massaging my clit harder. "Seems like you want to feel my touch more… directly." His tongue laps at me, tasting me.
I suck in a sharp breath as I imagine him tasting me there, where he's touching right now. I'm getting closer, closer to releasing it all. Then, just before he can push me over the precipice, I feel myself falling—
I wake with a gasp, heart pounding, body tingling with residual sensations from the dream. I lie in bed, panting, staring at the ceiling, struggling to separate dream from reality.
What the hell was that?
My body, this thing that betrays me time and again, calls to me. A thrum of longing resonates from deep within my core.
Adrian almost made me come in my dream—me, who hasn't felt this desire in so long. That dream was so vivid, so real—the feel of his hands on my body, his breath in my ear. The way he made me want to give up control.
Just for a moment, I want to finish what we started in that dream.
I reach blindly into my nightstand, my fingers wrapping around the velvety toy I keep hidden there. My cheeks flame with embarrassment at the mere thought of someone discovering this secret. But right now, I don't care. I need this.
It takes only a few seconds, and then it's there, pressed against my clit. A shockwave of pleasure hits me, and my eyes roll back in my head as I take in a sharp breath. I'm already wet—so wet—from Adrian's dream visit.
"Adrian." His name escapes my lips like a prayer.
I whisper it again, tasting it, savoring the thought of him. My hand moves faster, my pussy needing more. My imagination takes over, feeding me images of Adrian dominating me, taking what he wants.
Adrian invades my thoughts. I crave his touch, need to feel his mouth on my skin, his hands guiding mine.
The tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter inside me, until I'm on the brink, teetering on the edge. My breath hitches as my body breaks apart, tremors shaking me as wave after wave crashes over me. In that moment, it's just me and this wonderful sensation.
Then, slowly, I return to reality. My hand falls away, and I curl up in bed, boneless and satisfied. My dreams and reality have collided, leaving me questioning what's real and what's fantasy.
I'll figure it out tomorrow.