32. Rosenna
Chapter thirty-two
Rosenna
S tepping out of Beckham’s car, I looked up at the warehouse he’d brought me to. Still holding me to my responsibility of being his model, he decided to switch things up today.
After my disastrous dinner with Gavin, I needed a distraction—a reason to ignore the fact that my marriage was slipping farther from my grasp.
And Beckham? He was more than willing to provide one.
I should have left after last night. I should have gone home, locked myself in my room, done anything to stop myself from getting into his car. But the cycle had already won. It always did.
His hands. His lips. His voice.
He sunk his claws into me. Unraveled my emotions. Taunted me. Broke me.
The slightly traumatic mind-blowing sex that followed? An unwanted plus, but a plus nonetheless.
Beckham grabbed my hand as we approached one of the many art storage warehouses he had around the city. As he opened the door with the key, we stepped in, and I found an interesting sight.
There were two setups. The first consisted of a camera with a stool in front of it, and the second consisted of a wide black canvas that was positioned on the floor.
There were no blankets or roses. However, I did notice the buckets of paint that were in the room with little to no utensils for them.
“Beckham... what is this?” I whispered.
He let go of my hand as he walked over to the backdrop stand behind the stool. Letting it drop to the ground, he adjusted the components slightly.
“I am an artist, Flower. I create art in many different forms. As you know, there are different kinds of portraits one could make, and in the masterpieces we create today, I want to be able to be a part of that experience with you.”
He walked over to me slowly, his eyes darkening as he gazed up at me from head to toe. I wanted to avoid his piercing eyes as they began to narrow in on me, but I couldn’t.
“You know what to do, Flower...” My mouth went dry at the low tone in his voice. “Or do you need me to say it?”
I gulped softly, my thighs tightening. I was almost excited to hear him say the word that had complete control over me.
As he looked down at me, he slowly ran his hand down the middle of my chest. My breath hitched as my body shuddered under his touch. It seemed to feed his ego as a rather satisfied look appeared in his eyes at my now natural reaction to his touch.
Leaning down, he spoke in a voice just above a whisper, ultimately putting me under his dark spell.
“Strip.”
Slowly, my hand found the bottom of my shirt, and I brought it over my head, never breaking eye contact. He grabbed the shirt from my hand, and I easily slipped off my wedding ring. His hand rose to stop me from going any further, and I was left only in my black bra and jeans.
Gesturing for me to sit, I watched him cautiously as he walked over to me with a paintbrush and a bucket of what looked like white washable paint. He bent down, and slowly, he painted my upper body with random but calculated brush strokes. The paint was cold against my hot skin as I watched him create his vision.
By the time he was done, I wasn’t completely covered: it had almost seemed like he was trying to emulate an unfinished painting on my skin.
After placing the utensils down, he fixed my hair the way he wanted.
“What are you going to do when the art exhibit is over?” I asked him softly.
He moved my arms. One was placed across my chest holding my opposite shoulder, the other hand placed between my legs on the stool.
“I’ll continue doing what I’ve always done: create art.”
“You wouldn’t think to continue doing more exhibits?”
His eyes found mine as he grabbed my chin and tilted my head back to where he wanted it. He then looked away as he walked behind the camera.
“There wouldn’t be a point. I don’t care for fame or recognition, no matter how good my art seems to be. Now, stay still.”
I focused my eyes on the camera lens as he took his first few shots. He pulled back after a moment, and he came over to me once again, positioning my hair again.
“Your art is one of a kind, you know? It should be appreciated and not stored away. I think it deserves recognition and praise for how hard you work on it…”
A small blush climbed my neck.
“I know you do… Head straight, eyes to the right.”
I followed his direction as he went back to the camera and took a few more pictures. After he fixed me in more positions and took a few more photos, he allowed me to relax as he spent the next five minutes going through the photos and editing them briefly with the few settings he had on his camera. Soon, he walked over to me, and when I saw the photos, I was thoroughly surprised at how good they looked.
“I’m going for a monochrome, slightly abstract tone with these,” he murmured, adjusting the camera settings as his eyes flicked over the image on the screen. “The contrast with your skin against the black, the white paint strokes across your body, it’s like capturing something half-finished. Something… caught in the middle. Delicate but unyielding. Light in the shadow.”
He seemed utterly fixated as he glanced through the photos, his mind analyzing the photo almost like it had spoken to him itself.
“The black and white will strip away everything unnecessary,” he continued, voice much lower and softer. “No distractions. No color to hide behind. Just form. Texture. Emotion. I could keep them like this. Raw, untouched—but for now… this is where we are.”
There was an unspoken weight behind his words, the way he lingered a second too long, lifting his eyes to find mine as I swallowed softly. He wasn’t just talking about the art.
He was talking about us.
“They’re beautiful,” I whispered, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he walked back over to the camera, adjusting the settings with careful precision.
I watched him silently, perched on the stool, my body still captured in the moment he’d created as he walked around to adjust the background again.
Then, without warning, he pulled his shirt over his head before he tossed it to the ground.
I averted my gaze from the sharp and alluring cut of his chest as he grabbed the small Bluetooth trigger for the camera along with another stool.
As he placed the stool behind me, my heart raced. His hands slid down to my wrists, and I bit my lip as he lowered his head to the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
My eyes closed as I tried to ignore the fluttering feeling he left in my stomach, but it was utterly useless.
I was a fool to myself if I continued to lie and say I could deny this man. It was humbling, the lack of self-control and desire he’d forced into me, and I hated how accepting I was of it.
The paint seeped into my skin, into my bones, into my fucking soul.
His hands let go of me after some time, and I gulped as he reached for my bra, unhooking it effortlessly. He moved my hands, guiding them to cross over my chest, my palms resting on my shoulders in a mock display of modesty.
“What about you, Flower?”
I looked over my shoulder to him as he took his seat behind me, placing his hands on my waist. “What are you going to do when the exhibit is done?” he questioned.
I shrugged softly as his hand pushed my hair behind my ear.
“What I’ve always done, I guess…” I whispered, and he hummed. He clicked the button after a moment, and the camera captured us in this position. “What... what about us?” The question slipped out and he tilted his head, his thumb caressing my waist as his other hand was on my shoulder.
“What about us, Flower?”
I remained silent as I reluctantly looked away. The weight guilt of my commitment reminded me that there was no us .
Feeling his finger on my chin, I sighed internally as he turned my head back to face him.
“What we are is entirely up to you, Flower. I’m just doing my part and making sure you know that my intentions to cherish you and to make you feel appreciated… go noticed.”
I smiled softly. “You’ve definitely done quite a job of making me notice…”
He simply stared at me, studied the way I gazed at him. Almost as if I was the only woman on earth, almost as if he couldn’t believe I was in front of him.
For a second, I couldn’t believe it either.
My thoughts blurred, melting like the paint against my skin, and for a fleeting moment, I couldn’t remember who I was before he touched me.
I suppressed the thoughts, focusing as he continued taking pictures. Each position was more sensual than the last. His touch was tender and delicate on my skin as it left me feeling hot and bothered. This was too much…
Then, he leaned into my ear. “I would give you everything, Flower.”
I shook my head, turning away as I stood, arms still crossed over my chest. He stood up after me and grabbed my arm before I could get far, his fingers dangerously curling around me.
“Listen to me, Rosenna.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, wanting to ignore him completely. I’d done enough listening to him. Any more and I wouldn’t even know myself, or at least the version of myself that I grew accustomed to.
Grabbing my face in both of his hands, he forced my eyes to gaze up at him.
“You and I both know what we have… what we could have is something authentic… something real. ”
I shook my head once more, the guilt, the shame, the sinfulness of it all eating me alive.
“We can’t, Beckham… I can’t ,” I whispered.
He leaned in closer, placing his forehead against mine.
“Even if you couldn’t, I wouldn’t be able to let you go. I can’t let you go.”
I sighed heavily, knowing I wouldn’t be able to get away from him even if I wanted to.
“I want… I need you to be my everything, Flower…”
I held in a moan as he placed a tender kiss on my lips. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled him in closer as my mind buzzed.
I’m not capable of love. My emotions are rather ambiguous, vague.
I’m not capable of love.
I’m not capable of love.
Was Beckham capable of giving me his everything? Was he able to give me what he said he would? Was it all too good to be true? Would I even be able to give him my everything when part of me was still stuck on fixing my marriage? When I couldn’t even come to terms with myself?
Pulling at his hair, I moaned as his hands traveled down my body, squeezing my breasts, gripping my hips, groping my ass, gaining control of my body like he always did. As he placed his hands under my thighs, he picked me up, my breasts against his chest as my nipples swelled in anticipation.
He walked over to the second setup, grabbing the bucket of white paint before he threw a few color splotches on different areas of the black floor canvas. Pulling away, I looked at him in question as his lips found my skin once again. I gasped softly as he walked over to the middle of the canvas, laying me down as a small part of my body touched the paint.
“You’re going to let me have you right now.”
His fingers trailed over the paint, smearing it against my stomach, my hips, claiming every inch.
“You’re going to let me give you everything ,” he purred against my skin.
I couldn’t help but whimper as he placed soft tender kisses against my skin.
“And when we’re done, you’ll see just the kind of art… the kind of masterpieces … we can make when we’re together.”