Elise's POV
The sunlight shifted in the room, casting long golden rays across the wide canvas. It looked so ethereal, calling out to her.
Alexander picked up a brush, twirling it once between his fingers before offering it to her.
"Here," he said, his voice low and a bit edged with command. "Make a mark."
She hesitated, then took it from him, her fingertips brushing his.
It felt electric. A small spark that zipped straight down her spine.
She dipped the brush into a pool of indigo blue and let it touch the canvas.
A single, bold stroke.
It stained into the white and she let out a breath after holding it too long.
She smiled — the first real smile she had given all morning — and added another. And another.
Soon, she was lost in it, the weight of the last few days falling away with each stroke.
Alexander watched her for a moment, his gaze heavy, before he stepped behind her.
Close. Too close.
She could feel the heat of his body without him even touching her.
Then — finally — his hands came to rest lightly on her hips.
"You're a natural," he murmured against her ear, his breath warm, sending a warm shiver down her spine.
"I used to do this all the time since I was four." she whispered back, voice thick with emotion she didn't dare name.
He leaned closer, his chest brushing her back.
"Then you'll do it more often now." he said, and she heard the vow in his voice. "You'll do it for you."
His hands slid up, slow and teasing over her waist, the sides of her ribs, just below her breasts — never crossing the line, but burning her all the same.
Her breath caught.
The brush trembled in her fingers.
"You can use your hands too," he whispered, voice dark and sinful. "Painting doesn't have to be... restrained to just the brush."
He took her wrist gently, guiding her fingers and dipping it into a can of red plate. The way he guided her fingers, dipping and curving it made her bite her lips as she wanted fingers— his or hers, she didn't know which— in the warm ache between her thighs.
He brought her hand to the canvas.
Her stained fingers left a wild, raw trail across the canvas.
A laugh broke from her throat — breathless, needy.
Alexander's hand covered hers, his palm large, warm, anchoring.
He moved with her, pressing her against the canvas, smearing the colors together like it was their bodies tangling, their heat blending.
"Messy," he said, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Beautiful."
She could barely think.
She was aware only of his body against hers, the hard line of him unmistakable through the thin barrier of her clothes. He pushed further into her and she could tell that he was no small man.
She turned slightly, her shoulder brushing his chest, and he caught her other hand in his, raising it slowly.
He guided her stained fingers down his throat.
His skin was hot under her touch.
When she reached the collar of his shirt, she hesitated.
He didn't.
He pulled her hand lower, across his chest, over the strong beat of his heart.
"Touch me," he said, so low it was almost a growl. "If you're going to paint, paint me too."
Her breath came faster, her pulse racing as her hand roamed across his chest, leaving faint smudges of color on his white shirt.
His hands returned to her waist, gripping her firmly now, thumbs brushing the curve of her hips.
She dared look up at him.
His eyes burned, the rays from the sun made his stormy gray eyes look like a sharp silver filled with hunger.
He reached up and, with maddening slowness, dragged the back of his fingers along her jawline, then down the side of her throat.
He leaned in and pressed his mouth — not to her lips — but to the hollow of her throat.
A hot, open-mouthed kiss.
Elise gasped, her body arching toward him involuntarily.
He kissed lower, dragging his lips across her collarbone, slow and lazy, tasting her skin like he had all the time in the world.
Her hands found his hair, threading through it, clinging.
"You smell like rain and flowers," he murmured against her skin, voice thick with restraint. "You make it very hard to behave."
She whimpered when he nipped the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, and her knees nearly gave out.
Alexander caught her easily, one arm wrapping fully around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
The evidence of his desire was undeniable against her hip.
"You deserve to be worshiped," he rasped. "Cherished. Adored."
He dragged the tip of his nose along her jaw, then kissed the soft spot under her ear — slow, lingering.
Still, maddeningly, never touching her mouth.
Never stealing that kiss they both craved.
The colors on the canvas blurred in her vision, forgotten, as her world narrowed to the feeling of his hands, his mouth, his whispered promises.
And still — he held back.
He pulled back slightly, breathing hard, his forehead resting against hers.
"If I kiss you now..." he said, voice rough, wrecked, "I won't be able to stop."
Elise trembled against him.
Every nerve ending screamed for him to give in.
For her to give in.
Instead, she let her fingers trail down his chest again, stopping just above his belt.
A small, wicked smile curved her lips.
"Then maybe," she whispered back, emboldened by the madness between them, "you shouldn't stop."
Alexander closed his eyes with a groan like a man breaking apart.
He pressed another kiss — desperate, searing — to the curve of her shoulder, dragging his tongue lightly across the skin, savoring her.
Then, with visible effort, he stepped back.
Away from her.
Putting a maddening five feet of aching space between them.
He looked like a man barely holding himself together.
And Elise — flushed, breathless, body tingling everywhere he'd touched — wanted to tear down every last inch of distance between them.
But she didn't.
Not yet.
Because the hunger would only build.
And when it broke—
It would be catastrophic.
Behind them, their canvas stood — smeared in wild, desperate colors.
A testament to everything they hadn't yet dared to do.