Eleanor awoke to the faint scent of leather, sex, and the barest trace of jasmine—hers. The couch beneath her was too narrow for two people, but somehow, in the arms of Daniel Hart, it had been enough. She stretched languidly, body still humming with the aftermath of last night's surrender.
Daniel was already up, shirtless, standing near a window as he lit a cigarette. The orange glow of it illuminated the lines of his chest, the defined arch of his back. He looked like sin and salvation wrapped into one impossibly masculine silhouette.
She watched him for a moment before speaking. "You smoke?"
"Only after sex," he said without turning around. "Or war."
Her lips curled. "Which was it last night?"
He turned then, his eyes meeting hers. "Depends on who you ask."
Eleanor stood, reaching for the silk wrap still lying on the floor. She draped it over herself, suddenly feeling too bare—vulnerable, even. She wasn't used to waking up in unfamiliar places. She wasn't used to letting anyone see her like this. Not anymore.
"I should go," she said quietly.
Daniel took another drag, then stubbed the cigarette out in a tin ashtray. "No, you shouldn't."
She tilted her chin, slipping on the armor of confidence. "You don't get to tell me what I should or shouldn't do."
"No," he said, crossing the space to her. "But I know when someone's about to run."
She opened her mouth to respond, but he cupped her face gently, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks.
"I'm not asking you to fall in love with me," he said. "I'm asking you to stop lying to yourself."
Her eyes flickered.
"You want more," he whispered. "So do I. So let's make a deal."
"A deal?" she repeated, heart pounding.
He nodded. "You don't want a relationship. You don't want strings. Fine. Then give me three nights. No promises, no expectations. Just you and me—raw and real. After the third night, you walk away if you want."
Eleanor hesitated. It was madness. But then again, she hadn't felt this alive in years. And he wasn't promising forever. Just truth. And hadn't that been what she was missing all along?
"Three nights," she repeated, her voice low.
Daniel stepped closer, his breath warm against her lips. "Three nights," he confirmed. "Starting now."
She felt her defenses crack—just slightly.
"I have a show in two days," she warned.
"Then we'll finish what we started before you take your final bow."
Her heart beat louder than her logic.
"All right," she said. "You have three nights."
---
By the following evening, the second night of their deal, Eleanor found herself back at Daniel's studio—this time by choice.
He opened the door shirtless again, a towel around his neck, droplets of water clinging to his chest from a recent shower. His hair was damp, his smile lazy.
"You came back."
"You asked for three nights. I'm honoring the terms."
He stepped aside. "How very contractual of you."
She walked in, setting her clutch on the edge of a stool. "What's the plan tonight?"
Daniel handed her a glass of wine, his fingers grazing hers. "Tonight, we strip away more than clothes."
Her eyebrow arched. "We already did that."
"No," he said, his voice rough. "Not like this."
He led her to the center of the room, where a single stool sat beneath a spotlight. Around it were scattered sketches, photographs, swaths of silk. A creative storm made material.
"I want to photograph you," he said.
Eleanor's breath caught. "Naked?"
"Unmasked."
She didn't reply.
"I won't show them to anyone. Not ever. These will be for me—and for you. A mirror, if you let it be."
She looked at the stool. Then at him. Then down at her own trembling hands.
And she sat.
Daniel lifted his camera and began.
Not with her clothes removed. Not yet. But with her posture, her expressions, her vulnerability. He asked questions between shots. Soft ones. Unexpected ones.
"What scares you?"
"What do you regret?"
"When did you last feel powerful?"
Her answers came slowly, like silk unraveling from a tight spool.
"I'm scared of never being enough."
"I regret marrying a man who loved my reputation more than my soul."
"I felt powerful when I turned thirty and realized I could choose solitude over performance."
He clicked, and clicked again.
Then, when she was ready, she unfastened her dress and let it fall again.
This time, it wasn't about seduction.
It was about truth.
Daniel captured every inch of her—her curves, her scars, the tension in her shoulders, the sadness in her eyes.
He lowered the camera, approached, and kissed her again—not like a man staking a claim, but like one offering safety in a storm.
They made love there, beneath the light, wrapped not just in lust, but something rawer.
Eleanor cried afterward. Not because she was sad—but because someone had finally seen all of her, and hadn't looked away.
And Daniel? He simply held her.
Their second night ended in silence, in skin, in truth.
And still, two nights remained.