Chapter 4

Luna’s POV 

I barely slept the night before.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—Alejandro—leaning against my studio wall, eyes fixed on me, stripping away my defenses one glance at a time. The way he’d said “I want you” wasn’t a seduction. It was a declaration. And worse, it was a challenge which I accepted without thinking twice.

I woke up sticky with sweat and something else—need.

By 11:00 a.m., I was pacing.

What did he mean, watch me paint myself? Did he expect a mirror? A nude? Something figurative or literal? I didn’t ask, and he hadn’t clarified.

He wanted me to decide.

I pulled on a black crop top and grey cotton shorts, soft and clingy, the kind I used for painting—not for impressing anyone, but I wasn’t going to pretend his presence wouldn’t affect how I stood, or how my breath moved in my chest.

At 12:00 on the dot, he knocked.

The same rhythm.

I opened the door to find him holding two paper bags—one with fresh croissants, the other with coffee in a to-go tray. He didn’t speak as he handed them to me.

“Still not making small talk?” I teased as I took the bags.

“I find it dilutes the tension.”

That made me laugh—because it wasn’t a joke.

He stepped inside and scanned the room like it was new again. I realized how aware I’d become of how things looked—which canvases were out, which lights were on. My body, even more so. Every breath felt visible. Every movement, I observed.

I set the food on a table, untouched. I wouldn’t be able to eat until he left—and I suspected he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

“I cleared this space for the canvas,” I said, nodding to the center of the room. A clean, large board stretched on the easel.

“And the subject?” he asked.

“I’m the subject, right?”

“You are.”

I inhaled slowly, already feeling the heat between my thighs.

“I need to undress.”

“I know.”

There was no permission in his voice, no anticipation.

Just patience.

I turned away from him and slowly pulled off my top, letting it fall to the floor. Then the shorts. I stepped out of them without looking back. The cool air kissed my bare skin, making my nipples harden. I stood naked in the center of my studio, the paint-streaked floors grounding me.

I could feel him behind me. Not touching. Just watching.

Watching everything.

I grabbed the palette and brush, my fingers trembling only slightly. I dipped into the ochre first—warm, base-toned. I began to outline the curve of a thigh. My thigh.

I painted from memory and from feeling. There was no mirror. No photo. Just the image that lived in my body, in my skin. The image in my mind.

I didn’t rush. I let my hand move slowly, deliberately. The strokes curled into hipbones, down the arch of a back, along the fullness of a breast.

I could feel his eyes on me every second.

“You paint your body like it belongs to someone else,” he said, finally.

I didn’t turn. “Does it?”

“That’s up to you.”

I added a splash of crimson across the shoulder—my shoulder. Not realistic. Not anatomical. Just… emotional. Blood, maybe. Or sex. Or shame.

My thighs ached from standing still, but I didn’t stop— I couldn’t.

I painted the slope of my neck, the flush in the cheeks, the parted mouth that hinted at a moan. I didn’t have to imagine the expression—it was the same one I’d had when I woke up this morning, soaked between my legs, clutching my sheets, whispering his name without realizing it.

I dipped my fingers into the blue this time. No brush. Just skin to canvas.

“Tell me what you see,” I said quietly, still not turning to face him.

“I see restraint,” he said, “and a woman terrified of what she’s capable of.”

I closed my eyes.

Then turned to him.

“I’m not terrified,” I said.

He didn’t blink. “Prove it.”

I dropped the brush.

Stepped toward him.

He didn’t move.

I pressed my body close, naked and heated, my chest brushing his shirt. I could feel the rise of his breath. Could smell his cologne—spiced, masculine, with a hint of smoke. His hands stayed at his sides, but his eyes burned into me like touch.

I lifted his hand and placed it on my waist.

He exhaled, slow and controlled.

“I don’t mix business with pleasure,” I whispered.

He leaned down, his mouth at my ear.

“Good thing I’m not here for pleasure.”

Then he let his hand slide away.

The ache inside me throbbed like a fresh bruise.

I stepped back, cheeks flushed, arousal soaking the inside of my thighs.

I returned to the painting, the air charged now with something molten.

I painted harder. Rougher. Like I was fucking the canvas instead of painting it. My strokes grew urgent, messy, wild. I smeared red over the mouth. Darkened the eyes. Made the nipples stand out hard and bruised.

My legs trembled, and my core throbbed. I could feel moisture trickle down the inside of my thigh, and I didn’t wipe it away.

I wanted him to see what he’d done to me without even laying a finger.

“I need a break,” I gasped.

“Then take one,” he said. “But don’t hide.”

I didn’t.

I sank onto the low leather bench against the wall, legs spread slightly, my body humming.

His eyes flicked down.

And for the first time—I saw his jaw tighten. His control falter.

Good.

He stepped forward, slowly.

And knelt in front of me.

“You said you weren’t here for pleasure,” I whispered.

“I’m not,” he said. “But you are.”

Then he leaned in and kissed my inner thigh.

My whole body jolted.

He didn’t go further. He didn’t touch what ached most.

He just looked up at me and said, “Keep painting.”

And walked out. That was all? You know I need more!