THE NEED TO WANT

Art consumed her in ways that nothing else could. The stroke of the brush, a tender caress, each line that drew promises. For her, art wasn’t a pastime; it was seduction itself, an unrelenting need that left her breathless. Every movement of her hand against the canvas mirrored the sensation of tracing a lover’s body, coaxing hidden pleasures to the surface.

But then there was sex, a different kind of art. Raw, untamed, and all-consuming. The rhythm of intertwined bodies, the heat of skin meeting skin, the unapologetic hunger. She wasn’t a stranger to lust or the tangled heat of passion, but nothing in her past had prepared her for him.

It began four months ago. A random twist of fate was delivered by a friend who had handed her a ticket to an art show. His reason for not attending didn’t matter. What mattered was that she went, hoping only to lose herself in the creations of others, to reignite her dwindling spark.

She’d worn a black halter dress that night, the sleek fabric hugging her curves. Her hair was smooth and styled, but inside, she felt dry, tired, as though she couldn’t reason. Perhaps she felt bored.

And then, she saw it.

A painting, a breathtaking depiction of two lovers locked in an unrestrained, intimate dance. The man gripped the woman tightly, her arms pinned above her head in a surrender that spoke of trust and desire. The expression on her face, a moment of pure ecstasy, stirred a primal instinct within her.

The effect was immediate and visceral. Heat unfurled deep in her belly, spreading outward with an intensity that stole her breath. Her fingers itched to trace the beauty, to feel the curve of each line that seemed to pulse with life. In her mind, the drawing melted into warm, pliable flesh, the figures transforming, curating a gravitational effect that blessed the eyes of those who understood.

This was more than art; it was pure, unfiltered sex. Desperate to know the mind behind such brilliance, her eyes scanned for a name. There it was, etched into a small plaque: Parson Smith. The name lingered in her thoughts, curling around her like smoke, teasing her senses.

She inquired about him, eager to uncover anything about the man who could create such raw, breathtaking intimacy. But no one knew him, no one had even seen him. He was as enigmatic as his work. Her curiosity refused to rest, transforming into a fixation. Parson Smith became her obsession. She sought out every gallery where his name was whispered, searching for his presence in every curve, every line of his creations. She wanted to know him; not just the artist, but the man who could shape desire into such exquisite form.

Needing clarity, she retreated to the one place that always helped her find focus: the library. She stepped through its familiar doors; the scent of aged paper and leather bindings wrapped around her, soothing her frayed nerves. She offered a polite nod to the librarian and slipped into a quiet, secluded corner.

He sat alone, a man with close-cropped hair, his lean frame casually draped in a fitted gray shirt. His tattoos caught her eye first, intricate designs winding up his arms. Her fingers twitched with the urge to trace the patterns, to feel the texture of his skin beneath. His focus was locked on a book, and from the cover, it was about body painting, "for dummies."

Cute, she thought. She considered leaving, unwilling to intrude on what appeared to be an almost zen moment. But then, her gaze caught a glimmer of silver: a name etched on an ID tag clipped to his book.

Parson Smith. 

Her heart stuttered, a sharp pulse of disbelief and recognition. The name that had haunted her thoughts, driven her obsession, was suddenly tangible, seated just a few feet away. She told herself it could be a coincidence, but the book in his hands erased any doubt. The man who had created the art that left her breathless, the one who captured sex so vividly it had consumed her, was sitting there as though he’d been waiting for her to find him.

Compelled by an irresistible force, she approached him. Their conversation began innocently, revolving around art and creativity. His voice was smooth and warm, each word resonating with an almost magnetic confidence. He spoke of his craft with a reverence that bordered on worship, and she found herself drawn in, hanging on every syllable.

She learned about his methods, his inspirations, and his guarded world. Her patience was rewarded when, at last, he invited her to his studio. The space was an artist's haven, dimly lit and filled with the heady scent of paint and varnish. The glow of scattered amber lamps cast dramatic shadows across the room, lending an almost ethereal quality to the sculptures and canvases.

She wanted him to touch her, to make her feel as though her body was the canvas and his finger was the brush. She liked the way he exuded authority in every movement, every glance. When he finally reached for her, his hands were unhurried.