Lahat ng Kabanata ng Lustful Desires (Erotic Shorts): Kabanata 71 - Kabanata 80

Her chest squeezed painfully at his words. They weren’t a confession of love. They were a confession of dependency, on her image, her body, her presence as inspiration.The silence stretched until Lena whispered, “Then maybe we’re nothing.”Lena’s voice cracked in the studio, her anger sharp enough to cut through the heavy silence.“I’m not just some body for you to draw, Damien! You treat me like I’m your possession, like I don’t exist beyond your canvas!”Her words bounced off the walls, echoing against the scent of turpentine and oil paint.Damien stood with his fists clenched, jaw tight, but he didn’t move toward her. He could have, maybe he should have. But instead, he let his pride hold him still. His brushes lay scattered on the floor where he had knocked them over, and the painting stood unfinished on the easel, her half-captured expression staring back at him like a ghost.Lena’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. She shook her head, her hair falling into her face as she grabbed

Six months had passed, but for Lena it sometimes felt like six years. The new city she had moved to was loud, alive, and full of colors that seemed to pour into her every morning through the tall windows of her small rented studio. She had left behind the shadow of Damien’s world and was learning to stand on her own feet as an artist, painting not for someone else’s gaze, not for someone else’s canvas, but for herself.Every day was different now. Some mornings, she woke with fire in her chest, rushing to her easel with an idea so sharp that her hands trembled until she laid it down in strokes of blue, yellow, and red. Other mornings, she woke heavy, her body slow, her heart carrying that same ache that never seemed to vanish, the memory of Damien’s voice, Damien’s touch, Damien’s way of seeing her.But no matter what the day gave her, Lena pushed through. She painted. She sketched. She experimented. Some pieces were messy, wild explosions of colors without form. Others were delicate,

The day of the opening came, and the air in the gallery felt alive, almost electric. The white walls glowed under the soft lights, every piece of Lena’s collection hanging like whispers of her soul made visible. People poured in: critics, collectors, artists, strangers with sharp eyes and softer words. The sound of shoes clicking on the polished floor mixed with low chatter, laughter, and the clinking of champagne glasses.Lena stood in the center of it all, her heart racing. She had spent months pouring herself into this collection, naming it Muse No More, and tonight it was no longer just hers, it belonged to everyone who dared to look and feel.She wore a simple black dress, elegant yet understated, and her hair was swept back in a bun that made her look more composed than she felt. Inside, she was trembling. Not from the crowd, not from the fear of judgment, but from one question gnawing at her mind since the invitation went out: Would Damien come?Her eyes scanned the room again

Lena sat at her desk late into the evening, the city humming faintly outside her apartment window. The night was quiet except for the ticking of the clock on her wall, each second stretching longer than it should. She had been restless all day, her thoughts circling around things she hadn’t dared to revisit for months.Finally, she reached for her laptop and typed his name, Damien Cross. She didn’t know what she expected to find. Maybe nothing. Maybe he had gone off the grid the way he always threatened he would. Maybe he had vanished into the corners of the art world where only whispers and collectors remembered him.But when the page loaded, her breath caught. There it was, his latest painting.The screen lit up with a canvas that pulled her right back into a storm she thought she had already weathered. Her throat tightened. It was her.Not the version of herself she thought he might remember, not the angry girl who had stormed out of his studio, not the silent woman who once stood

The following week came faster than Olivia expected. All week, she carried the weight of that first tutoring session like a secret in her chest. She replayed his words...“You’ll hate me before you improve.” At the time, she had laughed nervously, but as the days went by, she began to wonder if he had meant it.By the time Thursday afternoon arrived, she felt both eager and sick with nerves. She dragged herself into the same quiet study room in the library, clutching her notebook tighter than usual. Her palms were clammy again, just like last time, and no amount of deep breathing seemed to help.Julian was already there. He sat at the oak table with his sleeves rolled up, a pen in hand, scanning through a thick stack of notes. He looked like he belonged there, like he could sit in silence for hours without ever losing focus. When Olivia entered, he didn’t glance up immediately.“You’re late,” he said calmly, still looking at the paper in front of him.Olivia’s stomach twisted. She chec