Novel Paints Novels & Stories

“Mind showing me what you’re working on?” “I do mind,” she replied curtly, brushing past him to head downstairs. “Didn’t you say we were going to the hospital? Let’s go.” He turned to watch her walk off, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together where the pigment still lingered. He knew paints, enough to recognize what kind this was—natural mineral pigment. They were costly. The kind used in oil painting. And her reaction was too measured and evasive. A thought flickered across his mind. That oil painting—Locked…

Then he opened his eyes. He frowned, and then leaned closer to make sure he was seeing it right. “Do you like it?” Nova walked closer to stand beside him, grabbing two of his fingers in her fist. “I am not sure what I am looking at, baby.” He squinted at the neon blue and green paint in the center of the white canvas. It felt like they used a large brush and simply stroked upward, once. Nova groaned in childish exhaustion beside him and palmed her head, “Think daddy. Look harder, what can you see?”

Brandon found solace in arranging the flowers, in the act of bringing beauty into his home. The walls were next. Armed with paintbrushes and cans of bright, cheerful paint, Brandon set to work. He painted one wall a deep, inviting blue, another a warm, sunny yellow. The living room became a canvas for his emotions, each stroke of the brush a step toward healing. The vibrant colors breathed new life into the space, making it feel like a sanctuary.

"Fuck me, Adrian. I need you inside me. Please." "Not yet," he said, a wicked glint in his eye. He stood up and walked over to the buckets of paint. He returned with a large, open bucket of thick, white titanium white. "First, we make our masterpiece." He tilted the bucket. A thick, heavy stream of white paint poured out, splashing directly onto her chest. It was a shocking, sensual deluge. The paint was cool and heavy, pooling between her breasts and running down her sides in slow, sticky rivulets. It flowed into the dip of her navel, down her stomach, into her pubic hair, mixing with the black paint on her mound. She gasped at the shock, the sheer, filthy decadence of it.

Maybe if I gave her something to create with-something that had nothing to do with me or this life—it might chip away at those walls she kept building. I walked in. Tubes of paint lined up like soldiers, sketchbooks stacked in neat piles. I bought everything, a wooden easel, charcoal sticks, a full set of the finest watercolors, pigments so pure they could almost stain light itself, brushes hand-made in Florence, paper thick enough to last a century. If she could copy the works of the masters for me, I could sell them for clean money. Not exactly legal, but not blood money either. For the first time in years, I'd have a way to profit without putting a bullet in someone's head.

As she examined the pieces, she couldn't help but be captivated by the wonders that adorned the walls. One particular painting stood out—a masterpiece that seemed to come alive with textured strokes and vivid colours. It depicted a moonlit forest, where shadows and light played in a mesmerizing dance. The impasto technique added depth and dimension, the thick smears of navy and chartreuse making the trees practically leap off the canvas. Vivienne marvelled at the skill of the artist, the brushstrokes revealing a passion and mastery that she was almost envious of.

"I heard you're quite an artist and wanted to grab better set of art tools you might need outside town but I couldn't leave you here alone so I ordered someone else to get them for me. Is everything to your liking?" "I didn't know you had helpers." "Being at the top of the food chain has its perks." Arthur says, "You can paint then I'll leave you be." Just before he leaves, I said, "Stay instead. I want to know you better." "Very well then if that's what pleases you." I started to paint bold strokes as I fiddled along with different colors and techniques I haven't used in a while as Arthur sat beside me reading his book. It felt peaceful... like a painting. The colors are in perfect harmony

Velvetouch, maybe even a Kolinsky or two. The paint? Golden Fluid Acrylics. Not all of them, but enough. The essentials. Crimson. Indigo. Antique gold. Obsidian black. The kind of colors that made your heart race just imagining what they’d look like on canvas. The glass palette had fingerprints on it… like someone had tested it out, just to make sure it was perfect. I stepped closer. My knees were weak. My chest, tightening. It was everything I loved. Everything I couldn’t afford.

Her natural red hair. It was undeniably her. And it was Phillian who had painted it. The colors on the canvas were faded, the texture aged, telling her it had been created years ago—long before this day. Her pulse roared in her ears as Phillian spoke again, his voice stirring the air like a quiet storm.