Romans & histoires Novel Paints

Dave then took out few amounts of catalogue book and said, "We would like to offer the high quality building materials, and the details are in these catalogue books." Xavier received the books, and Dave continued to explain, "Our best offers for now are the paints and semen. We sell a few of imported paints with great results. Its prices are affordable and nice since there will be a plenty of discounts given." "Let me check on the details first." Xavier replied and started flipping the catalogue of paints. His brown orbs gently scanned the details. Each page didn't miss from his careful glance. "Feel free to ask either of us, Alpha Xavier." Carter told with his warm smile as his left hand fi

"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.

“Yeah. Like it's that easy to become one.” He smirked. “You'll see, Malia. You just have faith,” he replied. “Well, this isn't suspicious at all,” I said and he chuckled. “Don't worry. It's nothing you should be worried about.” He returned to his painting and after a few more strokes of his brush, my mouth fell open as I realized what the splash of colours had turned out to be. “This is beautiful,” I whispered as my eyes took in the painting of the conservatory filled with poisonous flowers. It was perfect.

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.

Now, it made me want to throw up. I placed the new paints on the shelf, lining them up with precision. Cadmium Red. Cerulean. Prussian Blue. I said the name as I arranged. My hands moved automatically, organizing brushes, wiping down surfaces, straightening framed prints of my older work. Fragmented Light. The irony of the title made a bitter taste rise in my throat. I tried to work. I stretched a fresh canvas and mixed a palette, earth tones today, ochres and umbers, colors of solid ground. I picked up a brush.

"You just have to continue painting some parts of the drawing that I haven't painted yet. Don't worry I'll show you what colors to use." "I'm nervous, I wonder what the condition is." Noel's confession. It was true what he said, he felt something nervous at that time but he just ignored it. The artist laughed at what he said. "That's my policy to the students I give a gift to. They have to finish the paintings first before they can get them." Gregorio said as he handed the paintbrush to him. Noel accepted it. "So, can you do it?" "Sure Sir.Very easy!" Noel's arrogant answer. He sat on the chair facing the canvas. The painter gave him the colors he should use.