Painter Of The Night Book Novels & Stories

The banquet ended past midnight. Luke sat in the front passenger seat of his Rolls-Royce, pressing his index finger against his temple. He had long, artist's fingers. The glow of the streetlights cast just the right shadow over his face, making his nose bridge more prominent. He looked like a sculpture straight out of a museum. "It's late now. The curfew would already be in effect by the time you return to your dorm."

It was at this point I remembered that I had her things with me. I couldn't sleep anymore."It is a horrible night," I proclaimed. I picked up my canvas and paint and started an all-night painting spree. All I had in my head were dark figures. So, I let them out by painting them. At some points, some of the images I painted made movements and scared me. Or maybe it's my illusions that are taking the best part of me.

My fingers still smelled like paint and possibility. For a moment, I closed my eyes and just felt—the gentle throbbing behind my temples, the steady rise and fall of my breath, the hum of the street below. There were no demands here. No ghosts in tailored suits, waiting to remind me who I was supposed to be. Just me, and the paint. I pinned the painting to my cork board. Next to it, two others: “Rain on Roosevelt Street” and “City at Dawn”. They weren’t perfect, but they were honest.

I could hear rustling in the room and I was grateful that I had shoved my spare pillows in the windows to block out any and all light from coming in because now she couldn't see the grin spreading across my face. The bed dipped at the end and I knew she was going to sneak up beneath the blankets. My dick twitched in anticipation and now I was glad I decided to sleep naked tonight. Her hair tickled the inside of my legs as she crawled over me and I had to bite my lip to keep myself from chuckling. Then my entire body jolted when her tongue ran up the back side of my dick as I inhaled a sharp breath. Fucking hell.

The latest painting stood on the easel. A sunrise breaking through dark storm clouds. Hope after heartbreak. Very Amelia. My eyes drifted across the room. Then I saw her. She had fallen asleep on the small couch beneath the window. A sketchbook rested on her lap. One hand still loosely held a pencil. There were faint smudges of blue and green paint on her fingers. She looked exhausted. Peaceful and beautiful. I walked closer. The sketchbook had slipped open. Without meaning to, I glanced at the page.

Although Nathaniel had given me permission to stay out late, it was of no use. I was going to go upstairs, drink water, sleep, and in the morning, I would figure out what came next. Mainly because that was all I could do right now. But first, I would have to call Pamela. She needs to understand that Elliot tricked me. The lights were on in the living room. I almost walked past because Nathaniel always had the lights on for some reason; he often left them on when he fell asleep, resting on the couch after a long shift. I had covered him with a blanket more times than I could count over the past two years.

“Anyway.* she said quickly shifting the topic “I was thinking you would miss painting…I actually bought some canvas and paints last night because you mentioned that you love to paint. I figured you might need a distraction.” My forehead wrinkled. There was a strange unsettling detail: which paint store opened at midnight last night in a mansion full of secrets and frightful silent men? Why would Sophia the ever-busy harried personal assistant to a world tyrant be out purchasing art supplies for me in the dead of night? But I remained silent. My lips curled into a courteous appreciative smile and I pushed the new anomaly to the back of my mind. Sophia asked with a bright sincere eagerness “Ho

The painting itself presented a beautifully open forest, lit by the sun, but there was a patch that wasn’t catching any rays – a small, misshapen oval completely engulfed in shadows and absorbing almost all sources of light. To anyone else, this painting would look like a cloud shielding the forest, but Suki knew better. She knew to trust her gut. She sent the image to the printer and made a couple of notes in her notepad before grabbing the picture and sliding it into her notebook. She slapped a sticky note on top of the image and scribbled a note to herself on there: Nighttide? After a while, she checked the time on her phone and realised she’d gotten too caught up in her research, not to

I said. He closed the last inch between us—no touch, not yet; simply the acknowledgment of a distance finally crossed. The air trembled. The candles steadied. His voice came like a secret offered on the tongue. “Then come,” he said. “Let me show you what the house keeps when it keeps what I cannot.” Behind us, the open book turned a page by itself. Fresh ink unfurled, clean as a cut: The scholar chooses the night. The door that had unlatched swung wider.

Why is your drawing room so bright? He opened his eyes wide, a thought suddenly popped into his head. Peter strode quickly to the drawing room, standing outside looking in, Mia still hadn't come home. He didn't say a word, and gently walked inside, the woman was still looking at the picture of herself, dumbfounded, not knowing he was entering. All paintings are drawn by him with a pencil, even though there are only two colors, the characters still appear in the picture, and they are still very vivid.