Passionate Sketches Novels & Stories

Mine. Lucien Grayson has drawn my face, and then stuffed it at the bottom of his bottom drawer. I’m not sure when he observed it long enough to pluck this level of detail out of me, the serious, detached air, the tight-lipped expression, the wispy hair curling around the cusp of an ear. Here’s what I do know: there is something sharp about the drawing. Something searing and intense and expansive that’s simply not there in the other sketches. Force, and power, and lots of feelings were involved in the making of this portrait. Lots. And I can’t imagine they were positive

"That’s a bold word for a board that prides itself on 'fostering the next generation of masters.'" "Lila," Higgins warned. "The nature of the sketches—" "The nature of the sketches," I interrupted, my voice steady and clear, "is the study of the human form and the complexity of modern brotherhood. You see two boys who look 'indecent.' I see the weight of a legacy that’s crushing them. Look at the tension in the jawline here." I pointed to the sketch of Jax. "That’s not 'obscene,' Mrs. Gable. That’s the portrait of a man who is terrified of becoming a statue."

Page after page filled with our bodies tangled together: me on my knees in the private gallery, me riding him on the massage table at the spa, me pressed against the mirror in his gym while he fucked me from behind. Each sketch grew bolder. I stopped trying to make them “beautiful” and let them be honest instead. By 3 a.m., my fingers were black with charcoal, my thighs sticky, and my sketchbook felt heavier than it ever had. I closed it gently, running my hand over the cover. This was the real me. The one who came alive when Damien touched me. The one who saw power and beauty in surrender. The one who wanted to create art that didn’t apologize for wanting too much.

The fire in Evelyn’s body had only burned hotter. As if possessed, she had grabbed his hand and guided it over her body, breathlessly whispering, "Touch me..." His sharp eyes had darkened with lust as he obliged, his hands roaming her body and causing her to moan with every touch. Responding to her moans, he had pulled her closer, deepening their feverish kiss. One of his strong hands had gripped her waist, while the other had tangled in her hair, holding her in place as their passion escalated.

I nodded, “I would love that.” She handed a sketch pad to me. She had it open to reveal the page she wanted me to see. I was floored with the details that she had drawn. I asked, “How long did it take you to draw this? It’s very detailed.” Chloe answered, “It just took a few minutes. I draw fast when I have a vision. Do you like it?” I answered, “I love it! It’s perfect.”

Unfortunately, she didn't have any contact information for him, and even if she did, she couldn't summon the courage to call or message him. Sighing, she looked down at her thighs, where a sketchbook rested. Opening it, she beheld his sketch, her fingers grazing over the lines capturing his intense eyes and strands of hair falling on his forehead. The sketch portrayed his exceptional charm, but she knew that the real Darian surpassed a thousandfold in exceptionalism.

Her eyes alight upon scattered sketches strewn across the surface, drawing her in with an irresistible pull. Picking up one of the sketches, she is met with the striking image of a wolf, its form captured in intricate detail. As her gaze flits to another sketch, a closer view of the wolf reveals its menacing features—fangs bared and saliva dripping, an embodiment of primal ferocity. A series of similar sketches follow, each portraying the majestic yet fearsome creatures in different poses. A furrow creases Rose's brow in puzzlement as she contemplates the artist's apparent fixation on these lupine subjects.

At least with a pencil, I can come up with a decent graphite drawing. Meanwhile, Heather rolled her eyes at him, “I told you to do the sketch while we were at your place, but you refused. Right now, only this pen is available and you have no other option.” After noting her cold and indifferent tone, he felt that his life was quite miserable. It seemed that every move he made was now offensive to her.

But your presence is making me conscious and it's giving me another frustration. "Why are you even here? Just finish your own work and don't look at mine! Geeze!" "Why are you so pissed? I just wanted to check on you." You let out a small laugh as your eyes remained on mine. You seemed so calm and unbothered with how frustrated I am yet here I am, growing more eager to just burn the sketches because no matter how much I try to make it decent, it won't. I'm at the edge of giving up to make an astonishing one and just making it passable.

Gratefully. "Did you work on anything?" asks Dane. "As in art homework?" I ask back. "Yeah." "I did the ten sketches, if that's what you're talking about," I say as I pull out my book. Opening it up to the page, I show him. "I like that one," says Dane as he points at one that I made of Rupert at his house. Rupert sits on the porch, and look out at the huge grassy yard. He sits resolutely and above is the sky and clouds drawn in wavy pencil lines.