Later, the bed became my studio. Adrien lay on his stomach, his height stretching nearly the length of the mattress, the muscles in his back shifting with every breath. The lamplight turned his skin into warm bronze, a surface so flawless I almost felt guilty for touching it with paint.
Almost.
I straddled his hips, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. The paper bag sat open at my right side, brushes and little jars of paint spread out like treasures, including a bowl of water and a cloth to wipe the brush on. A tray of cut fruits was placed on my left.
I dipped my brush into green on the white palette in my hands that already carried other colors. The sharp scent of paint stung faintly in the air, mixing with the soft sweetness of the fruit. The bristles trembled in my hand with the same excitement humming through me as I looked at the reference on my phone.
