Page 32 of Sinful Lord

I remember the way he cornered me in the hallway of my own home, the way his ripped shirt exposed his muscular body and dark tattoos, and the way his hot breath felt on the most tender part of my neck.

I also remember the pressure that appeared in my core when he got close. The one that cut through the fear and made my toes curl.

Another ping reels my mind back in from the past. I check my email. I’ve already gotten a response.

Of course you can. Talent like that doesn’t disappear. Here I took a picture for you to paint. Start with this.

With hardly any hesitation, I click on the email’s attachment. To my surprise, a gorgeous photograph of the downtown Berlin skyline appears on the screen.

Snow speckles the rooftops, dark clouds swirl above a dimming dusk sky. There’s enough light to illuminate the breathtaking beauty of it all, and enough darkness to hide the dirty truths beneath it all.

A sigh slips from my lips. It would make a beautiful painting. A few years ago, I would have tried to recreate the image, detail by detail. But my style has changed. Now, I would want to capture the beauty, the grandeur, the history, and I would paint whatever I felt represented that best. I would not allow myself to be limited by the physical makeup of the skyline. I would follow my heart.

But my heart has frozen over. My hands are still shaking. And all I can see in the dark pockets of the photograph is the evil that nearly killed me.

I can’t paint. Not anymore.

Closing my eyes, I let the disappointment wash over me. But before I can sink too deep, a new image appears behind my shut eyelids.

At first, it’s just a pair of silver-blue eyes, shimmering through the darkness like corrupted ice crystals. But then, a face is revealed. A face with heavy cheekbones and thick lips.

From up close, Tytus’ facial features almost look slightly swollen, like he’s still suffering from a lifetime of fighting. Somehow, though, it looks good on him—as does his tuff of brown hair, subtly burnt with a taste of auburn fire.

Slowly, his neck tattoos are revealed. Then the rest of his body.

His powerful biceps flex as I work my way down his chiseled arms. I try to imagine what it would feel like to be held by them, but part of me knows I already have.

The warm pressure inside me grows.

I didn’t see the man who saved me, but I can still remember the monstrous strength he picked me up with. I can feel his otherworldly heat. It snakes down from my memory, over my chest, through my legs, and into my core.

My fingers slip back beneath my thighs. But this time, it’s not to find warmth. It’s to satisfy it.

Maybe I could paint Tytus, I think as a blind pleasure grows inside my body.

The artist in me starts to study the vision. I try to find the essence of the monster, of the man, of the savior.

But the girl in me can’t get past the physical image of him.

He’s gorgeous. Ruggedly beautiful in a way I’ve never seen before.

I know how those arms feel. How that chest beats. Even if I was on the brink of death when it happened, it’s not the cold embrace of the grim reaper I think of when I remember that moment.

It’s Tytus.

His warmth. His strength. His determination.

I stare deep into those silver-blue eyes. They gaze back at me.

Then, those thick red lips curve into a smirk.

My eyes rip back open.

A gasp escapes my throat when I see my reflection in the slit between the curtain. It flutters against the window, ever out of focus. But even in the blurry image, I can see that some color has finally returned to my pale cheeks.

It would be a relief, if I wasn’t so shocked by the position I find myself in.

With my hands between my legs. Back arched. Legs open.