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Austin laughed, the sound deep and infectious. "Darling, I'm up for the challenge if you are."
The set-up was quick. I put up a large blank canvas on the easel, poured some wine, and soon we were standing side by side, brushes in hand.
"Alright, Picasso," I teased, nudging him with my elbow. "Any ideas?"
He dipped his brush into a vibrant blue. "Why don't we just... see where it takes us?"
The first stroke was his—a bold, daring line of azure blue, cutting the canvas in half. I countered with a fiery shade of red, our colors mixing, dancing, battling and complementing each other all at once.
What started as playful daubs and strokes quickly became more. Our movements around the canvas mirrored our relationship—sometimes clashing, sometimes blending, but always creating something beautiful together.
At one point, I found myself trapped between Austin and the canvas, his body pressing gently against mine. His breath was hot against my ear, and his voice, deep and husky, whispered, "I think I've found a new appreciation for art."
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my heart pounding in my chest. I turned to face him, our lips inches apart. "Is that so?"
He nodded, his gaze never leaving mine. "Definitely."
But before our lips could meet, a streak of red paint appeared on Austin's nose. I couldn't help but giggle, the tension momentarily broken.
He looked at me, feigning offense. "Round two, is it?"
And just like that, we were back to our playful selves, paint flying everywhere. By the end of the battle, the canvas was a beautiful mess of colors, and so were we.
Exhausted, we collapsed onto the floor, staring up at our creation. "It's... unique," Austin commented, a smirk on his lips.
I chuckled, rolling onto my side to face him. "It's us."
He nodded, pulling me closer. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."
As I slowly came down from the dizzying whirlwind of paint and passion, a thought struck me. Glancing around the art studio, my gaze landed on a bottle of red wine and a crystal-clear glass resting beside it. An idea began to take shape, something I’d never done before.
“Austin,” I began, rolling to sit up and facing him with a cheeky grin, “how about we put that god-like physique of yours to some good use?”
His eyebrow quirked up, the playful glint in his eyes undeniable. “And what did you have in mind?”
Reaching over, I picked up the bottle and handed it to him. “Ever fancied yourself a model? I want to paint you. Shirtless. With a glass of wine.”
He laughed, a hearty sound that filled the room. “You want to paint me? Like, ‘draw me like one of your French girls’ kind of paint?”
“Exactly. But,” I winked, “more like one of those Italian vino advertisements.”
He took a moment, pretending to ponder my request, before he started unbuttoning his shirt. Each button revealed more of his tan, chiseled chest, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
“Alright,” he drawled, letting the shirt drop to the floor, “but only because you asked so nicely.”
Once he had the wine poured and was striking a casual pose, I had to swallow hard. The contrast of the dark liquid against his pale fingers, the way his abdominal muscles tensed subtly—damn, the man was a living, breathing work of art.
I started with soft charcoal strokes, outlining his form, the wine glass, the way his muscles shifted and played under the lighting. But as I looked longer, my strokes grew bolder, capturing the essence of the man before me.
We fell into an easy rhythm, the only sounds in the room being the soft scratch of my charcoal on the canvas and Austin's even breathing. At times, I would catch him watching me intently, his gaze dark and full of something I couldn't quite name. But each time our eyes met, there was a spark, a tension that neither of us could deny.
“You’re making it really hard to concentrate,” I confessed at one point, my voice barely above a whisper.
He smirked. “Is that so? How can I make it easier for you?”
“Maybe,” I hesitated, my cheeks burning, “maybe if you stopped looking at me like you're thinking about doing unspeakable things to me, that might help.”
He let out a low chuckle. “Oh, Paisley, if only you knew the half of it.”
