The soft bristles of the brush are lowered to the canvas, and sweep gently across the fabric. I listen carefully, as if it were music. His eyes are darkening again, and he shifts awkwardly in his seat. He stares hard into my face, and I acknowledge the soft lowering of lashes as he regards the shape of my chin. The end of his mouth perks upwards, and he licks his bottom lip. A flash of pink muscle over dry lips, lips which suddenly seem more important then anything else in the room.
I desire to look up, to the side, down, but know that it is forbidden. I am his painting, his model…a pawn in a vehement process far beyond my own comprehension. It does not matter that I can no longer feel the rest of my body, because it is my face that he paints. I wonder, am I just that to him? Indeed, I do not know, but the brush is still moving fluidly. I close my eyes lazily, wanting to give in to the stir of emotion threatening my senses. The bristles of the brush are so wonderful, I can feel them moving over my skin, painting me onto canvas and capturing the flush excitement in my system…
Do not move, Dwenach!
He doesn’t say it, but he need not. I can see it on the deep crease of his frown; the way his brush stops suddenly against the canvas. Tipping his head to the side, his eyes slide down my neck, and I swallow harshly. Muscles shift and change beneath my skin, and I see him mirror my own action. Is it desire I see then? A flicker of temptation in his eyes, darkening with the intensity of my thoughts. I find myself watching his fingers tighten on the brush, knuckles tense and skin wrinkling over bone. That slender and delicate piece of wood so utterly in his power.