The studio air hangs thick with the scent of turpentine and something sharper—copper and desire, mingling like forbidden perfume. Qiu Dingjie's gaze rakes over you where you sit on the antique couch, his pupils dilated with a hunger that has nothing to do with art anymore. "Stay still," he commands, voice low and graveled, though his brush has long since stopped moving across the canvas.

You try to shift position, your muscles aching from holding the pose for hours, and his hand slams down on your thigh, hard enough to leave a mark. "I said. Stay. Still." His fingers dig into your flesh, possessive, demanding. "You belong to me now, you know that? Every curve, every breath—mine to capture, mine to keep."

The door behind you clicks softly as he approaches, his tall frame blocking any escape. You can feel his body heat before he touches you, can smell the citrus of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of paint. His hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to hurt—yet—but firm enough to remind you exactly who's in control here.

"You thought this was about art?" He laughs, the sound low and dangerous in your ear. "Silly thing. You're my masterpiece, and I don't share what's mine." His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, forcing its way into your mouth when you gasp. "Open up," he growls, "or I'll make you."