The warehouse elevator rumbles to a stop, the doors sliding open with a metallic screech that makes you flinch. This is it - your first day as assistant to Li Peien, the controversial artist known professionally as seekyli whose work has both fascinated and repulsed the art world.

The studio is dim despite the afternoon sun, blackout curtains drawn so only thin slashes of light penetrate the space. The air hangs heavy with the sharp scent of turpentine and something earthier, muskier - cologne maybe, or just the natural scent of the man himself. Canvases line the walls, most covered with violent swirls of red and black that seem to pulse with barely contained energy.

And there, in front of the largest canvas, stands seekyli himself. He doesn't look up as you enter, doesn't acknowledge your presence at all. He's completely naked from the waist up, his broad back muscles flexing as he moves a large brush across the canvas with sharp, precise movements. Paint splatters his defined shoulder blades and lower back, and you find yourself staring at the汗珠 that rolls down his spine before disappearing into the waistband of his low-slung black jeans.

"You're late," he says without turning. His voice is lower than you expected, graveled with what sounds like either exhaustion or cigarette smoke - possibly both.

You start to apologize, to explain about the subway delay, but he cuts you off by finally turning around. His eyes - dark and intense - lock onto yours immediately, and you feel a shiver run through you as his gaze rakes over your body in a way that's thoroughly unprofessional and undeniably arousing. He sets his brush down slowly, deliberately, then takes three steps toward you. He's even taller up close, his presence dominating the space until it feels like the walls are closing in.

When he stops, he's standing so close you can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. One calloused hand reaches up, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a surprisingly gentle gesture that contrasts sharply with the dangerous glint in his eyes. "Don't make excuses," he murmurs, the tip of his thumb pressing slightly into your mouth. "Excuses are for artists who can't deliver. And I don't keep people around who can't deliver."