Word Count: 12.2k

Blurb: y/n has popular art agent parents. y/n meets a man at a gallery in Paris. y/n finds out he's an artist.

photos: just some images to help you better imagine the story (:

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There was always something about art that I loved. I think it had something to do with the fact that it could tell a story; many different stories at that. Whether it was what the artist saw, what the critique saw, or what the audience saw, there were many possibilities behind a piece of artwork. I truly believed that was why I had fallen in love with art. That, and maybe because I had grown up around it. Traveling around the world with art agents as parents would mean that I was also traveling around the world with them. Of course, I knew people who would have one parent stay home with their child while the other went off and made their trips around the world with artists, but then there was my family who didn't believe in that. They figured that if one of them was traveling, we might as well have all been traveling. Where there was work for one parent, the other could simply find something to do in their off time. Up until I was around fifteen, I had a full-time nanny. But, once I had reached an age where I could stay home, or at a hotel, or villa, or wherever home was for the time being on my own, it wasn't much of a necessity.

As an adult now, I would always be thankful for the way that my parents had raised me. I had tens of thousands of experiences that any other child would not have had growing up. Of course, I had been homeschooled for the most part, my parents attempting to help me with socializing, but I had always appeared older due to the amount of interactions I had with adults in the art world. It was difficult to find children to keep in contact with, and since my parents had always been moving around, holding onto friends was incredibly unlikely. It was why I had been so adamant on going to college physically. I wanted some sort of socialization so that I could have some sense of normalcy. Although, what kind of normalcy was taking a flight to Paris, France just because my parents wanted me to see a couple of art shows happening?

Their driver was waiting for me when I made my way down the escalator. He was holding a sign, my last name spelled incorrectly. It was amusing to me, especially since Stephan had been a driver for my parents since I was at least ten, if not longer. Walking up to him, he smiled, taking my bag from me the moment I reached him.

"Good evening, Miss."

"Hi, Stephan. How are you?"

"Perfectly fine. Your parents won't be at the hotel as planned, they had things come up. They hope that you understand."

Of course I did. It always happened. They were always off running to do their errands, get whatever their clients may have needed, and attempting to sell art in their not-so-free time. I knew that it was necessary, especially for them to continue to be as successful as they had been before. Although, I also knew that it was why I always had a difficult time keeping a great relationship with either of my parents. Ever since I left for college, they would send me whatever kind of money I may have needed for school, they took care of me, but I never got the attention that a regular child would have craved from their parents.

"Business is business, right?" I laughed.

He nodded. Stephan and I headed out to the car. He opened the back door of the vehicle for me, allowing me to crawl in before shutting the door. It left him to put my bag in the trunk, followed by getting into the car. I stared out the window as he drove, knowing that I had been in this city countless times but I always loved the scenery. The people? They were meh. However, there was something that was always so beautiful about the very big yet small city. I wondered who my parents were representing here, or if they simply knew that there were some artists that were up and coming and they knew that with my PR/Marketing classes, maybe coming out to Paris would help me with some sort of assignment. After all, a lot of my teachers were willing to accommodate what I was doing, and I was entirely grateful for that.

Once we arrived at the hotel, I wasn't surprised when they greeted me by my last name. It was normal. I had spent countless times here growing up–some of these workers had seen me as a young kid and now a young adult. It was strange to think about, but I simply headed inside to the front desk. It was there that I got my accommodations figured out, rolling my eyes at the thought of my parents booking a suite for me. A single room was more than okay for me, and yet they always went out of their way to go big and bold.

"Your parents want you to get to the gallery by nine, Miss."

"Make it nine-thirty. You know I hate being on time for them," I told him.

"Right, of course," he nodded. "How could I forget? I'll see you at nine-fifteen then, Miss."

Thanking him, I headed up to the room. It took a while because the elevator was slow. Of course, I was normally not an impatient person, but I sometimes dreaded going to these types of events. I hated that almost everyone there knew me. I was the IT girl, the one who had popular parents who knew what they were doing in the art world. If someone became acquainted with me, they normally assumed that I would tie them back with my parents. Maybe I would mention them when I reminisced about the evening with my parents. It was as if I was nothing but transactional to these people, and I despised my parents for it.

Once I had made it off the elevator, I made my way to my room. Stephan was working on getting my bag to the room, I was sure, and I found myself unlocking the door at the end of the hallway. It didn't take long to see how large the suite was. The place was nicer than my New York City apartment, and while I had a pretty decent apartment, I was a little shocked at the room they had gotten for me. It even had a balcony that looked out at the eiffel tower. Sighing, I set my tote down on the sofa, heading into the bedroom. Although, almost immediately I was rolling my eyes, noticing the champagne that was in a bucket of ice, along with a note. Picking it up off the bed, I glanced at it over, noting that it was my parents' usual stationary.

My darling daughter,

Thank you for choosing to come and spend time with us. We are so dearly sorry we could not be at the hotel when you arrived. We look forward to making it up. To start, this champagne. To follow, check the closet.

With love always,

Your parents

Groaning softly, I set the note down. They always wanted to try. I knew I was lame for thinking that them going out of the way to get champagne and something for me to probably wear was incredibly annoying, but when it was years and years of gifts to try and soothe over years of necessary care, it just wasn't it. I did not enjoy the gifts, the lavish life, the way that I could afford anything I laid eyes on. People always said money could buy people happiness. I didn't think that, though. I mean, if I could purchase genuine love, affection, and appreciation from one of my parents, I would have. I would have done it in a heartbeat. I was jealous of my friends from college who had parents that they would talk to on the phone about very minor things. For me to speak with my parents, I practically had to set up an appointment with one of their assistants. It was exhausting.

Pouring myself a glass of champagne, I sipped on it, pulling open the closet. And of course, there were numerous dresses, outfits, and shoes. They always did far more than necessary. I hated it. It was awful, and again, I knew that I was complaining about things people would dream of having, but I found this wasteful. They filled this hotel closet with so many outfits, and I would probably only ever wear one of the items. Not to mention I had packed a suitcase, so it wasn't like I had nothing to wear.

As I filtered through the clothes, there were countless pieces of designer fits. There was Gucci, Louis, Prada, Versace, and I could go on. The amount of items were endless. Shutting the closet, I finished my drink. It was followed by pouring another glass and answering the door when there was a knock. Stephan was there with my bag, a small smile on his face as he set it in the room for me.

"Did they go overboard?" he asked.

"Of course they did. They know I hate it when they do this."

"I don't think that they listen," Stephan stated. "Anyway, I will see you in an hour."

"It's already past eight? Damn, I'll be downstairs soon, I swear."

Stephan laughed, telling me not to worry. I began to get ready once he had left, starting the shower. It left me to wash up, followed by taking everything out of my suitcase that I would need in order to fix my hair and do my makeup. I did mostly everything while I was in a towel, not wishing to spill champagne on my dress or get makeup on the material on accident either. And, by the time I was finished it was nearly eight-forty. Internally, I was irritated, but I tried to practice my fake smile that I would do when I saw my parents. I always had to put on a show when I saw them, knowing that they were always genuinely happy to see me and I was just there to make them happy.

Deciding on a dress that I had found in New York, I disregarded all of the possibilities in the closet that my parents had purchased. I made a note in my phone to donate all of the clothes, knowing that I probably wouldn't forget but I usually forgot about things that I didn't like. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I adjusted the short sparkly silver dress. It was a low, loose cut, and while I knew my parents would probably hate the dress, I loved it even more for that reason. Pairing it with a pale pink blazer, I made sure that the outfit looked okay. I knew my goal was to stand out, hating that I would anyway, but I figured if I would I might as well run with it. By the time I was ready, it was nine, and I found myself slipping on some heels that matched my dress before I headed downstairs.

Stephan was there to greet me, as always. He told me that I looked lovely, and I thanked him softly as he opened the door to the car for me. Getting into the vehicle, I found myself anxiously awaiting the gallery showing. I knew that there were going to be a bunch of people, and while I hated it, I also knew it was happening so there wasn't much that I could have done. By the time we arrived at the gallery, it was closer to nine-thirty the way that I had anticipated. Of course, I noticed several photographers outside, Stephan parking outside of the gallery before getting my door for me. Immediately there were flashes, my hand shifting to cover my eyes as I made my way up the steps and into the gallery.

Inside it was warm, inviting, and cheery. There was a lot of talking, the mass amount of voices carrying greatly. I swallowed hard, trying my best to keep my head down. I knew it would be nearly impossible with the dress that I was wearing, but I decided that I didn't have it in me to talk to a whole bunch of people about stuff I was interested in, but not when it came to them. When I was with my friends, and we were discussing art, I was okay then. Yet, now, in this gallery, I knew that most of these people only wished to speak of me because of the power that I basically held.

There were a lot of different pieces and a lot of different styles of work. I walked around the gallery, getting stopped here and there along the way to briefly chit-chat with some artists. I noted all of the works of art around me. There were abstract pieces, sculptures, realism works, photographs, as well as expressionism taking place all around. Countless images were plastered on the wall, works of art placed around the room, and while each piece was beautiful in its own way, I found myself staring at one in particular. It was a painting on the wall, my eyes narrowing on it. I noted that there was a woman in white on the left and a man in a suit on the right. Or, I assumed it was a suit with the way that the man appeared from behind. They were both staring into what appeared to be darkness with pops of color here and there. I wasn't certain as to why I was so invested in the piece, but there were endless thoughts in my mind about the work.

I could tell that someone was standing to my right, admiring the piece of art as well. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see he was wearing a denim hat, a Gucci jacket, and flared jeans that were paired with Vans. I knew he could probably feel me side-eyeing him, but I turned my attention back to the painting. The man to my right continued to stare at the image, and I finally found myself asking him a question.

"Do you like it?" I asked him, glancing over now.

"It's okay," he shrugged, a British accent apparent as he spoke. "What do you think this means? You know, the piece?"

I swallowed hard, knowing that this was both a question that I loved and hated. How could I choose what the meaning behind this piece was? He probably had a completely different idea behind the image, and I found myself staring at it longer. The woman in white. The man in the suit. The vast darkness with splashes of color. There was so much meaning yet so little to go off of in the painting.

"I'm going to say that it's the first time they're meeting and they get those little sparks you are supposed to feel when it's right."

"I've never thought of it like that," he stated, looking at the piece for a few more moments.

"Well, what do you think it means?" I asked him.

The man beside me continued to stare at the piece. I had no idea why he was analyzing it so hard, but I figured he was trying to piece together his answer. It gave me time to really look at him, though. The way that his curly hair peeked out from beneath his hat, how he had a green cross necklace around his neck, and the way that his eyes were fully dilated. I knew he had to have taken something–some sort of drug–but I wasn't about to inquire about it. Of course, I had done my fair share back in New York, but there was no way that I was going to ask a complete stranger for whatever it was that had made him high.

"Well?" I tried again.

"Mon chéri, do not rush me." (My dear.)

I knew he didn't intend for it to sound hot, but it was hot. There was no denying it. I had been called multiple names all my life, but there was something about the way he had told me not to rush him that really created a drumming in my chest. Swallowing hard, I apologized softly, watching as he continued to gaze forward at the painting. And, finally, after countless minutes he finally had an answer.

"I suppose they're a couple. Maybe they've just eloped. They're looking out into their future. The blackness is the bitterness they will feel throughout their time together. The pops of color are the only time they will feel joy during their relationship."

We had two completely different meanings. One was lighthearted, and the other was sorrowful. They were two completely different ideas of the painting, and yet they were both cast from the same image. It reminded me as to why I enjoyed art as much as I did. I always felt like it could bring people together in a way that it normally would not. It would bring different ideas, concepts, and words into the world that may not have been thought of prior to the connection.

"You think it's a nice painting, no?" I asked.

"I told you I thought it was okay," he nodded.

"Just okay?"

"Pourquoi dois-tu me demander à nouveau?" (Why do you have to ask me again?)

I spoke French. It wasn't like I didn't know what he was saying, but there was a part of me that preferred to act like I didn't. Deciding to play the part, I raised an eyebrow at him, the man beside me cursing softly. It was obvious he was now irritated by my lack of knowledge–or, so he thought. However, just as I was about to say something to him, I heard the last two voices I wanted to hear.

"My darling," my mother called. "Oh, you've worn–mhm, wow."

And there it was. The subtle hatred. The way that she disliked whatever it was that I was into no matter what. I couldn't recall a circumstance as to when she actually liked something that I had worn in the past couple of years. It had been a while, as a matter of fact, probably since I had turned eighteen. Prior to that, I was left to wear whatever my mother had picked out for me. It was quite the experience going shopping and buying whatever I had wanted. I still remember the ounce of joy that I had felt on that day.

"Hi, mom," I greeted. "Thank you for inviting me."

"Absolutely. We wouldn't want you to miss it for the world. Right, honey?"

My mother was looking at my father now. I could tell that my dad was eyeing the man I had been speaking to, but it was more in a fatherly way than the way that he would eye up a client. At least, I was pretty sure that I had his looks down, but maybe I could have been wrong. Glancing over at the curly-haired man, he seemed a little startled by my parents, but I just figured it was someone who knew my parents.

"Do you know this man?" my father asked me.

"We were talking about this piece," I told them, gesturing toward it. "I might buy it. Why?"

"Because he's someone we've been trying to take on," my father continued to say. "And he claims he doesn't want an agent."

My eyes shifted from my father, to the man beside me, and back to my father once again. There was no way. There was absolutely no way that this man was someone that my parents had been attempting to take on. If that were true, why would he be talking to me about the artwork like it wasn't a piece that he liked. Actually, now that I thought about it, maybe this was his piece. Suddenly my mind was running in a million different directions, the man beside me clearing his throat.

"I work for myself. I prefer it that way. Getting an agent makes it ... complicated."

He had hesitated on the last word, and I didn't know why. There was something about him that I wanted him to explain, and I found myself now mesmerized by this man. The fact that he was turning my parents down in front of me was absolutely insane to me. Almost every artist that I had ever interacted with were always clawing at my parents, begging them to take them on. And yet here was this artist beside me who had zero interest. It was bizarre to me.

"Darling, why don't you let us talk to him alone?" my mother tried.

"Actually, I have no intent on signing with you. It would be a waste of your time, and especially mine. I appreciate the offer. Thank you."

He shook their hands before turning on his heel and walking away. I could tell that my father was livid, and my mother looked incredibly irritated. It was as if they had lost money, and while I knew they technically had, it wasn't like they had him signed in the first place. He was someone that they were looking at, someone that they wanted to book, and yet they couldn't get him.

"Maybe he'll come around," I told them. "Anyway, I think I want this piece."

"You're not buying that," my father scoffed. "We will not purchase artwork from shitty men who think they're too good for an agent."

"Mom?" I tried.

"Your father is right, darling. We wouldn't want to own something that doesn't come directly from one of our clients."

It pissed me off now that they were rejecting my thoughts simply because I wanted a piece that didn't belong to an artist they represented. The thought was also humiliating in the sense that they didn't respect my ideas and feelings on a piece of art. I thought that this meant more to me than most pieces, and yet because they didn't like the artist himself, they didn't want to own the piece. It was dumb. That was as if to say just because they didn't represent Van Gogh they wouldn't have wanted to own a piece of his work.

"Whatever. Have fun chatting away. I'm going to look around more."

"We thought you could join us in making rounds," my father stated. "Since you arrived late and missed the first go around."

"I'm fine," I told them, shaking my head. "Thank you, though."

"Darling–"

"I said I'm fine," I told my mother, glancing between my parents and shaking my head. "Now if you will excuse me, I want to look at more artwork."

They didn't hesitate to let me go this time. I found myself taking in the different works of art around me once more. However, my mind continued to go back to the piece that belonged to the artist with the Vans on. He had been so certain that the piece was only okay, and yet it was the only work of art that had evoked any feeling in me the entire time I looked around. By the time it was nearly midnight, the party was still going but I found myself exiting the gallery. Again, there were plenty of photos taken, and I noticed Stephan waiting outside. I had texted him that I wanted to leave, so I was thankful that he was already there to pull the door open.

The ride to the hotel felt long, but I stared out the window the entire time. I loved the way that the city lit up at night. The lights, the streets, the liveliness. It was like New York, but somehow better. Of course, I somehow missed my small little apartment, knowing that it felt more like home than all of the years that I had spent anywhere with my parents. Then again, maybe it had to do with the consistency of staying in one place for a long time–which I certainly was not used to doing.

By the time we reached the hotel, it was approaching one. I knew that the ride had felt long, but I certainly did not think that it would actually be this late in the evening. Getting out of the car once Stephan opened the door, I thanked him for the ride, bidding him a goodnight. He said the same thing to me before he went on to take care of the car, leaving me to head inside. However, I found myself glancing around, my eyes locking on a familiar face at the bar. He was sitting with his arms back on the counter, his legs spread as he sat on the bar stool. There were people moving all around the hotel lobby, and yet I felt like time stopped and it was simply the two of us in the room. There was something–some sort of power that this man had. It was an effect like no other I had ever experienced.

I could tell he had changed. He was wearing a completely different outfit now. He had on a square patterned pair of pants, the colors changing between dark brown, beige, and white squares. He had on Vans still, along with the same scoop-neck white T-shirt that he had beneath his Gucci jacket earlier, but now he wore a simple cream-colored shirt with flowers around it. I was almost certain that I noticed paint splotches on his shirt as well, and just when I thought about approaching him, I watched as he finished whatever he was drinking before he got up out of his seat. It didn't take him long to make it over to me, the man clearing his throat.

"Mon chéri."

"Hi."

He smirked. The man in front of me had the prettiest green eyes, and now that he was closer, I could actually see that he did in fact have paint splotches on his shirt, a few chips of paint even on his collar bones that were peeking out just above his T-shirt. With the cut, I paid more attention to the swallows on his chest, noting that they were mirrored birds. He had tattoos all along his left arms, the pieces of ink not noticeable before.

"I won't lie, I left after the thing with your parents and went to paint. Then I was thinking about how I would like to show you my studio. So, I went down a rabbit hole of figuring out where you were staying. I swear I'm not normally a stalker, just couldn't get you off my mind, you know?"

I normally did not go for this whatsoever. The thought of a man going out of his way to find where I was staying would normally be terrifying. However, I knew that if my parents saw me with this man they would have been livid. They didn't want me to buy his painting because he did not want to be their client, and yet I knew if they had any idea I was hanging out with him they would be far more upset.

"Is there a reason you don't want to be one of my parents' clients?" I asked. "I'm genuinely curious, I'm not trying to persuade you or anything."

He chuckled. "Well, let's see. I prefer to work for myself. I do not enjoy following other people's rules. And, let's see, it would look pretty bad if the artist your parents were representing was also fucking their daughter, right?"

I felt it. The sparks. If I hadn't felt it before, I certainly did now. Before I could even think about what I was doing, I was leaning up to kiss him. He appeared caught off guard at first, but then quickly fell into the kiss as well. His lips were warm against mine. They tasted sweet, and I wondered what he had been drinking at the bar. Before I could even think to try and reach up to grab his face, he was pulling away, shaking his head.

"Glad to see you feel the same," he laughed. "Now, would you like to head to my studio where je peux te baiser, or would you prefer staying here where je peux te baiser." (I can fuck you.)

There was something about knowing what he was saying, but him purposely saying it in French that I loved to hate. It was as if he thought I wouldn't understand, which he should have rightfully believed. However, I knew exactly what he was saying and was quite excited at the thought, actually. Taking a deep breath, I found myself reaching up to play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"How about your name first before I pick a place for us to do whatever you said?"

He nodded. "I'm Harry, but people who know me well get to call me H."

"Hmm," I hummed softly, my hand sliding along his skin, along his neck before I cupped his cheek and purposely brushed my thumb along his lower lip. "And just what would we do at your art studio, H?"

"Well, I need to make sure my painting looks like the muse, do I not, mon chéri?" (My dear.)

The thought of him painting me was shocking, but also incredibly flattering. Of course, I might have been an idiot to simply trust some random artist who was very much against my parents, but there was something about him that I felt was honest. Maybe too honest, but I think that was what made it better. Taking a deep breath, I nodding, agreeing to go to his studio.

"It's only a few blocks. We can walk."

"How bad will my feet hurt?" I asked.

He glanced down at my feet, my cheeks flushing when he shook his head. I was confused at first until he picked me up, a giggle leaving my lips as he carried me out of the hotel. I was doing everything to make sure that my tits didn't fall out of the dress, noting that the neckline was loose but there wasn't much I could do in this situation. I held onto him tightly as he walked, the two of us rather quiet. He was easy to get along with, and I wondered if it had a lot to do with our hatred toward my parents, or if we simply got along well.

Once we arrived at his studio, he set me down, pulling a set of keys out of his pants pocket. I watched as he unlocked the door, pushing it in before allowing me to step inside. While I knew it was a studio, this looked more like a shop, my eyes glancing around once he turned the light on. There were paintings everywhere, and I wondered how he had so much time to do so many. H didn't say much, simply followed me around as I looked at all of the pieces.

"I want all of them," I told him.

"Mon chéri, they're yours." (My dear.)

"No," I laughed, shaking my head. "I couldn't. I'd have to buy them."

"I wouldn't allow it," he told me.

It was sweet, and I didn't know why he was willing to give away all of his work to me. Before I could say much else, I was leaning up to kiss him again. The kiss wasn't as quick and hard this time, instead, it was just a gentle and tender one. He didn't pull away until I did, H and I headed into the hallway that led to a set of stairs. He turned a light switch off to stop the shop from being illuminated, leaving us in complete darkness for only a moment before he turned on the stair lights. I climbed the steps with him, the curly-haired artist unlocking the door at the top of the steps. It was obvious this was truly his studio, paint strewn around what I assumed should have been the living room but was obviously a place for him to paint.

"So, where's this painting?" I asked.

He chuckled. "Don't get mad."

"Why would I?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, pulling a drape off of a piece in the room. "I just liked the way you were looking at my piece.'

And when he showed me, I saw it. I saw his original painting in the background, the plain walls of the gallery familiar. And yet, there was I, standing in between both of those people in the image. I was evaluating the painting, clearly trying to grasp the concept. And yet, he had captured me in a way that I didn't think anyone ever would. It was so raw, he had depicted me so small in a way that I felt made me look like I was a child enjoying the artwork for the first time.

"I-I don't know what to say."

"Tell me you love it," he murmured.

"I do. I love it," I nodded. "I feel ... I feel like someone is actually paying attention."

"What do you mean?"

I didn't know how to explain it. The thought of telling this stranger about how I had never felt like anyone listened to me, paid attention to me, or thought I was of any importance unless it benefited them was not something I really wanted to focus on right this second. And yet, I also felt comfortable with him now. I had kissed him twice already, it wasn't like I wouldn't want to get to know him even more. Whether that was physical or not, I wasn't certain, I just knew I could trust him.

"Growing up with important parents, you kind of get brushed to the side. And when the spotlight is on you, it isn't on you because of something you've done, rather, because of what they have done."

His eyebrows furrowed, green eyes searching mine. I wanted to kiss him so badly, but I also wanted to wait for him to say something to me. It was scary to say what I had out loud, and I knew I was scared of whatever I could be telling this total stranger. And yet, I also trusted H. I wasn't sure why, or how, or what had gotten into me, but there was something about him that felt incredibly genuine.

"I would say that I understand, but I can't entirely since my parents were not very important people. However, I do understand feeling like people wish to speak with you because of an ulterior motive. They think that if they speak to me, I'll mention them, they'll become more powerful, necessary, and wanted. It's why I stick to myself."

It made sense, and she felt understood for the first time ever with H. He knew exactly what to say, but I could tell that he also meant every single word he was saying to me. To have someone that knew what it was like to constantly feel used was a breath of fresh air, and now I didn't feel as alone.

"Would you allow me to paint you in a more intimate way?" he asked softly, suddenly.

"Hmm?" I questioned.

"I'd like to do a concentration on you, a collection."

"And how intimate are we talking?" I inquired, one of my fingers tracing along his chest.

"I have a couple different ideas. The first one starts with you and me fucking on a canvas. Then, I figure I'll paint us fucking, but I'll do four quadrants of different ways I'm fucking you. And I wanted to paint how you look when I give you head, and how you look giving head. I want to paint your intimate parts, your tits, your cunt. But I also want to paint you lying beside me when we're finished, and get you cuddled up beside me. I want to paint you sleeping. I want it to be you and only you."

And again, the thought was insane. Someone was looking at me. Someone was seeing me. Someone wanted to paint me in a way that was incredibly intimate, and I was willing to allow it. The thought of him seeing me that way, actually, genuinely, being so artistically inclined to looking at me, was more attention than I ever thought imaginable.

"Oh my parents will hate you," I told him softly.

"You're correct," he nodded. "But, maybe if this goes well, they'll be seeing me for the holidays, no?"

"You'd ... you'd want to get to know me like that?" I asked.

"Like what?"

"Like, long term? This isn't just a one and done?"

"Oh, mon chéri, I cannot simply paint you this intimately and assume I'll have no feelings for you. You're beautiful, I expect us to get a feel for one another—if this will work. If we have no chemistry, I'll move on. I'll figure out a different concentration with someone else. If that isn't the case, I'll continue to study you. Figure out your body. Understand the way every piece of you works."

"I hope it does work," I murmured.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"I just want to see how you'd paint my cunt."

He didn't hesitate to kiss me after that. It had been a lot of quiet, soft murmurs, and now he was taking barely any time to breathe me in. I had kissed people before, but there was something about the way that he used his tongue that sent me into a fit. I wanted more, I was aching to feel him, I needed him. He knew what he was doing, and it was one of the sexiest things I think I had ever experienced. Suddenly he was pushing his creamy-flower shirt off, H pulling back for a moment.

"Paint, fuck, I need paint," he grunted.

"And I need you to get handsy with me."

"Je serai si profondément en toi que tu ne sauras pas marcher demain sans avoir mal pour moi, mais sois patient." (I'll be so deep inside you that you won't be able to walk tomorrow without hurting for me, but be patient.)

It was incredibly sexy. The thought of him being confident enough to believe that I would not be able to walk, but then to think I would be aching without him was unlike anything I had ever heard from a man. He knew what to say, and I was insanely turned on by it. Without much thought, I trailed after him as he searched for paint, Harry picking up different ones and grunting.

"I like to paint myself sometimes, so I thought I'd have skin friendly paint," he muttered.

"Can I give a suggestion for art?" I asked.

"Anything, my little muse," he nodded as he continued looking for paint.

"Can you, you know, paint my tits different colors and then we do pressings of them on a canvas?"

He stared at me for a long moment, the paint in his hand slowly being set down. H didn't take his eyes off of me, my heart racing in my chest. I assumed that he didn't like the idea—no, that he hated it. He probably thought I was so stupid. I even thought it was a dumb idea now, but suddenly he was kissing my lips multiple times before he grinned.

"Mon chéri, you're brilliant. Yes. Absolutely. It would fit the concentration."

I grinned up at him, my hands taking his. He was so handsome, and I was still in awe that this artist had chosen me as someone he wanted his artwork to encompass. Of course, it was far more erotic than I would have expected, but I had always wanted to dabble into the art world, and I had finally found my in. Not only in a great, beneficial way, but also in a way that I knew would absolutely piss my parents off.

"I'm here for a few days," I told him softly. "We could do a test run this evening, and I'll buy paint tomorrow for what you'd like to start."

"If you're implying that I was thinking about not fucking you, you're wrong. Even if I didn't have paint, I was going to feel your cunt wrap around me."

He was dirty. It turned me on even more than I already was. My lips pressed to his again, H picking me up. It wasn't long until I felt a door against my back, but soon enough it was opened. He dropped me onto his bed, and I blushed when I realized one of my tits had fallen out of my dress with the way that I had landed. H chuckled, leaning down over me. I blushed when he pressed a brief kiss to my lips before he soon wrapped his lips around my exposed nipple. He sucked lightly, my hands reaching forward to play with his hair. I let out a breathy moan when I felt his tongue flatten against my nipple, H glancing up at me as he cupped my tit, squeezing lightly.

"I think we need you undressed, hmm?" he murmured.

"Do you have lube?" I asked.

"I do, why?"

"Don't want to waste time warming up, just want you in me."

It made him chuckle. He told me he would be back, H claiming that he expected me to be fully undressed by the time he came back. I blushed at the thought, only now realizing the full length windows that were not covered. He had a pretty lookout, the eiffel tower clearly in view from his place. I wondered how much he paid, but I knew that was not a fair question. Getting up off the bed, I pulled my blazer off, placing it over a chair in front of his desk. It was followed by taking off my shoes, leaving me to tug my dress off. I was left in my underwear, though that didn't last long, H walking in just as I was getting back on the bed.

"Such a good girl," he nodded. "I want to stare at you and memorize every little thing about your body."

"Maybe when you're finished with me, hmm?"

He chuckled, setting a handful of condoms on the night table beside the bed. My cheeks flushed as I stared up at him, his eyes still wandering all over my body. Normally, when I was with men and women, they would stare, but this was in a way that made me feel confident. I usually hated the way that I looked. The stretch marks that started at my hips and made dents up a few inches. The way I had a stomach in comparison to most French girls. Not that I was French, but I assumed he had been with other women who were probably size zeros. Then again, I had struggled back and forth for years with my weight, knowing that my mother always wanted me to look one way and I was perfectly fine looking another. As of right now, I was in between what she saw as acceptable and what I didn't mind being, but H was so invested in every curve of my body. He didn't care, and if anything, he looked pleased.

"I'm going to fuck you up against the glass at some point tonight," he told me, unzipping his pants. "Will that be okay with you?"

My heart skipped a beat. He wanted people to watch, to see us. The thought was intoxicating, and while I knew agreeing to such a vulgar concentration meant I was agreeing to allowing many people to see me in a vulnerable manner, the thought of him taking me up against the glass was even sexier. It left me feeling like he really wanted me, and wasn't afraid to let other people know that he was taking me, fucking me, making me ache.

"Absolutely," I nodded.

"Perfect. I haven't before, you know, with others? But I want to show you off a little. Give anyone on the street a preview of what's to come."

I knew I had asked for lube, but I was almost positive I was not going to need it now. He pulled himself out of his boxers, H holding onto a condom and ripping it open. I was surprised that he hadn't undressed, my cheeks flushing as I watched him slide the rubber onto his already hard dick. It was a very good size, my cheeks flushing at the thought of it fitting inside of me. After all, I had sex before, but it had been at least five months since I had been with a man. I had been busy with school, traveling, trying to figure out myself and if I liked women or men or maybe both. But clearly I was interested in H right this second.

"You don't want to undress?"

"It's about you, mon chéri. You're the star. Don't let me take the spotlight off of you."

My cheeks flushed. He really wanted to see me, allow others to see me, and have me in a way that others had not. When I spent time with people, had sex with them, I felt like they were focused on getting me for a while and then talking to me about what my family did. It was like they knew how to find me, keep it quiet, and then turn it onto how I would be a good fit for them. Yet with H, I knew he wasn't interested in what I brought to the table with my family. Instead, he wanted to do an entire concentration based on me. He didn't care about my family, how much pull they had in the industry, just that I was going to be the star of his artwork.

"This is going to be cold, okay?" he said softly. "Just a warning."

I nodded, watching as he squirted some lube onto his fingers. My face flushed when he began to trace along my slit, his eyes focused on me there. I wondered what he was thinking as he pressed his fingers in, the lube causing me to shut my legs on him quickly. It made him chuckle, H smiling down at me.

"I told you it was cold."

"Yeah, but you didn't say freezing."

"Maybe I like to keep it in the fridge," he smirked. "You know, a little temperature play."

"You're evil."

"I'm smart," he told me. "J'ai hâte de te peindre." (I can't wait to paint you.)

And again, I was feeling very seen, very cared for, very wanted for me. He tapped one of my knees with his free hand, my legs opening up to him. I watched as he squirted more lube onto his fingers, this time covering himself. H stiffened slightly, my cheeks flushing when he cleared his throat, and grabbed my legs. He pulled me so that I was closer to the edge of the bed, H reaching over me to grab a pillow.

"Lift your hips for me, yeah?"

I did as he asked, H placing the pillow under my ass. I would have been confused, but it was immediately clear that he was now perfectly lined up with me. He was still glancing over my body, staring at pieces of me here and there, but I didn't mind. I liked the way he looked at me—I felt important.

"You're good? For sure? I know you're naked, but I just like hearing the words. I can fuck you?"

"You can fuck me," I nodded.

He seemed pleased, H sliding his tip into me. I gasped softly, a chuckle leaving his lips. It was obvious it had been a minute since I had dick, knowing that I had been fucked other ways, but there was something about the real thing that always felt better. He smirked down at me, his hands shifting to my waist.

"Please," I begged softly.

"Please what, baby?" he questioned lowly. "What does my little muse want?"

God he was hot. His voice was raspy, warm, and rough all at the same time. If I could encase myself in his voice, I would do it. My breathing was heavy, H smirking down at me as I continued to breath out sharply. Deciding that I couldn't speak, I grabbed one of his hands from my waist, placing his middle and ring finger over my clit. However, to make sure he knew exactly what I meant, I made sure to press down on those fingers, his fingertips touching my clit and causing me to let out a soft whine.

"Oh, you're speechless with just the tip? What am I supposed to do with the rest?" he asked as he began to frame my clit between his fingers. "You're not ready for more, are you?"

"A-All. P-Please. I need all of it."

"You're sure? Baby, it's more than you think."

"H, if you don't start, I'm going to go find someone else."

Before I could even make another threat, he was shoving all of himself into me. I moaned loudly, knowing that it was what I had wanted but he hadn't been lying about struggling to take all of it. I felt him deep within my core in a way that I loved, but it felt as though I was aching to be filled and he had finally done it. H breathily panted above me, green eyes focusing on me as he stayed deep inside me.

"Good?" he nodded.

"So good," I whined. "Move."

He didn't hesitate to begin shifting his hips. The rhythm started off easy, and I felt him sliding in and out of me in a way unlike anyone ever had. He was smooth with his motions, being sure that I liked every single one instead of trying to simply fuck me and move on with it. H was talented, the man fucking me with a passion that I had never felt before.

He kept on fucking me, being sure to quickly finger my clit as well. I had never felt so attacked, but he was doing it skillfully so that I felt good instead of thinking that it hurt or wasn't even working. He was breathing heavily above me, my tits bouncing as he shoved his hips forward before pulling back to repeat the process once more. It was over and over, my moans louder than I had expected them to be. And, finally, I felt myself nearing climax.

"H," I panted.

"Oh, I can tell," he nodded. "You're clenching around me now, begging to hold on for as long as you can. You're a good girl for me."

I nodded, whining as he continued to finger my clit. It worked so well with his movements, and I was aching every time he pulled out just to push back in. The thought of his words being true—that I would be aching for him—was something I had not expected but was pleasantly surprised with. And, finally, I found myself hiccuping on my breath, Harry pressing himself as far into me as he could when my legs wrapped around him tightly.

I let out several strings of curses, moans, anything. He was grunting, and I could feel myself pounding around him. I felt my heartbeat deep within my core, my body exhausted as he stayed inside of me. And, soon enough, he was pulling out, my body sprawled out on the mattress now.

"Oh, you look so good. When we make art together, you'll have to let me take photos of you."

My cheeks flushed. "Only if I can have some to take home of you?"

"However you want me," he assured.

It was hot, and I found myself squeezing my eyes shut at the thought of him on some sort of photo. Whether it was film, a polaroid, something to keep with me at all times. But, I couldn't tell which idea I liked better. The thought of him getting off by himself in the photo, or the thought of me getting him off even hotter. Without much thought, I started to play with my tits, H grunting softly. Opening my eyes, I watched as he shifted so that he was climbing into the bed, his hands covering mine and pressing my boobs together.

"You'll let me fuck your tits, yeah?" he tried.

"Only if you take me at the window after."

"You do not have to tell me twice."

I held my tits loosely together for him, allowing him to position his dick between my boobs properly before I pressed them together tighter. He was no longer wearing a condom, my face burning when I watched him let spit fall from his mouth in between my tits and onto his dick. However, it did help the movement, leaving me to sit up a little so that I could spit on him. It was then that he began to truly fuck me, his dick shifting between my tits at a quick rate. I had watched a few adult videos before and I knew this was common for some people, but I had never personally experienced it, and I was certain this would not be my last time if H was enjoying himself as much as I was.

He was focused on fucking my tits, leaning back on his arms to get a good angle. I stared at his body. At his tattoos that peeked out beneath his shirt, the ink swirling around on his skin on his arms. He was in incredible shape from what I could see, and it almost made me wonder why he was interested in me. I had more than just a little bit of meat on my bones, but he was clearly okay with that. If anything, he seemed to be fully enjoying himself. Though, I found myself jumping slightly when he leaned more on one arm, his free one shifting along my thigh before he gently ran his middle finger across my slit.

"Not yet," I begged softly. "I'm still recovering."

"But I like to play with beautiful things," he frowned.

"W-When you finish."

He rolled his eyes, moving his hand away from me. The idea of him implying that he thought my cunt was beautiful made my body tremble with butterflies. I mean, no one had ever said those words to me until now, H working to get off quicker. He spit again, trying to ease any friction there was until he was shaking his head, pulling back so he could come on my tits. He certainly left me a mess, the hot spurts landing in different places on my tits and I was pretty sure a few had even gotten on my face. H grunted, breathing deeply before he got out of bed. I sat up, cupping under my face when I felt the come about to fall. And, soon enough, H was coming back with a towel to clean me up.

He wiped my hand first, but then gently washed my face off. I blushed when he leaned in to kiss me, H lingering on my lower lip as he pulled back only slightly. I let out a shaky breath, figuring he was going to continue to clean me up when he kissed me again. This time, he involved his tongue, my body on fire. Sometimes, people didn't really know how to use their tongue when it came to kissing—it became sloppy and not in an attractive way. But with him, he did it in a tasteful, more charming way that left me hoping that was the only way we could kiss.

"Let me wipe your tits off, yeah?" he murmured.

I nodded, glancing down as I watched him wipe the rest of the come off of my body. It was sweet, but he was certainly not the first person to ever do this with me. After all, almost every woman I had been with who came on my body somewhere, somehow had been willing to wipe me up. And, surprisingly, most of the men I had been with were willing to as well. He was nothing special, but only in this instance.

Once he had finished with the towel, he tossed it to the side of his bed. I found myself blushing when he held his hand out to me, my fingers immediately grasping his. Getting off the mattress, I whined, H laughing quietly when he pulled me against him. He was fully clothed still, his dick even put away now. There was something comforting about it, the warmth I felt from him unlike anything I had ever felt.

"Can't walk already?" he laughed.

"My legs are sore," I complained.

It made him chuckle more. He brushed my hair back as he looked down at me, my face flushing when he leaned down and placed a kiss to my forehead, then my nose, and then several to my lips. It was as if we had been together forever, everything with him feeling so natural. I didn't think that I had ever felt unnatural with a person before, but this was different. This was more than a simple hookup. At least, I sure hoped it was.

"It's not a far walk. Do you want me to carry you?" he asked.

"I don't care."

He shook his head, wrapping his arms around my waist. I laughed at how close he held me, my chest against his. However, I soon felt the glass of the window against my back, H chuckling when I tried to hold onto him for warmth. It was freezing, his lips pressing along my cheek, my jaw, my throat, my collarbones. He was doing everything to make me feel wanted and appreciated, and I sighed when he cupped one of my tits and squeezed.

"Can I put you on full display?" he questioned. "I see a few people outside looking already."

"Oh, a show," I giggled.

"A show, yes," he nodded. "Je sais déjà que nous travaillerons très bien." (I already know that we will work very well.)

My lips pressed to his before I could agree to being turned around, Harry squeezing my hips. He was so painstakingly honest, and yet there was a softness to him. He was hot and he was sweet. It was something that I didn't quite understand, but I was willing to. Wrapping my arms around him when he pulled back, he chuckled, my fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt.

"Do you have to wear all these clothes?"

"Maybe next time you'll get me naked," he stated, pressing tender kisses to my face. "Right now? I have no intent on anything other than focusing on you."

Shaking my head, I watched as he stepped away to grab a condom. His pants were already undone, and while he was wearing a dark pair of boxers, my cheeks flushed when I realized there was a wet spot on the front of them. I figured it was from me, my body quickly turning around as H walked toward me again. I wasn't pressed up against the glass yet, but I did see quite a few people down below. There was a mix of men and women, but they blew me kisses, clapped, cheered for me below. It made me blush, my confidence growing evermore when I felt H's head rest on my shoulder.

"They already love you, mon chéri," he told me.

"Mhm."

"Watch them when I start to fuck you."

I nodded, hearing him undo the foil of the condom. Glancing over my shoulder, I watched as he slipped it on. H grunted softly, my face burning when he picked me up some, pressing me up against the glass. I could tell the people below were enjoying it, my breathing shaky when I felt him tease my slit.

"H," I moaned softly. "Begging you to put it in."

"Only if you're so good for me you suck me off after. I have to take you in every way I've thought of for my concentration. Focus on how you'll look in those settings, no?"

"S-So you'll give me head?" I questioned.

"Baby, we still have a lot to do. Don't you worry, I'm not anywhere near finished playing with your beautiful cunt."

It made me moan, H pressing in at exactly the same time. I was usually a soft spoken person, someone who said what they needed to say but in a voice that wasn't loud and boisterous. Yet with him, every whine, every moan, every pant was loud, needy, wanting. He evoked something out of me that I had only experienced maybe a handful of times with the same woman over the past five months, but even thinking back to those experiences with her, I don't even think I was this loud.

"So good for me," he assured as he fucked me against the window. "Take it up your little cunt so well. J'ai hâte de te peindre." (I can't wait to paint you.)

And again it was sweet. I decided that I wouldn't let him in. I wouldn't tell him about how I knew exactly what he was saying to me. Instead, I decided I would keep it a little secret simply so he would continue to tell me secrets in French without the knowledge that I understood them.

"C-Can you go a little faster?"

"Anything for you, mon amour," he murmured. (My love.)

And just like that, he was taking me faster, continuing to give me the depth and physical strength behind each thrust all while picking up the pace. I was nearly being brought to tears with how good he felt inside of me, my breathing rigid as he took me. The onlookers were still cheering below, and I was almost certain a few more had joined. H kissed along my shoulder, my neck, and turned my head so he could kiss me as he took me. It was everything that I had wanted in a person. Only once had anyone come this close to making me feel this way, but H truly exceeded all expectations. And the thought of him getting to feel me, see me, paint me in such an intimate way was intoxicating.

"You'll come to New York sometimes, won't you?" I asked.

"Already inviting me home?" he chuckled.

"I-I think this is going to be a long term th-thing, no?"

He didn't say anything for a moment, his hand shifting to between my legs. I moaned when he began playing with my clit, my eyes squeezing shut as I let out several whines. He was truly incredible, his free arm wrapped around my upper stomach so that he could keep me in place.

"Long term, for sure," he finally agreed. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do something like this, but no one ever stood out to me. I've been with men, with women, with people who aren't sure what they are, they're experimenting, finding themselves. I've searched for someone to be the star, and I stumbled upon you. You just also happened to be the daughter of two very important art agents I have no interest in signing with."

"Thank God," I breathed, his hips pulling back to meet mine again at a quick pace. "I love that you don't want to sign with them. You're the first person to infuriate them and I find that incredibly attractive."

"I hope they love every piece I make of you," he murmured, pressing his lips to my shoulder again. "I'm sure they'll be over the moon when I paint the one of your cunt."

"That's the one I-I'm most excited for."

"And it will be yours to keep," he murmured.

"No," I shook my head. "I know those pieces sell for a lot of money. Don't just give it to me."

"Mon chéri, it is yours, though. I will have a full concentration of you at a gallery for weeks. I plan on it. And when it comes time to take the pieces down and give them to their owners, the owner of that piece will be you."

The thought of him wanting to put multiple pieces of me up in a gallery was more than I could ever ask for really. I thought about how he wanted me, wished to study me, and was going to show me off to the world. It truly was going to make me feel seen for the very first time, and I found myself glancing over my shoulder at him as he took me, his fingers on my clit stopping for a moment.

"What?" he asked.

"You're selling that piece when you make it. That's final. I know if I so desperately wanted one, you wouldn't be opposed to painting it twice. I'd even sit there for hours, modeling for you."

"Oh, you truly are my little muse, hmm?" he questioned, his hips pressed against mine as he filled me, keeping his position deep within me. "It truly is a shame you're only here for a few days."

"You can always come to New York," I told him. "I'm getting a Masters in PR and Marketing."

"So you're how old?"

"Twenty-three."

"I'm twenty-three as well. It's like we're perfect, mon amour."

I wondered what it was like to be twenty-three and such a successful artist. Of course, I didn't know the name at first because I didn't know the face, but walking around his shop downstairs I had seen the pieces before. My parents had showed me some of them as potential purchases. And now, here I was, fucking the man they couldn't get their hands on while he thought about an entire collection of art that had to do with me.

"I have some pull at MoMA," I told him.

"No."

"No, what?"

"No way I'm fucking you and letting you do any work for me in the slightest. You're already my muse, that is more than enough."

"And what if I want my pretty cunt in a big museum for hundreds of thousands of people to see?" I asked.

He shook his head. "You're something else."

"Good, I hope."

"Good, great ... I could go on forever. Let me start by getting you to finish around me for being such a good girl."

And just like that he started to fuck me again. Even if more people had shown up to watch down below, I wasn't even focused on them. In the past, this would have been a complete turn off. But, with the way that H was treating me, it felt like it was only us. He knew exactly what to say, how to make me feel wanted in a way that no one ever had. It didn't matter if it was physical or mental, I could tell he saw me on both plains. He was truly paying attention to me, what I had to say. He didn't care about my connections, my family, or anything that I could come along with.

"I'm going to press on your stomach, yeah? Make sure I'm doing my job right."

I didn't know what he meant, my cheeks flushing. I was definitely plushy, and I wasn't just a thin line of body. I certainly had an actual stomach. One that protruded a little more than I would have wanted if someone was touching me there. Or, by a little more I meant a good amount more, but he didn't care. He actually tensed up behind me when he held onto me.

"If you're trying to suck in while I'm taking you, I will not be pleased," he stated. "I know I like you, your body. I like a girl with some more skin than bones. I can actually take you, watch your body move with me. No need to try and hide any of you."

It left me in tears. So much so that he stopped fucking me and pulled me away from the window. I could feel him throbbing against my stomach, but he was hugging me, one of his hands resting on the back of my head as he played with my hair. I knew that people had been interested in me before, had shared an evening of casual sex, and while they thought I was hot, I had still always been scared to take my clothes off at times. I was always worried about what they would say to me—if they would still want to be with me. Yet, here was this man telling me that he wanted me to hide absolutely nothing from him.

"Why are we crying? Mon amour, tu es si belle. ne vous permettez pas de penser autrement." (My love, you are so beautiful. Don't allow yourself to think otherwise.)

"What?" I asked.

"I think you're perfect. Don't feel as if you aren't."

I knew what he had said, but I was so confused. I didn't understand why he was being so overly kind, but I knew that he meant every word. He tilted my chin up, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips. It was sweet, inviting, and giving. I held onto him, H breathing in deeply when he pulled away only to kiss me once again. This time, he danced his tongue into the kiss, and I found myself squeezing his waist more, whining softly when he pulled away.

"I know, I know," he nodded. "Why don't I just finish us off and we can start again tomorrow?"

"But—"

"I would love to keep fucking you. However, you are my my precious muse, and I want to take care of you. We can cuddle, I'll play with you some while we're close. I promise I won't fully stop touching you. I just think we should talk. I want to get to know you."

"So this is going to work?" I asked, allowing him to pick me up and lay me on the bed.

"I would be sad if you didn't want to stay and let me paint," he stated, lining himself up. "I would understand, though at the end of the day. Allowing someone to know you, see you, and paint you in such an intimate way can be intimidating in itself. But, giving me permission to share you with the world, that is true bravery."

"You're going to fall in love with me," I smiled.

"Mon chéri, are you to assume I haven't fallen for you this evening?"

"Shut up."

"Hmm, maybe. I mean, look at this," he stated, his middle finger tracing along my slit. "You must feel confident. And when I go like this," he continued, shifting my legs so they were opened further. "I can see more of you. You're beautiful. The most beautiful."

"I doubt that."

"I won't brag to you. I've been with a lot of people, I told you that. You do, really, have the prettiest cunt I've seen."

It made me cheeks flush, and while I normally would be embarrassed to be so open in front of someone, having him take in every bit of me was more than I thought I would be comfortable with. I continued to think about how he looked at me with light in his eyes—the way that most people would stare at me in a hungry, needy way. Though he looked like he was more interested in the way my body worked, how I looked. I propped myself up on my elbows, H teasing me by running his tip around my clit multiple times before he slid it up and down my slit. It was obvious he liked it by the jumps in his body, my body clenching when he stuck the tip in.

"I can't wait to cuddle you," he told me.

"Are you going to undress?"

He shook his head. "Patience, mon chéri."

"But I want to see all of you."

"And, mon amour, you will. I have forever to show you how I look nude. You will see eventually. My focus is you, and only you, though."

And that was when he pushed in, my legs immediately trying to shut on him, but his body was in the way. It made him chuckle, H leaning down to suck on my tits. I held onto the back of his head as he fucked me, playing with huge hair at the nape of his neck as I moaned. He was everything that I really, truly could have asked for. And I certainly could not wait to continue to get to know him the way he was excited to get to know me.