I tried to relax, did my best not to flinch each time he came close with a new colour or suck in a breath when he brushed parts of me normally reserved for lovers.

My nakedness disappeared under a cloud of blended artwork.

“Don’t move,” he muttered as he tossed his tools down and grabbed his fine brush again.

He drew calligraphy lines and highlighted parts of whatever he’d painted, stepping away and scowling only to storm back and torture me with another lick of bristles.

Once he was happy with my body, he turned to my hair and face.

I’d thought having him focus on my body was hard.

It was nothing compared to having Gil’s fingers tilting my chin this way and that, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip in concentration, his steady talent transforming my cheeks into art and my hair teased with whatever shade he’d chosen.

At one point, he tugged my hair into a tighter bun and the wash of passion made me jerk with need. His breath caught; the air gun faltered.

I swayed as he held my jaw, carefully sponging colour over my forehead and eyebrows.

“Close your eyes.” His fingers dug into my skin as if such a command affected him as much as it did me.

I obeyed, grateful to cut him from my vision when he was all I could see. The softness of his paint and the heat of his presence magnified, adding another dimension to my troubles.

But then, it was over.

He stepped away.

Coldness returned, and aloneness resettled.

My first time as a canvas, and it was finished.

Tossing his brushes away, he jumped off the podium and stared at me from a few feet away. His head cocked, assessing each angle and curve, not looking at all happy with his creation.

With me.

He didn’t inquire if the pose was comfortable or if the foreignness of being covered in paint was acceptable.

I wasn’t Olin.

I was merely his.

With the scent of paint in the air and hunger pangs growing more insistent in my belly, Gilbert came back, added a splatter of rhinestones across my hip bone and brow, then towered over me to paint an area of my shoulder in glue before dabbing turquoise and black glitter over my collarbone.

He leaped off the platform with nimble grace and cupped his chin with paint-speckled hands. He didn’t just cock his head this time, he pinned me to the podium with his assessment. His eyes were never still, judging, deliberating.

He stared at my breasts, hips, and legs with more intensity than any man before him.

He only saw flaws and areas of improvement.

Having him a few metres away instead of a few centimetres allowed me to breathe for the first time since I got naked. My knees quaked, and I thanked every star above that he’d only painted my front. I didn’t know how I could’ve coped with him behind me. His breath on the back of my neck. His fingers on my ass. His palms skating down my spine.

Stop it.

It’s done.  

When the silence became too much, I murmured, “Now what?”

My voice broke the spell.

He jerked as if I’d dragged him away from something painful. He cleared his throat all over again from the crackling tension. “I’m not happy, but it will have to do.” Marching away to a cupboard in the shadows, he ordered, “Stay there.”

I did as he said, waiting as he pulled open a drawer and came back with an expensive-looking camera. Depositing the camera by my feet, he stalked toward the large spotlights and other photography equipment tucked out of paint’s reach and rolled them around the podium.

With no warning to guard my eyes, he turned them all on, blinding me in white intensity.

I winced, squeezing my eyes shut as the heat of the lamps instantly warmed the chill in my bones. The thud of Gil’s boots paced around me as he prepared things. Slowly, I cracked open my gaze, getting used to the brightness.

He stood with the camera in his hands and a haughty, hungry look on his face. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.” Bringing the camera up, he framed me in a picture and pressed the button. The soft click sent another wash of goosebumps over me.

Time slipped into nonsense again as Gil took a copious number of photos from every angle, all with the black matte bricks behind me as the backdrop. Some he came in for a close-up on specific areas on my skin, others he took from far away. He even climbed up a ladder and took some from above.

Through it all, I stayed the perfect mannequin, doing my best to keep my face impassive, breathing light, and muscles smooth.

By the time he clicked the last photo, my stomach wasn’t just grumbling for food it was growling, and my feet ached from standing so long.

Gil didn’t say a word as he returned the camera to the cupboard, turned the spotlights off, and raked a hand through his hair, smoothing back the roguish strands. He didn’t care he had as much paint on his fingers as I did on my body, just like he didn’t care I was still there, trapped in his instruction and not permitted to move.

He caught my eye.

Something powerful and ancient throbbed between us.

Something we couldn’t control.

I was wrong.

He did care.

He cared a great deal.

His forehead furrowed as he drank me in. His shoulders fell as he sighed. “It’s over. Go take a shower. I’ll get cash for you.” Turning away, he marched into his office without a backward glance.

* * * * *

“Holy mother of mercy,” I whispered under my breath.

The mirror reflected me.

But it wasn’t me.

I’d vanished and left behind some storybook empress.

This magical creature drenched in reds and blues, purples and shadow could never be me.

Wow.

Just...wow.

Gil’s bathroom hid me from the cold warehouse. I’d intended to rush into the shower and rid myself of the strange sensation of being wrapped in something foreign.

But that was before the full-length mirror trapped my gaze and I was hypnotised.

I’d seen his talent on YouTube. I’d studied the complicated designs he’d done and always known he was a wizard with paint.

But now?

Now, I had a whole new appreciation for why people called him the Master of Trickery.

Inching forward, I didn’t focus on my nudity. How could I when I wore something so much more than mere clothes?

I wore Gilbert’s mark. His time and energy and skill.

My torso no longer held breasts or ribs or muscle. It was an underwater cavern with spiels of light illuminating black pockets where eels and crustaceans hid in the gloom. But in the bright sunlight shining from my chin, down my clavicle, and dappling my chest, krill and multi-coloured gemstone fish frolicked, almost as if my ribcage had become an aquarium for such incredible sea life.

Twisting a little, my eyes widened in amazement as I studied a glowing crystal ball depicting a scene of a shipwreck with glittery rhinestones on my hip. Flowing over my shoulder was a perfect waterfall. It puddled in my collarbone before spilling free with blue glitter and silver thread, as lifelike and as wet as any liquid down my arm.

It was magic—pure and simple.

The commission must’ve been for an aquarium or travel advertisement or something that inspired nature and adventure.

It inspired me.

I felt like I could swim underwater and summon all manner of wildlife.

I felt royal.

The photos he’d taken would no doubt be sent to whoever requested this piece, and somewhere out there, in some busy shopping complex or some glossy magazine, people would stare at my naked body and not see a woman but an entire underwater kingdom with me as its ruler.

I’d thought he didn’t see me as a person.

I was wrong.

He’d seen past that simple illusion and shown me that even my own perception was too narrow.

Wearing his paint made me stand taller, act prouder, move smoother. I posed as if I wore an expensive gown, custom made and agonisingly tailored to perfection.