Page 14 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
There's no accusation in her voice, just a statement of fact. We've moved past that initial shock, that revelation of my yearsof watching. Now we exist in this strange new reality where she knows and hasn't run. Where she's chosen to stay despite—or perhaps because of—the darkness of my fascination.
"This is different," I say, selecting a fresh canvas. "Before, I painted from memory, from glimpses. Now you're here. Real. It changes things."
"How?" She sets down the brush, moving closer to me. "How does it change things?"
I consider my answer carefully. "Before, you were... perfect. A creation of my imagination as much as my observation. Now you're flesh and blood. Unpredictable. The real Iris rather than my version of her." I meet her eyes. "It's better. Terrifying, but better."
She smiles, a small, private expression I've never captured accurately on canvas. "So where do you want me?"
The question, innocent on its face, sends heat coursing through me. I've spent countless hours imagining exactly where I want her—in my bed, on my floor, against my walls, bent over my workbench. But today is about art. About creation. About capturing her essence with her full participation.
"Here," I say, leading her to the chaise lounge in the corner by the north-facing windows. The afternoon light falls perfectly across it, highlighting without being harsh. "Sit first, let me find the right position."
She obeys, settling onto the velvet surface with natural grace. I circle her, studying angles, how the light catches her hair, the curves of her body still hidden beneath her simple dress.
"You're looking at me like I'm a technical problem to be solved," she says, amusement in her voice.
"You are." I stop in front of her. "The most beautiful, complex problem I've ever encountered."
A flush spreads across her cheeks at the compliment. "What now?"
"Now you take off the dress." I keep my voice neutral, professional, though my body instantly responds to the idea of her naked before me.
She hesitates, just briefly, then stands and reaches for the hem of her dress. In one fluid motion, she pulls it over her head, leaving her in nothing but simple black underwear. My breath catches. No matter how many times I've imagined this, how many times I've painted it from fragments of observation, the reality of her near-nakedness steals the air from my lungs.
"These too?" she asks, fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties.
I nod, not trusting my voice. She slides them down her legs, then reaches behind to unclasp her bra. Both items join her dress on the floor. She stands before me completely bare, vulnerable yet somehow powerful in her nakedness.
"Beautiful," I murmur, circling her again. "Lie back on the chaise. On your side, facing me."
She complies, finding the position awkwardly at first, then settling into it with increasing confidence. I adjust her slightly—tilting her chin, arranging her hair over one shoulder, positioning her arm to accentuate the curve of her waist.
"This is more intimate than sex," she observes as my fingers brush her shoulder, arranging her just so. "You're seeing all of me, not just my body."
"That's the point of art," I tell her, stepping back to assess the pose. "To see beyond the surface. To capture essence, not just form."
I make a few more adjustments—bending her top leg slightly, angling her face toward the light—until the composition satisfies me. Then I move to my easel, already set up at the perfect distance and angle.
"Try to stay still," I instruct. "But breathe naturally. I don't want a statue. I want you."
She smiles again, that same small, secret expression. "You have me."
Something shifts in my chest at her words—a tightening, a warmth. I push it aside, focusing on the work. The first strokes are always the most crucial, establishing proportions, capturing the essential lines that will form the foundation of the piece. My hand moves with practiced precision, mapping her body onto the canvas.
Time slips away as I work, falling into the familiar rhythm of creation. Iris proves to be an excellent model, holding the pose with minimal shifting, her breathing steady, her gaze direct whenever I look up to study some detail of her face or form.
"What are you thinking?" I ask after nearly an hour of near-silence, mixing a particular shade of ochre for the undertones of her skin.
"That I understand now," she says. "Why you painted me all those times. There's a power in being seen this way. In being the entire focus of someone's attention."
I look up from my palette. "You're always my entire focus."
"I know." She shifts slightly, the movement causing light to play differently across her breasts. "That should frighten me more than it does."
"Why doesn't it?" I'm genuinely curious. Most women would have run screaming from the evidence of my obsession. Yet she's here, naked on my chaise, voluntarily submitting to my gaze, my brush, my direction.
She considers her answer. "Because it feels like... recognition. Like you saw something in me that I couldn't see in myself." Her eyes meet mine, dark and thoughtful. "Is that strange?"
