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We reach the landing and the massive space comes into view. There is no door to separate the studio from the stairwell. The only door to this room is at the other end of the stairs. To the right, a large window brightens the space naturally. A second smaller window sits on the opposite wall higher up. A skylight in the center of the ceiling.
My eyes dart in every direction as I absorb the chaos that is Devlyn’s studio.
A closet with an open barn door is packed with canvases in various sizes. Some painted, others blank. One wall of the closet is lined with shelves. Implements and brushes, cleaning supplies and rags, pencils and more sit on the shelves—many of them unopened.
A bathroom with a stall shower, toilet, and double sink with a black countertop is brightened by a small window. Hand towels hang from the bar. A bottle of mineral oil and bar of soap sit between the sinks. The faint splatter of paint from washed hands in one of the bowls.
The main room of the studio has a drafting table at one end, a cart and shelves beside it. In the heart of the room is a large table covered in used rags, large coffee cans with brushes sticking out, various-sized glass jars with dripped paint on the glass, and an abundance of paint tubes in different states of use.
Canvases lean against walls and each other. Drawings lie scattered on the floor and pinned to the walls. Some in color, others monochrome. But there appears to be a theme with several of them. A theme that doesn’t shock me after seeing Devlyn’s work at the exhibition or the piece my parents gifted me for Christmas.
Me. I am the theme.
Considering our romantic relationship is fairly new, this should bother me. Shouldn’t it? Some women might think an artist’s obsession with one person—their muse—is awkward or disturbing. But as I scan the room and take in all the various ways Devlyn has reconstructed my image, a warmth builds in my chest.
Devlyn may have difficulty expressing himself with words, but the art in this room says more than any words ever will.Devlyn is in love with me. Madly.
“Wow,” I breathe out.
I haven’t met his gaze since we entered the room, but his eyes sear my profile. His silence begs for me to expand on my single-word response. To tell him if I love it or never plan to return.
“Is it weird that I love seeing myself in so many different ways?” I ask this to lighten the tension rolling off him. And it works.
A soft chuckle leaves his lips, growing louder with each breath, and soon I join in. As our laughter fades, he gives my hand a squeeze.
“Does it freak you out?” He waves his hand around the room. “Seeing all this. Seeing how much you inspire me.”
Turning to face him, I bring my body flush with his and lock my fingers behind his neck. His hands automatically find my hips. “Nope.” I press my lips to his. “Maybe because of the images at the exhibition.” Another kiss. “Or maybe because my parents bought one of your pieces and gifted it to me for Christmas.”
Devlyn jerks his head back. “Really?”
I nod. “Mm-hmm.”
“Was it the iris drawing?” I nod again. “Funny enough, I thought maybe it was someone related to you. But I’d never heard you mention a George.”
“Ah. That would be my dad. Mom uses his cards to shop online.”
“Gotcha.” Devlyn brings his lips back to mine. “Seriously, though… you’re not bothered by all this?”
I shake my head. “Is it weird that my face might be on someone’s wall? Sure.” I glance around the studio for a beat. “But I love that you can’t get me out of your head.”
His hands drop beneath the hemline and dip under the cotton of my shirt, inching up the material. One arm bands around my waist while his other hand traces up my spine.
“I don’t sell paintings or drawings where the image is noticeably you. Those, I keep.” Leaning in, he devours my lips. When the kiss breaks, fire and passion brew in his eyes. “Can I paint you?”
Confused by the question, considering he has painted me countless times, I narrow my eyes. “Um, yes.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up and my stomach does somersaults. Before realization dawns on me, Devlyn is peeling the shirt over my head. Pushing my panties to the floor. Exposing me completely with a wicked grin on his face.
“Uh, Devlyn.” The urge to slap an arm over my breasts and lady bits is strong. “I don’t know if I’m okay with you putting my nude body on canvas.”
His smile widens. “Good thing that’s not what I’m doing.” He takes my hand and walks me over to a metal stool, the seat splattered in every shade of the rainbow and more. “Sit here.”
I park myself on the stool, shiver as the cool metal meets my skin, hide my breasts behind my forearms, and cross my legs. My heart pounds in my chest while Devlyn roams the studio, picks up a tube of blue paint, then pink, then yellow. I lose focus as he continues, oblivious to my mini panic attack.
I may not be the shyest woman in the room most days, but the idea of having my naked body on display—even if it never leaves this room—has me in crisis mode.
“Breathe,” Devlyn says in my ear. His hands come up from behind and take hold of my biceps. He kisses along my shoulder, the curve of my neck, up my throat. “Trust me.” His words hot and soft on my skin.
