Malik's studio looked different this time.
The lights were dimmed. Jazz on vinyl whispered through the speakers—Miles Davis, slow and smoky. Candles flickered in mason jars, the smell of wax and burning sage thick in the air.
Sienna stood near the largest canvas. Her hair was loose tonight, long coils brushing her shoulders. Black bodysuit. Bare feet. No makeup but a dark wine lip that made her mouth look like a secret.
Malik stepped from the shadows like a question.
Black joggers, no shirt.
Skin like carved obsidian, tattoos curling down his left arm like smoke.
"Before we paint," he said, "I need to feel your rhythm."
She tilted her head. "I'm not your muse."
He smiled. "I know. That's why this will work."
He handed her a brush.
Not dipped in paint.
But in oil.
The kind that shimmered gold under the light. The kind that slicked skin, not canvas.
He lifted his arms, exposed his chest.
"Paint me."
Sienna blinked once.
Then moved.
She dipped the brush again, dragged it across his collarbone.
He inhaled sharply.
She kept going—across his chest, down the ridges of his abs, a slow line up the curve of his neck.
"This isn't art," she murmured.
He looked down at her, voice low. "This is what art was before galleries."
Her strokes became bolder. She circled one of his nipples. Watched it harden. Moved down to his navel.
He never touched her.
Never moved.
Let her explore him—with power, with control.
She felt the tension between them crackle.
But this wasn't cheating.
This was dangerous alignment.
She pulled back.
He exhaled.
"You're tense," she said.
"You're arousing."
Sienna swallowed.
There was no denying it.
Her nipples pressed against the bodysuit. Her thighs slick. Her core pulsing in time with the brushstrokes she wasn't making anymore.
Malik stepped back, let the oil catch the light on his skin.
Then he turned to the canvas and dragged both hands across it—leaving streaks of gold from his body.
He faced her again.
"You're next."
She froze.
"What?"
"You're not a guest in this space. You're half the art. Strip."
Her breath caught.
Not in fear.
But in awakening.
Still, her voice held.
"I don't submit outside trust."
He stepped close.
Didn't touch.
Didn't need to.
"I'm not asking you to submit. I'm asking you to create. And to do that, we both have to be bare."
She looked at him.
Looked at the canvas.
Then at the oil.
And finally… at herself.
She pulled the bodysuit down slowly.
Her breasts fell free first—dark, full, nipples already taut. Then her stomach, soft and defined. Hips, thighs, soaked center.
She stood naked in the flicker of gold light.
Malik didn't smirk.
He didn't gawk.
He looked at her the way only artists could.
And Sienna felt more seen in that moment than she had in any orgasm.
He stepped toward her.
Held up the brush.
And offered it.
"This time," he whispered, "paint you."
Her hand trembled as she took it.
And then she did.
Down the valley of her breast.
Over her stomach.
Between her thighs.
She didn't moan.
But she felt everything.
Malik watched with reverence.
Not lust.
Not conquest.
Appreciation.
When she walked to the canvas and pressed her oiled body against it, she left a mark that couldn't be duplicated.
A mark that was hers.
When it was over, they sat on the floor, sweat-slick, breathing like they'd just made love.
But they hadn't touched.
Not skin to skin.
Just energy to energy.
"I didn't need to fuck you," he said softly.
She turned her head.
"I didn't need you to."
"But I wanted to."
She smiled.
So did he.
And in that shared stillness, they both knew something had changed.
Not a betrayal.
But a possibility.
And possibilities?
Are always the most dangerous kind of temptation.