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The Artist
He made a mug of Earl Grey tea. As it steeped, he picked up the wadded paper towel he’d used to wipe his hands at Lise’s house. He held it under his nose and imagined he could smell the scent of her home as he relived his late-night visit. The memory was not as sexually charged as actually being there. Still, he was firmly erect as he put the towel on the counter, sipped his tea, and studied the nude photos he’d taken of his next masterpiece.
He noticed blood seeping through the gauze covering the bite wound on his forearm. He banged his wrist against the kitchen counter, and pain flared from the wound. He laughed, feeling charged by the sting. A true artist embraces the pain of creation and is inspired by it. And that model was a true inspiration. He let the wound bleed freely through the gauze, and he hoped it would never heal. The blessed agony took him back to when she’d bitten him, and he moaned appreciatively.
He felt motivated and returned to the model at hand. Three pictures of the redhead were particularly fetching. He settled on one that showed only a small portion of her face and texted the photo.