He doesn't just want to paint her. He wants to wreck her. On the walls. On his couch. On his fucking canvas.
With every moan, every mark, every messy orgasm, Jasper turns her from a gallery curator into his personal slut, his muse, his masterpiece. And when her fiancé comes knocking, she's still spread out on the table, dripping in paint and cum, begging Jasper for more.
This isn't romance. This is art. Filthy, brutal, unforgettable art.
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