"Does your arm hurt?"
Tobey stopped mid-stroke. His sharp eyes had caught the subtle tremor in the arm she was using to support her weight. The pose, elegant as it was, was physically demanding to hold for over an hour.
Peony pouted, letting out a breath she had been holding. She sat up straight, wincing slightly as she started massaging her stiff triceps.
"Is it done yet?" she asked, her voice laced with fatigue.
It was strange, she thought. They had spent hours having sex, vigorous, intense rounds that logically should have exhausted her—yet she hadn't felt a single ounce of fatigue. So why did she feel this sudden creep of tiredness just from sitting still?
Tobey didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped away from the easel, grabbed her white robe from the log, and crossed the distance to her in two long strides before she could even try to stand.
They had started the portrait session around 8:45 PM. Now, over an hour had passed. In that time, Tobey had managed to lock in the proportions, capture the gesture and balance, study the light and anatomy, and map out the entire composition.
"Not yet, but you can rest now," he said gently.
He wrapped the robe around her shoulders, his hands moving efficiently to tie the sash and adjust the fabric so that not an inch of her skin was left peeking out into the cold night air.
"I've already finished the structural capture phase," he explained, smoothing the collar. "The rest is just refinement—memory work, blending the shadows, breathing life into the details. So there's no need for you to pose anymore."
Peony craned her neck, trying to peek around his broad frame. "Can I see it now?"
Tobey stepped to the side to block her view, grinning.
"How about after I finish it? It will be more exciting that way. I want you to sit there and wonder. Your brain will have a heated debate: Is the painting actually good? Does it resemble the model? Or what if he's just playing around and painting a stick figure?"
His smile widened mischievously. He reached out and pinched her nose, but Peony was quick—she swatted his arm with a playful slap.
"You're bullying me again!"
"It's because you're cute when you frown," Tobey chuckled.
He pulled her into a one-armed hug, planting a kiss on her temple, lingering there for a moment to smell her hair.
"Stop frowning. Come on."
He guided her toward the folding camping chair near the fire, where it was warmest, and gave her the pink tumbler to drink water.
"Just sit here," he instructed, gently pushing her down into the seat. "Watch me, fantasize about me, do whatever you want. Just relax while I finish this, so I can properly amaze you with my art."
He gave her a quick, lingering peck on the lips before pulling away and returning to the easel. He picked up his brush and started on the right side of the canvas, focusing on the angle of her head.
"How long do I have to wait?" Peony asked. She sat down on the camping chair, crossing her legs and tucking the white robe tightly between her thighs to keep the cold out. She reached for her tumbler and took a graceful sip of water.
"Around 10:30. Maybe 10:45," Tobey replied, his eyes glued to the painting. "If you're tired, you can go back to the tent and lie down. I'll call you when I'm finished."
"No," she shook her head immediately. "I might fall asleep."
"Then how about this," Tobey paused, turning his head slightly in her direction. "We spill about ourselves. A game. You ask me anything, and I answer it. Vice-versa. One question at a time."
Peony's face brightened at the suggestion. She had been dying to know more about him.
"I'm glad you're the one who opened up that topic," she said, shifting in her seat. She hesitated, biting her lip. "Now... you go first. Do... d-do you have a girlfriend or a partner out there?"
It hurt her just to think about it. After everything they had done—the intimacy, the sex, the way her body and heart had submitted to him completely—the thought that he might have a wife or girlfriend waiting for him was terrifying.
Tobey stopped painting and met her gaze. He could see the anxiety in her eyes; she was overthinking, terrified of being the "other woman."
He didn't have anyone. He had a girlfriend back on Earth, but that life was gone. Here, he was Timothy Gray.
"Honestly..." Tobey started, his voice somber. "I had one. But she broke up with me. I was devastated. At the time, my heart hadn't even healed from my father David's passing. When she left, I lost all desire to go on living. I... left my apartment. I stopped attending college—that's why if you noticed, my I.D. only shows first year. I just walked non-stop until I found this place."
The words came out naturally, his brain instinctively weaving the memories of his original life with his new identity.
Peony got teary-eyed hearing his story. Guilt washed over her for bringing up such a painful memory. She stood up quickly, ran toward him, and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, burying her face in his back.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I didn't mean to ask that question."
"It's okay. I've already moved on," Tobey said softly. He tapped her hands gently with the handle of his brush. "At that time, I was young. I wasn't mature enough to handle a relationship."
"But I made you reminisce about bad memories."
"It's okay, my love," he replied, turning back to the canvas. "Hmmm... are you hugging me because you want to peek at the painting? Tell me."
"You're bullying me again!" She tried to pinch his back through the thick robe, but she couldn't reach his skin.
"You're a bad guy!"
She stomped back to her seat, feigning anger, crossing her arms as she thought of a way to get even.
"Fine. My turn," she huffed. "How many times have you been rejected by women you courted? Since childhood."
Tobey grinned without looking away from his work. "Is this an interrogation? I thought we were playing a game. One question at a time."
"Just answer the question."
"Hmmm... rejection. Honestly? None."
Growing up, he didn't have time for relationships; he was too busy surviving. It was only when Father David paid his tuition that he had free time, and he had gotten a girlfriend immediately.
"Seriously?" Peony raised an eyebrow.
"That's a third question coming from you," he teased. "My turn. How many boyfriends have you had?"
"I've had a few," Peony admitted, staring into the fire. "But only one was serious. We weren't engaged, but we talked about marriage. I broke up with him because he was too controlling. The worst part? He wanted me to quit showbiz. But showbiz is my life. My dream."
"What is his name?" Tobey's tone dropped, becoming suddenly serious.
"Is that your question for me?"
"Yes."
"Maverick Grey," she answered. Then she gave a small, sad smile. "Coincidence. His last name is almost the same as yours."
Tobey's jaw tightened. "It means we're too different. He is a bastard. I'm not."
Did I piss him off? Peony secretly smiled seeing his jealous reaction.
"For my next question," she continued, "Are your biological parents supportive of your decisions?"
But the moment the words left her mouth, she regretted it.
"My biological parents and my siblings were abusive," Tobey said flatly, the brush stroke on the canvas becoming sharper. "So I ran away from home. After three years on the streets, I meet Papa David adopted me. So, to answer your question: Yes. My Papa David was very supportive."
Dumb Peony! She mentally slapped her own forehead. What am I thinking?!
"My turn," Tobey said.
He sounded casual, but when he turned to look at her, his eyes were burning with a mix of possessiveness and insecurity.
"That Grey bastard. Was he your first? Is he better than me in bed? I bet his cock is way smaller than mine."
The moment the words left his mouth, Tobey flinched slightly. He looked away, his jaw tightening, hating how crude and insecure he sounded. The cool, composed Timothy Gray had cracked, revealing the boy underneath who was terrified of losing her.
Peony blinked, stunned by the rawness of the question. But then, she understood. He was hurt. He was jealous.
She stood up and walked toward him. She slipped in between the easel and him, standing face-to-face. Tobey instinctively took a half-step back so her robe wouldn't smear the wet paint.
"Yes," Peony answered truthfully, untying the sash of his robe. She looked up to meet his intense gaze, her hand slipping inside to find his semi-hard cock. She caressed it gently, while her other hand traced the hard lines of his abs.
She felt bad for asking about his parents. She needed to ease his heart, and she knew exactly how.
"Maverick has a muscular body," she whispered, stepping closer. "But your body is way taller and bigger than his. And yes, he claimed my virginity. But..."
She squeezed his soft shaft gently, feeling him pulse in her hand.
"Your cock is way bigger than his. With him, I recovered quickly. With you? I almost go crazy every time. Your size gives me so much pleasure... and your performance leaves him in the dust."
Slowly, she sank to her knees. She kept her eyes locked on his as she lowered herself, her face level with his soft erection. The tip was already leaking with precum, it's obviously since earlier when they just started their portrait session. She licked it slowly, savoring the taste, before massaging the shaft.
"You," she murmured against his skin, "go continue with your painting."
She opened her mouth and took him in, swallowing as much of him as she could fit.
"While I'm busy here."
Tobey groaned, his head falling back, his hand gripping the easel for support. The brush in his hand hovered, trembling, but he forced himself to focus. He painted through the haze of pleasure, every stroke on the canvas fueled by the sensation of her wet, warm mouth claiming him.
Over an hour later...
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting a soft, deep orange light over the campsite.
"It's done," Tobey announced, his voice raspy. He wiped a smudge of paint from his cheek and stepped back from the easel.
Peony, now fully dressed in her white robe and sitting comfortably on the chair with a glass of red wine in her hand, stood up immediately. She set the glass down on the table, her heart pounding with anticipation—and a lingering flush from their earlier activities.
"Can I look?"
"Come here."
Tobey turned the easel toward her.
Peony gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
It wasn't just a painting. It was a revelation.
On the canvas, she was stripped of everything—the designer clothes, the "Peony" persona, even the white robe. She was bare, her skin captured in warm, living tones against a background of swirling deep forest greens and the golden halo of the firelight.
Tobey had painted her exactly as she was: a creature of the wild. Her long, raven-black hair cascaded down her front in thick, silky waves, modestly veiling her breasts. Her left hand rested naturally on the curve of her hip, her fingers draping down to casually cover the V of her thighs.
It was intimate, erotic, and incredibly classy. He hadn't painted a sex symbol; he had painted a forest nymph. Her eyes in the painting held a mixture of vulnerability and strength, and the slight smile on her lips was genuine.
"Oh, Tim..." she whispered, tears pricking her eyes. "It's... it's breathtaking."
"It's beautiful because the model is beautiful," Tobey said softly, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. "Do you like it?"
"I love it. I absolutely love it. You made me look like... like I belong here."
She stood there for a long moment, just breathing in the sight of it. The fire crackled softly. The image burned itself into her mind, but memory wasn't enough. She needed proof that this moment existed.
"I need to take a picture of it," she said.
She broke away from his embrace and sprinted toward the tent. She dove inside, rummaging frantically through her luggage until her fingers brushed against the cold metal of her phone. She grabbed it and came running back to the fire, breathless and beaming.
"Peony, wait. There is no need. This is for you," Tobey started, trying to tell her he would give her the actual canvas, but it was too late. His voice died down before he could finish; she was moving too fast, fueled by wine and happiness.
She pressed the power button with excitement.
"Calm down," Tobey chuckled, watching her fumble with the device.
The screen lit up. She quickly swiped to the camera and snapped a photo of the painting, capturing the brushstrokes and the firelight. But she wasn't done.
"Come here!"
She dragged Timothy by the arm, pulling him into the frame beside the easel. She leaned her head against his shoulder, holding the phone up high.
Click.
She captured them both—the artist and the muse, immortalized beside their creation.
She pulled the phone back, smiling widely as she swiped through the gallery, inspecting the photos. They looked perfect. They looked happy. She didn't notice the signal bars at the top of the screen turning from gray to white. She didn't know the consequence of what she had just done.
BZZZZT. BZZZZT.
The phone vibrated violently in her hand.