"You’re crazy."
"No," he leans in, cologne hitting me. "I'm inspired... By your drawings. The ones you ripped out and stashed in your duffel."
"Oh my God."
"Draw for me, Lila. Show me everything you want. Every position. Every scenario." His thumb grazes my jaw. "The better the art… the better the reward."
"What kind of reward?"
He just smiles. "You'll see. Maybe earlier than expected."
He walks away, and I'm left clutching a sheet and staring at art supplies like they're a loaded gun.
"Wait, that's it? You're leaving?"
"I have business. People to threaten. Territories to defend." He pauses at the door. "You have one job today. Make it filthy."
The door closes.
I sit for a solid minute, processing what just happened.
My first instinct: refuse. Throw the sketchbook across the room, demand my clothes back, and request a shred of dignity.
My second instinct—the one that's apparently hijacked my brain—is to reach for the charcoal.
The truth? I have ideas. Too many ideas. Three months of fantasies, sketched in secret, and hidden like evidence. Only now, he's not only giving me permission… he's demanding it. Commanding me to put every private thought, every forbidden desire, onto paper where he can see it.
The thought makes my toes clench.
I grab a croissant and eat it while I stare at the blank page.
Okay. Start simple. Work my way up to the filthy fantasies.
The first sketch comes easily. Us in bed, basic missionary.Safe. Intimate. I can almost feel it as I draw, reliving the memory—the weight of him, the stretch, the way he filled me so completely I couldn't think.
I stare at it.
He said filthy.
But what's filthy? Where's the line between "creative" and "too much"? Does he have preferences? What if I draw something he finds weird or?—
I shake my head. I’m overthinking this. Classic me.
I tear out the page and start again.
Sketch two: Ivan at his desk, in a meeting, maybe. Men in suits surround the table discussing... I don't know, crime stuff. And me under the desk, hidden from view, making concentration damn near impossible.
My face burns as I sketch the scene. I can imagine how it would feel—the hard floor against my knees, the taste of him, the thrill of being hidden while he tries to keep his composure. The power in making him lose control while his men sit across from him, oblivious.
I pause, charcoal hovering over paper.
They'd notice. Of course, they'd notice. Men don't sit there stone-faced while getting head. His voice would change, his breathing, something. This isn't realistic.
And more importantly, would I do this in front of other people? Even if they can't see me directly?
I tear it out.
Third sketch. Back to the bedroom. Back to privacy. The shower. That's a classic. Water running down our bodies, steam billowing.
