Her eyes glance up at me again. “Are some of these me?”
For a second I think about lying, but there’s really no point. I’m not ashamed of what I draw, and if Kimber’s my muse, then I don’t see any harm in telling her. “That one is. This one too.”
We keep flipping through the book and I point out the drawings that are her. Some are more obvious with her bright blue eyes and red hair, others focus on her neck or hands where I’ve detailed out the jewelry or clothing designs. She pauses on one picture that’s all lingerie, with these draping armbands that women seem to love around this time of year. I haven’t totally gotten the appeal, but they sell like crazy.
“My scars?” she asks, turning her eyes back to me. They are part of the sketch, one I went through and detailed out. Hesitating, I almost don’t turn the page.
It’s a different outfit, same sort of vibe. She’s in that purple nightgown I loved from the cabin, and instead of focusing on the sexual parts of the outfit I’ve focused on her. I’ve drawn the faint scars on her wrists, the little scrunch of her notes and the tiniest bit of regrowth at her roots before she retouched her color. It’s all the little details I’ve noticed about her.
“You drew me,” she says, eyes moving to mine. “But-”
“I draw what I find beautiful,” I say, brushing back her hair. “And to me, Kim, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
