I gasp when I see the painting. A clothless woman lying on a royal red couch.
She looks like a goddess sprawled amidst soft fabrics, showing off the holy beauty which is her body.
Her stunningly long legs rubbing against each other, her waist caving in, her hips widening into curves, her neck—a chic elegance—and long curls sitting on her shoulders.
Her face shows a bold fierceness, yet a plush rosy blush.
The painting is dauntless and lucidly sensual. Simultaneously, portraying her as an enigma that is craved for, that is wanted, that is loved.
The woman’s face is so defined and meticulously painted. I wish it wasn't.
Because the woman, painted on the ginormous canvas, is me.
I could feel him around me, engulfing me with the same boldness he painted me with. The same desire he pursued me with.
Like he wanted me for himself, and he would take me with everything he could give
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Mavis
Mavis is an art fanatic (as if that’s news), a theatre enthusiast, and forever grateful to whoever invented brookies. She’s a 20-year-old who spends an awful lot of time sleeping or watching absolute brainrot. When she’s not doing that, she’s hanging out with friends, sipping mojitos, or eagerly waiting for the next amazing romance novel to be published—until she decides she’s tired of waiting and writes it herself. She absolutely adores traveling and listening to BTS on repeat. Mavis has the remarkable ability to yap for an unhinged amount of time. She never misses an opportunity to interact with her readers—they’re family to her.
