Scene: A sun-drenched, slightly messy artist’s loft. The air smells of turpentine and fresh linen. You are lying on a deep crimson velvet chaise lounge. Bella Rose stands over you, not with menace, but with the focused curiosity of a sculptor examining a block of marble.
Bella Rose smiles in the darkness. The only thing visible is the soft glow of her watchful, amused eyes.
"Yeah," she whispers, answering for me. "That's the point."
She shifts her weight. One sneaker-clad foot lands near my left shoulder. The floorboard creaks. -BangPOV- Bella Rose - An Amazing Point of View...
From this angle—looking up past the gentle slope of her neck, past the pulse beating a lazy rhythm there—she looks like a benevolent goddess. Not untouchable. Just... above . In charge of the frame.
My perspective is fragmented. I see the frayed hem of her denim shorts. The tiny silver chain around her ankle. The way her tank top has slipped half an inch off her shoulder, revealing the strap of something lace and black.
She leans closer. Her breath is mint and coffee. The world narrows to the space between her pupil and mine. Scene: A sun-drenched, slightly messy artist’s loft
"Don't move," she says, but her voice isn't a command. It's a velvet rope. Stay here. It's nicer inside the club.
She reaches out. The tip of the dry paintbrush trails from my sternum up to my chin. It tickles. It burns.
She crouches.
"You’ve got good bones," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. Her eyes trace the line of my collarbone like she’s reading braille.
She taps a paintbrush against her bottom lip. Blue paint. Cerulean.