She used to sketch strangers on the street for a quick buck — a smile here, a wink there, a few strokes of charcoal in exchange for a handful of cash. But today? She wasn’t the one doing the sketching. She was the one being framed — not on paper, but in lust. Hunter tossed a few bills and joked about her drawing him naked. Her smirk said she’d considered worse. One thing led to another — a flirt, a spark, a suggestion whispered too close to the ear. Then her sketchpad was forgotten. They found a shadowed alley where hands replaced pencils. Her fingers roamed his body like they were shading desire. His lips marked her neck like ink stains on a canvas. She was no longer the artist. She was the masterpiece — dripping, trembling, owned. And he paid in full, not with money, but with sweat, heat, and the kind of pleasure

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