He's the bad-boy. The rebel. The one your mother warned you about. The one innocent girl's --like you-- have no business being around. He's dark and dangerous and that makes you want him even more.

He wears leather like a badge of honour. It drapes over his wide shoulders and molds to his strong back when he strides past you. You can smell the raw heat of him as he turns and stares and offers you his hand.

People think he's cold. Heartless. But you know him better than anyone. You see past those cold, killer-blue eyes and know he has a good heart.

You take his hand and like every other day since you've begun your secret trysts, you lead him to your studio.

He undresses in front of you, not embarrassed or the least bit shy. But you can't hide the crimson stain that coats your cheeks.

His body is like a canvas. Smooth, white and clean. He trembles just a little when you stroke the first line of paint down his abdomen. A terse smile covers your lips before you slide the brush further. Down, you draw a line, further down with storm-grey paint, just beyond the patch of sandy hair and stop.

He's looking at you. You can feel it. You know what he wants . . . what he always wants.

You don't care that he's involved with someone else. You don't care that he comes to you for what he can't get from her.

He's told you that what they have is sex. Just sex. And you want to know what you share with him.

You don't have to ask. He tells you he's made too many mistakes to count. He's in over his head and he can't drop her. Not now.

You want to know when, but he has no answer. You think you don't need an answer, that you're satisfied with what you have. That, it's enough. It's not enough and you know it, but you'll take what he's willing to give for now . . . maybe forever.

All you want is to be in his arms like you dream of at night. For him to hold you and whisper how he loves you and that he's sorry.

What you have is so much more intimate. It always starts with the pretense of art. You have to paint him and he agrees. He poses and lets you draw over his warm, tan skin, until his body is so hot and your fingers ache so bad to touch him.

To touch him all over.

When he takes off your clothes, so slowly you tear up, you wonder if he does the same to her. If his touch is as gentle and tender with her. No, you know he couldn't be this sweet with her.

He presses you against his naked chest, splattering the paint between your bodies so that it squishes between your breasts and fuses the two of you together.

His kiss starts softly, turns demanding when his fingers fist in you hair and he angles your mouth so he can delve deeper. So he can taste more of you.

His hands cover the torrid ecstasy of your skin and his thumbs brush the ripened tips of your breasts so that you are clawing at his shoulders and back for him not to stop. And his fingers slip and slide with wet paint over your stomach and then lower.

You fall back onto the couch, him on top of you, so heavy and hard it makes you lose your breath.

There is no time to think about consequences, if you even cared you wouldn't be doing this again. You've done it so many times you've lost count and there is never a moment when you think of turning back . . . of not doing this.

You take him inside, so deep inside you can't stand the pressure and you curse the mold that made him so supremely male. You can't remember a time when another human being has fit so well. You are connected.

Physically, you are connected. He is inside of you, moving like you're part of the same machine.

Emotionally, you are connected. He never takes his eyes from you as he silently says your name and wipes your hair from your forehead.

There is something too intense in his eyes and you want to look away, but you are compelled not too. He holds you with those damned silver-blue eyes.

His body moves in you.

Sinfully slow.

Un-dauntingly fast.

And you think you'll die if he ever stops moving. His mark is that indelible.

There is so much power between his thighs you think you might break apart if he ever leaves you.

The room is quiet save for the low slapping sound of sticky bodies melting together and the too quiet moans being ripped from the back of your throat.

Part of you wants it to end. You want him to stop coming to you and using you. But there is another part of you that never wants it to stop. Because you love him and he loves you and he's not the only one exploiting. You use each other and it's not fair because you're with other people. But you can't imagine being apart. You can't imagine never being like this again; him inside of you and you wanting it to go on forever.

You trail your fingers over his back in slow circles, feeling the tremors burst through him and you bite his shoulder too hard. You don't care. You want him to feel some pain and to be marked by you. You think of how he'll explain away the injury and a sly smile crosses your face. You laugh because she'll believe every word he says and you'll know the truth this time.

He lays next to you and holds you so tight it's almost crushing and you can feel the pound of his heart against your back and his warm breath at your nape and that unmistakable moisture that comes from his eyes when he thinks you're asleep.

The paint is dry by then and the canvas always remains blank, but you can't help feeling it's some of the best work you've done in a long time.

You pretend to be asleep when he dresses and kisses your temple, whispering in a grainy voice, 'see you later, Elizabeth.' And you wish it was already later and that he wasn't going back to their penthouse to be with her.

Long after he is gone, you can still feel him.

Inside.

On your skin.

Everywhere.

And you roll over in bed, smelling him on your sheets and the tears stain your pillow and you whisper 'see you later, Jason.'