Chapter 1

Blake

Call it a universal truth. All men want sex, myself included. But why then—with this hot, naked woman in front of me—am I feeling…uninspired? I'm in my studio, mixing paint and brushing it across a canvas in fast strokes. I've even found the perfect pink to brush on a nipple. It's night, and the lights of New York City can be seen just outside of my window.

The model—Mia, or Marissa, or Melanie—has one hand shoved down my pants, and she's petting me and parting her legs, and all I can think about is how pathetic this art is. It feels like something I've done a million times already.

"Blake, baby, you feel so good," she purrs. "Give me that one-eyed python."

"Don't do that."

"Do what, baby?"

"Give it a pet name," I say.

"But it's so impressive," she purrs again, "that it deserves its own name."

She slides her hand down further, and I don't stop her, but I ignore her advances.

Why? Because this painting can't wait.

When I start a new piece, I'm compelled to finish it, and like a fish on a hook, I have no choice but to be pulled in and see it through.

Art is as much a part of me as breathing, or eating. It's my life.

I place the long, wooden handle of the paintbrush between my teeth and sit back.

Something is missing…

It's flat.

I decide to bring in white paint, mixing it with my current palette and hoping to add light to the piece. Maybe give it some depth and dimension.

I use a palette knife to scrape on rolls of paint for texture. I use a thin brush for details, and work with the concentration of a greyhound eyeing a rabbit—my focus is singular.

I drag the brush against the canvas again, adding color here and there, then finally finishing the last of the model's curves—her legs and the curve of her inner thighs. I just need to get those right. There's something about legs that can be so expressive.

"It's perfect," she coos, looking up at the canvas.

The truth is, it's far from perfect. Sure, it's good, but it looks like every other piece I've painted.

I want something new. I want something more.

No, it's more than a want; it's a need—to elevate my art.

The media will tell you that what all men only care about are a woman's physical attributes—her scent, what she's wearing, whether or not her push-up bra is bringing her tits front and center. Don't get me wrong—I'm more than happy to sleep with a hot woman with any of those attributes, but what the media doesn't tell you is that guys also like a woman who is confident and independent.

And this model here in front of me? She isn't showing me any of that.

I walk away from the canvas, and the model stops me.

"Should I stay?" she says, with one hand on my arm.

"For what?"

I can tell that my answer disappoints her.

"I could stay and pose some more," she says, "so you can finish the painting."

"It's done. I don't want to look at it any more."

"In that case," she says, "we can have a little fun now."

Her mouth curves into a suggestive smile.

She walks over to me, swaying her hips, and presses her lips to my neck, giving it a playful nibble.

Then she brings her mouth to my ear and whispers, "Tell me, baby…what's your biggest fantasy? Do you like it rough or romantic? Did you dream about me last night?"

Those words send a thrill down my body but I resist the urge to react, and when I don't respond, she continues.

"Where should I put my mouth next?" Her eyes wait for an answer, but when I don't give one, she returns to my body, both of her hands on my chest.

"Here? Or maybe here?" she asks, moving her mouth down my bare chest in slow circles.

I still don't respond.

"No? Well, how about here?" she says, moving her warm lips down until they are resting at the top of my waistband. My cock is now standing stiffer than any of the tools in this studio, and she smiles.

"I think I'm getting warmer," she purrs. She starts to unbutton my pants. "Now let me kiss that big, hard—"

But I stop her. I need a woman that inspires me in this studio. Not another nameless model eager to get into my pants.

Been there, done that…and more than just a few times.

"Maybe some other time," I say.

Her surprise turns to shock, and I watch as she gathers her things, still in disbelief. As soon as she leaves and I hear the door to the studio shut behind her, I walk back over to the painting.

It's not a bad portrait, but it's not great either.

There's simply no emotion. It doesn't evoke anything in me.

The longer I stare at the painting, the angrier I become. I can feel a new sense of irritation wash over me.

I can't hold back. I ball my hand into a fist and punch it through the canvas. The material rips open, and where the model should be, there's now a gaping hole.

There. Now no one will be able to look at this.

Then I grab a can of black paint, along with a wide brush. I dip it into the paint and in big angry strokes I destroy the remaining canvas, painting obscene Xs over my work.

I'm destroying the canvas so hard and fast that I feel a bead of sweat zigzag down my face.

I look down at the destroyed art and kick it away in disgust.

What the fuck am I doing with my life?

I need to be creating great art, not mastering mediocrity.

I need a new muse.