The sound of the rain intensified, turning the attic into a private island of shadows and heat. Ayush’s hands slid from her waist to the hem of her paint-flecked shirt, his knuckles grazing the warm skin of her stomach.
Sakshi let out a shaky breath, her head falling back as his lips found the sensitive hollow of her throat. "Ayush," she whispered, her fingers tangling deep into his hair, pulling him closer as if she couldn't get him near enough.
He pulled back just an inch, his gaze dropping to the palette sitting on the table beside her. A slow, wicked smirk spread across his face. He reached out, swirling his index finger into a dollop of deep, shimmering gold acrylic.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice breathless and thick with anticipation.
"Adding some highlights," he murmured.
With agonizing slowness, he traced a line of gold from the dip of her collarbone down toward the swell of her breast. The paint was cool against her skin, a sharp, electric contrast to the heat of his gaze. Sakshi gasped, her back arching instinctively. She grabbed a brush from the table, dipped it into the crimson on her palette, and painted a bold, messy stroke right across the front of his black t-shirt.
"If I'm the canvas," she challenged, her eyes flashing with a mix of mischief and desire, "then you’re the medium.
Ayush let out a low growl of a laugh, the sound vibrating against her chest as he surged forward to reclaim her mouth. The kiss was deeper now, tasting of salt and copper. He swept the remaining supplies off the table with a sudden, clattering motion, clearing a space for her.
He lifted her higher, his hands firm against her thighs, grounding her as the world outside faded into a blur of gray rain. Every touch felt like a shutter clicking—a moment frozen, intense and sharp.
"I've spent months trying to frame the perfect shot of you," he breathed against her skin, his hands undoing the rest of her buttons with a focused intensity. "But the camera doesn't capture the way you feel. It doesn't capture the heat."
Sakshi pulled his shirt over his head, her palms flat against his warm, solid chest. She could feel his heart racing—a frantic, rhythmic thud that matched her own. She leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear. "Then stop trying to document it, Ayush. Just feel it."
The storm outside roared, a flash of lightning illuminating the studio for a split second—capturing them like a strobe light:
* **The gold paint** glistening on her skin.
* **The crimson streaks** on his chest.
* **The tangled mess** of brushes and clothes on the floor.
In the ensuing darkness, the lines between the photographer and the artist blurred completely. There was no lens, no canvas, and no distance—only the raw, beautiful friction of two people finally creating something that couldn't be hung on a wall.
