Paint me like one of your french girls

You find yourself staring at a petite figure stretched across the chaise, daring you to memorize every curve before they disappear.

You notice the way the light catches the soft hollow of a collarbone, the slight rise of a hip angled just enough to make your breath catch. You want to reach out and trace what your eyes keep returning to.

You are the artist here, but you are clearly the one undone. You feel the heat of wanting something you were only supposed to observe. You were never meant to just look.