"Paint you?" He gestured around his studio. "All I do is paint you. Dozens of portraits and sketches. There's nothing left to capture!"
"No, silly." She climbed onto his model's stool, her back facing him. Her dressing gown made a faint whispering sound as she let it fall to the floor, exposing her smooth, pale skin. "I want you to paint on me. Use me as your canvas."
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Something about the texture of her skin, the way the muscles played across her back as she breathed and spoke, he could almost see the painting underneath. Almost without realising it, he had picked up his palette and brush.
"Stay still," he commanded.
"It's beautiful," she said. It was late, very late. They were both tired, but somehow exhilarated at the same time. "I've never seen anything like it."
"It's my masterpiece," he said with a weary sigh. "I don't know if I'll ever paint anything like it again."
"Better get your camera," she told him. "You'll want plenty of pictures before it comes off."
"Comes off?" He looked up, panic entering his voice. "But, it's my masterpiece. It can't come off. All that work... you mustn't!"
She laughed at him, a light and teasing sound. "Of course it has to come off, my love. I can't possibly go without washing for the rest of my life." Leaning over him, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Take your photographs and then let's make love on your masterpiece."
His hand tightened on the paintbrush he was still holding. "I can't," he said. "It is too beautiful to destroy."
The paintbrush jabbed forward, the handle sinking deep into her eye socket.
Note: Caught up again at last! Bwahaha!