SM owns.

Mari and Sunflower Fanfiction, thank you so much.

Gingerandgreen, your feedback makes my heart swell.

LittleGreyAche | Yellowglue thank you for the inspiration and the support.

Stripped Desire – Chapter 2: Red

"If nothing is ventured, nothing is gained."

Sir John Heywood. ~

Who would've thought that four short words could mess with someone's sanity?

I can't sleep.

I can't concentrate.

I close my eyes and see his stupid fingers running up and down that damn bottle. I breathe and see green. It's pathetic.

Let me paint you.

I've seen his portraits at the gallery.

All nudes.

I'm appalled he thought it was okay to just ask. So casual, like it's no big deal. As though with those four words he would have me naked in front of him in a second.

And yet...

My brain has been torturing me with the thought. My heart has accelerated each time I think of the possibilities.

How would it feel?

What would it be like?

I've seen him on the subway, every day, for an entire week since then. He's back to staring without talking. But he doesn't need to talk. His eyes are eloquent. Inside my bundle of clothes, I feel unsafe and unsure. As if he's already seen me naked.

"Let me paint you," he says two weeks after that conversation. It's also his way of greeting after two weeks of watching me while I was pretending to ignore him.

"No," I say stepping farther away from him. He searches my eyes, a frown on his face, his teeth biting his bottom lip. He doesn't say anything else until a week later when the conversation goes pretty much in the same way.

I'm losing my mind, and Edward Cullen is to blame. He's messing with my head, all that staring, all that silence, and that aura of mystery that surrounds him.

All that green.

I've thought of nothing else for days that drag on and on and on. It's doesn't matter how much work I cram into a day, there's always space left to think about his proposal–about him.

And the nights…

The nights are unbidden time programmed for a sleep that doesn't come. The illusion of safety brought by darkness gives my body free rein to imagine, to yearn and ask and plead for something that I can't have.

Something that I can't understand.

I come with the whisper of his voice and the green of his eyes as he taunts and stares.

It has become a regular occurrence.

"God, it felt so… liberating," a redhead's voice reaches me as I sip a glass of wine at the gallery. She's all tough edges and showing skin with her leather clothes and pierced ears. I'm lurking around on a corner, trying to stay away from Edward. Coming to this place feels like a lamb walking into a lion's cave, but I couldn't come up with an excuse.

Both Alice and Jasper want me here, so here I am.

"That's what they all say," Edward's confident voice answers. There's a hint of teasing in his tone, as if he's talking to someone he trusts. For some reason, I'm put off by it. I'm used to the commanding and condescending tone he uses with me, and to the staring from who has become my personal spy.

They laugh and talk for most of the night, touching each other constantly.

I ignore them.

Kind of.

Since Jasper's not playing tonight, Alice gets to spend some time with me. Although, not really. I'm introduced to a few people—a few men who keep me occupied while she's pretending to be busy.

She thinks she's sneaky.

But I won't reprimand her for it.

Tonight, I find myself trying. I pay attention to what they say. I laugh at their jokes if I find them funny. I make eye contact and seem interested. I play my part because God knows I've had practice at it. And I wonder how much this has to do with something else that I won't admit to myself.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Edward and the redhead. She's smiling at something he said, her face filled with adoration. And he's, well, he's watching me, arching an eyebrow at my company.

The guy, who's been talking about cars for fifteen minutes, notices my distraction and turns to look.

"Ah, the artist and the model," he says, and I look at him startled.

"The model?"

"Yes, the redhead—Victoria," he says. "She's the model for those portraits." He indicates a wall where said paintings are. "I guess it's hard to recognize her out of those frames, isn't it? Mr. Cullen has a way of making things look different on his canvas. I guess that's what one would call talent." He laughs at his lame joke.

In the meantime, I try to control the gaping of my mouth. I look around, seeing beautiful skin portrayed under soft lights. The few inches of paper allow gentle brushstrokes that are captivating. Her mane of untamed red hair, unfocused but there, makes the connection. That girl is the model, and yet she looks so different, so innocent and feminine.

How did I miss it before?

My world is spinning on its axis because I feel like a fool.

I feel lost and out of the loop, as if everyone knows a secret I don't.

I can't make sense of what's going on around me anymore because I've been living inside myself for far too long.

This stranger with his green eyes, his confident stride and his everything else came into my life, uttered those four words, stared at me in that unforgiving way, and nothing has felt the same.

I haven't felt like myself.

The innocent words spoken by the dull guy repeat themselves inside my head.

"Mr. Cullen has a way of making things look different on his canvas."

The already-there curiosity bursts from under the pit of my being and rises to the surface. I wonder and wonder and wonder…

How would I look imprinted on one of those canvases?

The art gallery is still spinning as my brain tries its hardest to make sense of how I'm feeling. There, at the end of the room, the starting point where everything else revolves, is him. With his piercing eyes, he looks at me and mouths the words that have been driving me crazy all along.

Let me paint you.

I wait on the sidewalk, having said goodbye to Alice and Jasper hours ago. Edward's still inside, but the redhead is long gone. So seems to be everyone else.

I managed to get out of giving my number to the car-talking guy with one of my favorites excuses.

I just got out of a relationship. I'm not ready, yet. I'm sorry.

Nobody ever bothers to ask for more. Nobody needs to know that the last serious relationship I had was two years ago. Nobody needs to know that the rare attempts at another one always end the same way.

You work too much.

You never have time for me.

You're a frigid, stuck up bitch.

My personal favorite, that last one, uttered by a moron who was never able to make me come, and of course placed the blame on me.

But it had all been okay because I had come to terms with it all.

Love is an illusion, a pretty picture that doesn't exist. It's all I've ever seen in my life.

Convenience is real, and plans are safe. When the time comes, I will find the most convenient outcome for me, and I will create a plan to make it work, to make it last. Just like my grandparents. Just like my parents.

But the time hasn't come and so I'm still left open to possibilities. God knows how much I think about those.

"Isabella," he says, closing and locking the door behind him. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to get some comfort out of my grey coat.

"Edward," I whisper, trembling as the wind blows, cold and hard.

"Did you wait for me?" he asks, putting on a heavy jacket. It's the first winter-appropriate piece of clothing I've ever seen on him. I nod, hiding my eyes from his, unable to lie.

"Well, then?" he presses, walking closer to where I stand. I stay quiet, not sure of what I'm doing, staring at his face. He looks amused, but eager, waiting for me to say what I have to say.

He takes another step toward me, and I gasp, feeling caged and hunted once more. We do nothing for a few seconds until he reaches up to move away a lock of hair out of my face.

The trail of heat his touch leaves on my skin is enough to both snap me out of my haze and pull me deeper into this hole.

"Are you going to let me paint you?" he asks when he sees whatever reaction I couldn't hide written on my face.

My heart races at his proximity, at the ghost of his touch, at the possibilities as my lips answer him.

The certainty of my voice surprises us both.

"Yes."

A.N: I'm so happy you're all liking it. Thank you for reading.

I hope you keep enjoying it.

See you next week.