Objectify Me

She can't stand self-obsessed men. She especially can't stand self-obsessed male artists who walk around like they're Michelangelo reincarnated.

And yet.

There is something about him. Something about his nude paintings that doesn't sit right — or rather, sits too right, uncomfortably right, in a way she wasn't expecting and can't quite dismiss. His objectification of women is complicated. Layered. And before she knows what's happening, she's wondering what it would feel like to be on the other side of that gaze.

To be painted by him. To feel his eyes moving slowly, deliberately up and down her naked body, trying to capture the structure of her skin. To be seen that completely by someone who looks that carefully.

A quietly devastating enemies to lovers confession about desire arriving in exactly the form you least expected it — through someone you were absolutely certain you couldn't stand.