Draw Me

A Bonus Scene from The Spark

I never planned to ask. But tonight, something in the air made me bolder.
The art space was dim, lit only by the floor lamp in the corner and the soft wash of amber light from the track lights above my canvas wall. The music Amir queued up thumped slow and sensual—an unreleased instrumental looped with bass so deep it reverberated in my chest, hummed in my ribs, and settled low in my belly.
I was barefoot, cross-legged on the stool, charcoal pencil in hand. My sketchpad rested in my lap, still blank.
He was across the room, scrolling through samples on his phone, wearing nothing but gray sweats slung low on his hips. His upper body was bare—tattoos inked deep into warm brown skin, his chain catching the light every time he moved.
He looked peaceful. Unbothered. And completely unaware that I was staring at him like he was something I needed to create.
“Amir.”
He glanced up. “Yeah?”
I swallowed, my voice softer now. “Let me sketch you.”
He smirked, slow. “You sketch me all the time.”
I shook my head. “Not like this.”
His eyes narrowed a little, the smirk deepening. “Like what?”
“Like…” I bit my lip. “Naked. Real. All of you.”
He stilled.
Not from discomfort—but that slow stillness that came when he was thinking, when something unexpected hit him in the chest and rooted there.
The track looped again. Bass pulsing through the floor, through the air, through me.
“You wanna draw me naked?” he asked, finally.
“I do.”
He tilted his head. “You sure you can handle that?”
I gave him a look. “Don’t test me, Barkley.”
His eyes dropped to my thighs—bare and folded, a thin robe draped loosely over me. Then back up to my mouth. My eyes. And I swear, he already knew.
Knew this wasn’t just about art.
It was about the way my hand ached to trace his lines. The way my breath caught every time I imagined the weight of his body still and waiting, not touching me, just letting me see him.
He stepped closer. Real slow. Then peeled off his sweats like he was shedding something heavier.
I didn’t look away.
Didn’t rush.
He stood before me, bare and unapologetic, that thick, beautiful length of him already full, already rising, already ready.
“Where you want me?” he asked.
My voice trembled. “The stool. Right under the light.”
He sat.
The way he spread his legs, arms resting on his thighs, body relaxed but eyes locked on me like he was watching me watch him—I could barely hold the pencil.
I started sketching. Lines. Shadows. The slope of his shoulder. The cut of his jaw. My gaze lingered on the stretch of his stomach, the soft, steady rise and fall of his breath, the quiet power in the way he waited.
The music didn’t let up—bass thick and constant, rolling through the space like breath.
I shifted on the stool.
His eyes followed the movement.
“You good over there?” he asked, voice lower now.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Liar.”
He leaned back, his dick resting heavy against his thigh now, thick and beautiful and so, so him. He watched me draw like he knew I wasn’t just sketching—I was remembering with every stroke. Every detail.
He moved again. Just slightly.
My breath hitched.
“Come here,” he murmured.
I set the sketchpad down, fingers trembling.
I stood, moved toward him, bare beneath the robe. He pulled me between his legs, hands sliding up the backs of my thighs, gripping gently.
“You wanted to draw me,” he said, voice a whisper. “But I think I’m the one drawing you right now.”
I bent to kiss him, slow. Deep. Let him taste the ache I’d been holding the whole time I’d been drawing him.
He stood, lifted me effortlessly, carried me to the oversized couch we’d shoved into the corner of the space. Laid me down like I was art too.
Then he knelt between my thighs and kissed me again—everywhere.
His mouth traced the path my fingers had imagined. Across my stomach. Up to my breasts. Around the soft underside, then over each nipple, until I was arching and moaning and forgetting why we ever started with charcoal and paper.
He hovered at my pussy, his fingers brushing against my slick folds.
“You were already wet when I was sitting still,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “What’s it gonna be like when I move?”
I whimpered. “Why don’t you find out?”
His mouth replaced his fingers. And what came next wasn’t about sketching. It was about remembering. About knowing each other.
The way his tongue moved, slow and deep, like the bassline itself had taken over his rhythm. The way I cried out, legs wrapped around his shoulders, hips lifting to meet every stroke. The way he whispered my name between breaths like I was his muse. His reason. His favorite line.
He slid into me slowly, and I gasped.
It was deep.
So deep.
And slow.
He moved inside me with the same intention I’d used sketching him—memorizing everything.
The sweat. The stretch. The ache.
The music filled the space, filled me, that bass still vibrating through my spine, through my bones, through my heart.
Our bodies moved together, timed to it.
He whispered, “I love you,” into my neck, into my mouth, into my soul.
And when I came, clenching around him, trembling beneath him, sobbing into his kiss, I knew.
This was going to stay with me. Long after the music stopped. Long after the sketch dried. Long after I found out what was growing inside of me… had started right here.

I hope you enjoyed this extra glimpse into Amaya & Amir.

If you haven’t already, please take the time to rate/review The Spark HERE.