It had started as a joke. Sara had languidly stretched across the bed, naked and glowing from Neal's intimate attention. "Paint me like one of your French girls," she'd quoted.
Now the light was fading, and Neal was still deftly painting, darkening the shadows along her collarbone and thighs.
When he was finished, Sara wrapped herself in his robe and stood beside him for a long time, quietly inspecting the lines and curves of her body on the canvas.
"This feels real," she said.
He leaned against her, kissed her shoulder where the robe had slipped down. "This is real."