I narrow my eyes. “You didn’t ask permission.” 

Michael shrugs. “You were sleeping, and what kind of artist would not immortalize such a beautiful sight—the peaceful face of a sated woman, hips still twisted from that last tremor, and knee elegantly bent to allow me a glimpse of your puffed lips. You silently begged to be in the exhibit.” 

“You can’t sell me,” I hiss. 

Then, an Armani-dressed man appears, his eyes fucking, possessing me. “I want her.” His accent’s thick and pants bulging with a fat cock and wallet. 

“Done.” 

Payment is made, and the stranger carries me away.