DOMINIC: CHAPTER 2

The gallery was a cathedral of admiration. Beneath the glow of golden lights, Dominic Moreau's works stood like sacred relics, commanding reverence from the throngs of admirers.

People wandered as though treading on hallowed ground, their hushed voices blending with the faint clink of champagne glasses.

His pieces sold for millions tonight, snapped up by the wealthy and powerful. Yet from the wrought-iron balcony above, Dominic watched with an air of disinterest, his lean frame draped against the railing like an indifferent god surveying worshippers.

It was just money.

The joy and excitement radiating from the crowd was a foreign language to him.

Where they saw brilliance, he felt nothing but emptiness.

Inside, the fire that had once burned so fiercely had been reduced to cold ash.

Yesterday, in the solitude of his private studio, a model had arrived.

She was Venus personified, her body a masterpiece of curves and shadows.

Her bosom swelled like ripe fruit, her flowers framed by the golden softness of fine hairs.

The gentle curve of her belly added to her allure, and her mane of dark hair tumbled over her shoulders like a cascade of ink against alabaster skin.

He had instructed her with mechanical precision, his voice detached. "Get on all fours."

She complied, her spine arching like a bowstring, her body an offering to the artist's gaze.

Her pink wetness glistened, soft and inviting under the dim studio lights. The sex in all its beauty.

But it did nothing for him.

Not a flicker of inspiration, not a stir of desire.

His brush remained untouched, his cock unresponsive, as lifeless as the silence in the room.

Even when he commanded her to grope her own ample breasts, kneading them in slow, deliberate circles, he felt no spark.

He sighed heavily, packed away his paints, and tossed her a check with all the ceremony of discarding an old receipt.

She left without a word, her heels echoing on the hardwood floor, the door clicking shut behind her.

Now, as the night outside grew colder and the gallery's festivities wound down, Dominic felt no different.

The wind howled beyond the grand windows, rattling them in their frames. Somewhere below, Madeline glided through the crowd like a silver blade, her shimmering dress clinging to her muscular frame.

Madeline, his secretary, was a beauty of sharp edges and polished professionalism.

She approached him with her usual air of efficiency, though tonight her mask of control slipped slightly.

"I think I should retire," Dominic said, his deep French accent laced with an unsettling calm.

Madeline halted, her silver heels clicking on the polished floor. "No, you possibly cannot."

"I have no vision anymore," he said flatly. "An artist without a vision is a dead man. Prepare for my funeral, for I must fake my death and go into retirement."

Her jaw tightened, and she launched into a string of hollow reassurances, her voice rising in urgency.

But Dominic barely heard her. He knew the truth as well as she did, Madeline's concern wasn't for him but for the wealth his genius brought her.

Six years ago, she'd resorted to drastic measures to reignite his spark.

She had climbed into his lap in his darkest hours, her thick buttocks pressing against his crotch, riding him with shameless fervor until, by some miracle, he found the light again.

For two years, it worked.

But now, at forty, even that had failed. The innocence, the vitality, the raw power of youth, gone. The world felt stale to him, bereft of the magic it once held.

The fascination of sex had vanished.

The grand doors of the gallery slid open, letting in a gust of cold wind.

A sweet, melodic laugh drifted in, so soft and pure it sent a shiver down his spine.

Dominic froze, his dark eyes narrowing as the sound washed over him like a forgotten memory.

Her voice followed, delicate and lilting, a bird's song woven into the hum of the evening.

He whipped his head around, ignoring Madeline's incessant prattling.

And then he saw her, or rather, the faintest glimpse of her.

The door shut behind her just as quickly, but her silhouette lingered in his mind.

She had been no more than a shadow against the light, her back straight, her figure obscured but unmistakably feminine.

For the first time in years, something stirred within him.

"What is it?" Madeline demanded, her tone sharp.

Dominic said nothing. His lips parted slightly, his chest tightening as the faint echo of her laughter danced in his ears.

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he felt alive.