Chapter 6
six
. . .
The grandfather clock in Dominic's study chimes eleven, each resonant tone marking another hour I've spent surrounded by books and printouts spread across his massive desk.
What began as a simple review of art references for the final commission piece has evolved into an impromptu master class in art history, with Dominic pulling volume after leather-bound volume from his extensive library.
"Context matters," he'd said when I arrived at seven, ostensibly for a brief consultation.
"Your work exists in conversation with everything that came before it.
" Now, four hours later, my shoes kicked off under the desk and my carefully maintained professional distance eroding with each passing minute, I'm acutely aware that this evening has shifted into something beyond education.
Dominic stands at the bookshelf across the room, his suit jacket long discarded, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with lean muscle.
His tie hangs loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone—small concessions to comfort that somehow make him more rather than less imposing.
In the two months I've lived at his estate, I've never seen him so casually disheveled, and the sight stirs something low in my belly.
"This one," he says, pulling another massive art folio from a high shelf. "Sixteenth-century Dutch masters—study how they layered light."
He returns to the desk, not to his side but to mine, setting the book between us and leaning in close enough that his scent—bergamot, cedar, and something uniquely him—envelops me. I inhale involuntarily, then try to disguise it as a yawn.
"Tired?" he asks, those penetrating eyes missing nothing.
"No, just—" I gesture at the sprawl of reference materials. "Processing. It's a lot to absorb."
His mouth curves slightly. "You have a remarkable capacity for absorption."
The compliment shouldn't heat my cheeks, but it does. Two months of his measured praise have conditioned me to crave his approval like a drug, each dose more potent than the last.
He reaches across me to turn a page, his arm brushing mine.
The contact, brief and ostensibly innocent, sends electricity racing up my skin.
I've been careful since that touch at the gallery three weeks ago—maintaining physical distance, reminding myself constantly of our professional relationship—but tonight, in the intimate confines of his study with the rest of the world held at bay by darkness and heavy doors, my defenses feel paper-thin.
"Look at the brushwork here," he says, pointing to a detail in a Dutch landscape. His finger traces the subtle gradations of light, and I find myself watching his hand rather than the painting—the elegant length of his fingers, the controlled strength evident in every movement.
"The artist understood that revelation requires restraint," he continues, voice dropping lower, as if sharing a secret. "Too much too soon, and the viewer becomes overwhelmed. The mind shuts down."
Is he still talking about painting? His proximity makes it hard to think clearly, to maintain the professional focus I've clung to like a lifeline these past weeks.
"Sometimes overwhelm is the point," I counter, surprising myself with my boldness. "Art should disrupt comfortable patterns of thought."
He turns slightly, regarding me with new interest. We're close enough that I can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the almost imperceptible flecks of silver in his dark hair. "You prefer disruption to seduction?"
My mouth goes dry. "I think they can be the same thing."
Something flares in his eyes—a banked fire suddenly given oxygen. "Indeed."
The grandfather clock ticks into the silence that follows, each second stretching elastic with possibility. I should look away, should redirect to safer territory, but I remain caught in his gaze like an insect in amber.
He straightens, creating distance, and the spell breaks momentarily. I exhale shakily, reaching for my water glass with fingers that aren't quite steady.
"The hours have gotten away from us," he observes, glancing at the clock. "You must be hungry."
As if summoned by his awareness, my stomach gives a traitorous growl. I laugh, embarrassed. "I guess I am."
"Come." He moves to an intercom on the wall, pressing a button. "Mrs. Winters? Could you arrange for a light supper in my study? And perhaps a bottle of the Bordeaux from the '95 vintage."
His consideration should feel purely hospitable, but something in his deliberate choices—private dining rather than suggesting we move to the kitchen, wine rather than something less intimate—hints at calculation beneath courtesy.
While we wait for the food, he guides me to the seating area near the fireplace where flames dance behind a glass screen. I sink into a leather armchair, grateful for the respite from his immediate proximity.
"Your work on the commission has exceeded my expectations," he says, taking the chair opposite mine. "The interplay of control and wildness in the third piece, particularly. You've captured something... essential."
His praise warms me more than the fire. "It's coming more naturally now. I think I'm beginning to understand what you want."
His eyes lock onto mine. "Are you?" The question carries weight beyond its simplicity.
Before I can formulate a response, a discreet knock announces our supper.
Staff enter with quiet efficiency, setting up a small table between our chairs, laying out crusty bread, cheese, fruit, and cold meats.
The wine is presented to Dominic for approval before being poured into crystal glasses that catch the firelight.
When we're alone again, the atmosphere shifts—the presence of food and wine transforming our late-night work session into something that feels dangerously like a date. I take a sip of the Bordeaux, letting its complex richness coat my tongue.
"What do you think?" Dominic asks, watching me over the rim of his glass.
"It's beautiful," I admit. "Layered. Surprising."
"Like good art," he says with approval. "Like you."
The compliment lands like a physical touch. I busy myself with assembling a small plate, needing activity to mask my reaction.
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the crackling fire and ticking clock providing gentle background rhythm. Dominic watches me with unabashed interest as I sample the cheeses, his attention making each bite feel like a performance.
"You forget yourself when you're experiencing pleasure," he observes. "The careful barriers come down."
I nearly choke on a grape. "Excuse me?"
"When you taste something exquisite. When you lose yourself in painting. When you're moved by beauty." His voice drops lower. "You become transparent. Authentic. It's... compelling."
The word hangs in the air between us, charged with unspoken meaning. I set down my glass, suddenly feeling the need for a clear head.
"I should probably go," I say, though every cell in my body protests the idea. "It's late, and I want to start on the final piece tomorrow."
I move to stand, but Dominic raises a hand—not touching me, but the gesture itself commanding enough to halt my movement.
"Stay," he says. Not a request. Not quite an order. Something in between that leaves room for refusal while making it nearly impossible to choose.
I sink back into my chair, heart pounding against my ribs. "I think we've covered all the references I need for the final piece."
"This isn't about references anymore, Wren." He sets his glass aside and leans forward, elbows on his knees, closing the distance between us. "I think we both know that."
The direct acknowledgment of the tension that's been building for weeks leaves me speechless. I've been so careful to maintain the fiction of our professional relationship, to pretend that the electricity between us is merely my imagination or one-sided attraction.
"I don't..." I begin, but the lie withers under his steady gaze.
"Don't insult either of us by pretending," he says, his voice gentle despite the commanding words. "I've respected your boundaries. I've moved slowly. But my patience has limits."
He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, powerful and graceful as a predator. I should feel threatened, but instead, a treacherous heat blooms between my thighs. He extends a hand to me, an invitation that feels monumental.
"Come here," he says softly.
My body responds before my mind decides, hand sliding into his, allowing him to draw me to my feet.
We stand close—so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the pulse beating steadily at the base of his throat.
His eyes hold mine, searching for resistance or fear.
Finding none, his free hand rises to cup my face, thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone.
"I've wanted to touch you like this since the moment I saw you," he confesses, voice rough with restraint. "Standing alone at that auction, seeing everything that others missed."
My skin burns beneath his palm, leaning into his touch like a flower seeking sunlight. "This is a bad idea," I whisper, even as my body betrays my words.
"Is it?" His thumb traces the outline of my lower lip, sending shivers cascading down my spine. "Or is it simply inevitable?"
He draws me closer, his other hand releasing mine to slide around my waist. Our bodies align, his solid warmth against my softer curves.
I should push away, maintain professional distance, protect the commission that represents my big break in the art world.
Instead, my hands rise of their own accord to rest against his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath expensive fabric.
"Tell me to stop," he challenges, his mouth hovering inches from mine, "and I will."