Lena couldn’t stop herself. After her second session with Damien, she found her thoughts circling around him like moths around a flame. His words, his stillness, the way his eyes pinned her down even when his hands never touched, everything lingered long after she left the studio.
That night, lying in bed, she gave in to a temptation she hadn’t even realized had been growing inside her. She opened her laptop and typed his name into the search bar again. Damien Cross. A simple name, but behind it unfolded a flood of work that hit her like a storm, like it was a new piece online.
One painting after another filled her screen. His portfolio wasn’t polished or staged for attention, it was raw, alive, breathing with something primal. The brushstrokes seemed to claw at the edges of the canvas,
