Dominic sat in his studio, the air thick with the scent of paint and the quiet hum of his thoughts.
With deliberate strokes, he brought his brush to the canvas, each motion charged with the memory of her.
He never imagined how beautiful she would look up close.
A beauty so consuming it devoured his soul, gnawed at his flesh, and feasted on his mind like the first bite of forbidden fruit.
Hers was not the kind of beauty found in glossy magazines or plastered across billboards.
It wasn't radiant or exotic in the way the world might define it, it was simple. Profound. A beauty so real, it made his chest ache.
What others overlooked, blinded by the shallow gleam of fashion models and stereotypes, Dominic saw with vivid clarity.
If there were anyone who deserved the title of the most beautiful woman in the world, it was her.
She was perfection, not in the conventional sense, but in the way nature itself is perfect.
Every angle, every feature, every flaw seemed divinely orchestrated.
Her eyes were as captivating as the sun rising in the east, casting its golden glow across the west.
He painted them from memory, painstakingly recreating their depth and warmth, every brushstroke an act of reverence.
Her skin, soft and unblemished, sparkled in his mind like the dust of a million stars scattered across a velvet sky.
He spent hours on those stars, each one a testament to her allure.
Even in her modest attire, her body stirred something primal within him.
Fully covered, she ignited a fire in his imagination that was wild and languid, a sensual heat that no other woman had ever inspired.
It wasn't lust born of shallow allure or superficial charm.
No, it was something deeper. Something raw. Something uniquely hers.
He thought of the way she ate the banana, her lips parting as she wrapped them around the length, her tongue swirling with deliberate pleasure.
The memory made him hard, the ache intensifying as he envisioned her taking him in the same way.
Her lips, full and pink, moving over him with the same enthusiasm, the same eagerness.
He imagined her tongue gliding against his sensitive flesh, her eyes closing in pleasure before opening again to meet his gaze, her expression heavy with desire.
The thought of her swallowing him whole, taking him deep until he touched the back of her throat, was maddening.
It was all there, hidden in the art. The hills he painted in the sky, subtle yet unmistakable, reflected the curve of her lips, the arch of her body, the beauty of her surrender.
Only someone truly in tune with their craft would see the eroticism woven into the strokes, the sensuality embedded in the lines.
And then there was her rejection. The way she'd said no sent a thrill through him.
Goodness, rejection had never felt so sweet. What was the excitement of desire if not the chase?
The thrill of pursuing her, of winning her, of claiming not just her body but her very soul.
He imagined painting her in the breaking dawn, her body wrapped around his, her cries of pleasure mingling with the rising sun.
Her skin glowing as he took her, both of them bathed in the light of morning.
It was art. It was poetry. And it was her.