His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers curling into the platinum strands at her nape. Not rough. Just... owning. He tugged, and her body followed without asking her permission first, chest pressing against the solid wall of him. She could feel the heat of him through his shirt, the hard ridge of muscle beneath cotton, and lower—the unmistakable weight of him against her hip.

"You've watched me work for three shoots," he murmured, his mouth at her ear, breath hot against the shell of it. "Now you're going to feel it."

Her breath caught. *Feel it.* Three shoots of watching his hands on other women, his cock buried in them while she adjusted the aperture and pretended her pulse wasn't hammering. She'd catalogued every flex of his back, every grunt, every time he flipped a girl over and made her scream. She'd told herself it was professional. She'd lied.

His other hand found her hip, fingers digging into the curve of her waist, and she felt the hard line of him through his jeans pressing against her belly. "Touch me, Scarlett," he said, and the command was low, unhurried. "Show me you're not just a pair of eyes behind a lens."

Her palm landed on his chest. The heat of him seared through his shirt, his heartbeat a steady drum under her fingers. She didn't pull away. Her fingers curled into the fabric, gripping, and she felt his breath hitch—just slightly, just enough to tell her she wasn't the only one hanging on the edge.

"That's it," he breathed. His hand left her neck, trailing down her spine, leaving a wake of goosebumps. "You've been hiding behind that camera so long I think you forgot you have a body." His fingers reached the small of her back, pressing her closer. "But I haven't forgotten. I've been watching you watch me, and I know exactly what you look like when you think no one's looking."

Her throat tightened. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you bite your lip when I take my shirt off. I know your hands shake when you zoom in on my face. I know you crossed your legs every time I got hard on set." His gray eyes pinned her. "I know you're wet right now, Scarlett. I can feel the heat coming off you."

She should deny it. Should push him away and grab the camera and retreat behind it where it was safe. But her body betrayed her, hips pressing into his, a small helpless sound escaping her throat. "What do you want from me?"

"Everything." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His hand slid lower, palm cupping her ass, squeezing, pulling her flush against the hard length of him. "I want to hear you say my name when you come. I want to see what you look like when you stop thinking and just feel. I want to take you apart piece by piece until there's nothing left but the part of you that's been staring at me for three shoots."

Her fingers tightened on his shirt. "And if I can't?"

His mouth found her ear again, teeth grazing the lobe. "Then I'll take you apart anyway." His hand slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, calloused fingers finding bare skin, and she felt the jolt of it straight between her thighs. "And you'll thank me for it."

She looked at him. At the gray eyes that had seen her, truly seen her, and hadn't looked away. At the mouth that promised things she'd only imagined in the dark of her own bedroom. And she made a choice.

"Then do it," she said, and her voice didn't shake. "Take me apart."

His smile was slow, predatory, and deeply satisfied. "Good girl."