His hand slid from the back of her neck down her spine, each vertebra a small surrender beneath his palm, and the pressure was gentle but absolute—a question that wasn't asking. Scarlett's knees buckled before she'd decided to move, the cool concrete of the set biting through her skin as she went down. The work light caught the flex of his thighs as he shrugged off the robe, and the fabric whispered to the floor like a held breath finally released. He stood before her, hard and waiting, and the sight of him—all olive skin and cut muscle, his cock jutting thick and heavy between them—made her mouth go dry.

"It's in the script," Dominic said, loud enough for the crew to hear, and his thumb found her lower lip, pressing just enough to part them. "Show them how grateful you are."

Grateful. The word sat in her chest like a coal, burning and bright. She'd spent three shoots cataloguing him through her lens—the way his back muscles shifted when he thrust, the corded tension in his neck when he came—but this was different. This was him looking down at her with those cold gray eyes, watching her kneel, and she realized with a jolt that she wanted him to see her like this. Wanted him to see what he did to her.

Her hands rose to his hips, trembling, and she felt the heat of his skin before she touched it—radiating off him like a furnace. The camera's red light blinked steady somewhere behind her, and she could hear the soft whir of the lens refocusing, the crew's collective held breath filling the room like static. She leaned in, her lips brushing the head of his cock, and the taste of him—salt and musk and something darker—flooded her senses.

"That's it," Dominic breathed, his hand finding her hair, fisting the platinum strands with just enough pressure to guide. "Open your mouth. Take me like you've been wanting to since the first time you pointed that camera at me."

Scarlett opened. The stretch of her jaw was a shock, a burn, and she took him inch by inch, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside, feeling his pulse against her lips. He was thick, heavier than she'd imagined, and the weight of him on her tongue made her moan—a low, helpless sound that vibrated through him. His hand tightened in her hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring her in place.

"Look at me," he commanded, and she did, her blue eyes rising to meet his gray ones as she took him deeper. The sight of her—platinum hair fisted in his hand, lips stretched around his cock, kneeling on the cold set floor—was a portrait she'd never have dared to frame. "Tell me you want it."

She pulled back just enough to speak, spit slicking her lips, her voice raw. "I want it."

"Want what?" His thumb brushed her cheek, almost tender, but his eyes were merciless.

"Your cock in my mouth." The words came out broken, desperate, and she didn't recognize her own voice. "I want to taste you. I want—"

"Good girl." The praise hit her like a slap, and she felt herself clench, her thighs pressing together, the dampness in her lace panties turning slick. He guided her back down, slow, letting her feel every inch as she took him to the root. Her nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base, and she breathed him in, held there, full and aching, while the camera whirred and the crew watched and Dominic looked down at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

The red light blinked steady. The work light cast her shadow long across the floor. And Scarlett stayed exactly where he'd put her, on her knees, his cock buried in her throat, grateful in a way she'd never known how to be.

Scarlett's hands found his chest before she'd fully decided to move—the heat of him searing her palms through the thin film of sweat that sheened his skin. She pushed, and Dominic went back with a grunt of surprise, his ass hitting the stool with a solid thud that echoed through the silent set. The shift was so sudden, so complete, that for a moment he just stared up at her, those cold gray eyes wide with something she'd never seen in them before.

"What are you—" he started, but she was already moving, climbing onto his lap in one fluid motion, her knees bracketing his hips as she settled over him. The lace of her panties dragged against the hard length of his cock, slick with the wetness that had been pooling between her thighs since the first taste of him. She felt him twitch beneath her, and a grin spread across her face, slow and sharp.

"You've had your fun," she said, her voice low, almost teasing. "Now it's my turn."

Dominic's hands found her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, but he didn't push her off. He didn't try to flip them. He just watched her, his jaw tight, his chest heaving, and she saw the flicker in his eyes—not anger, not resistance, but something rawer. Hunger. Curiosity. The predator suddenly unsure if he was the one being hunted.

"You think you can handle this?" he asked, his voice rougher than she'd ever heard it. "You think you can take what you want from me?"

"I've been watching you for three shoots," she said, rolling her hips against him, feeling the heat of his cock slide along her soaked lace. "I know exactly what you like."

His breath caught. She felt it in the way his fingers dug into her hips, the way his cock jumped against her. The crew was silent behind them, but she could feel their eyes, the weight of their watching, and it only made her bolder. She reached down, hooked her fingers under the waistband of her panties, and pulled them aside.

"And I know what I like," she finished, and she sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.

The stretch was a shock—he was thicker than she'd imagined from the feel of him in her mouth, and the fullness of him inside her made her gasp, her nails digging into his shoulders as she took him to the root. For a long moment, neither of them moved. She just sat there, impaled on him, feeling every inch of him pulsing inside her, and she watched the way his eyes rolled back, the way his head fell against the stool's backrest.

"Fuck," he breathed, and the word came out like a prayer.

She started to move. Slow at first, a lazy roll of her hips that dragged her wet heat along his length, and she watched his face as she did it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands tightened on her hips, the way his chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. He was used to being in control, she knew. Used to commanding, to taking. But now she was the one setting the pace, and the look on his face was worth every second of kneeling.

"That's it," she murmured, her voice dropping to match his. "Just let me take what I want."