The studio lights were dimmed just enough to cast a sultry glow, the only brightness coming from the shimmer of the pool lights nearby and the camera flashes that snapped in sharp bursts. Music played softly in the background—something jazzy and slow, full of confidence and temptation.

You lay on your back across the velvet of the billiard table, one knee slightly bent, back arched perfectly to emphasize the line of your body. The cue ball rested by your hip, an almost symbolic placeholder for trouble. The photographer called for stillness, but it was hard to stay calm when Scaramouche leaned over you like that.

He moved like a slow exhale, every motion deliberate. His lithe figure eclipsed the overhead light, casting a shadow across your torso. The cue stick balanced lightly in his hands, one end pressed against the table near your shoulder, the other trailing along the curve of your thigh—not quite touching, but close enough that the tension was electric.

His face was unreadable, as always. That porcelain-perfect mask of indifference. But you knew him better than the rest of the world. You saw the faint twitch of a smirk at the corner of his lips when your breath hitched. You saw the flicker of amusement in his violet-blue eyes when you dared to meet his gaze.

“Hold that arch,” the photographer murmured. “That’s it. Beautiful. Scara, lean in closer.”

He did.

Now his face hovered mere inches from yours, his breath ghosting across your cheek, smelling faintly of mint and something darker—musk, maybe cologne, maybe just him. His hair fell forward slightly, brushing your forehead. The click of the camera shutter was drowned out by the sudden thump of your heartbeat.

“You’re going to make me miss my shot,” he murmured lowly, the words not meant for the camera, but for you.

You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Maybe I want you to.”

Another click. The photographer shouted something about “chemistry” and “absolute fire,” but it all faded into the buzz building between your bodies.

It wasn’t the first shoot you’d done together—far from it. You two were infamous in the industry: paired for high fashion spreads, perfume campaigns, editorial sets dripping in tension and elegance. But today felt different. More personal. Less performance.

His hand slid closer to your hip, thumb brushing barely against the edge of your waistband. A touch the camera couldn’t quite capture, but you felt it down to your bones.

The shoot went on, but the moment stayed.

Afterwards, when the lights dimmed and the camera was packed away, you caught him glancing at you. His tone was casual, as if he wasn’t leaning over you five minutes ago like a scene from a dream.

“Dinner?” he asked, twirling the cue stick like a lazy afterthought.

You raised a brow. “Are you asking because you’re hungry, or because you’re curious about what happens when the cameras are off?”

That smirk finally bloomed in full. “Both.”

And just like that, the line between posing and reality blurred. Again.