The studio was dimly lit, the air thick with anticipation. You stood there, caught between the scripted lines. Lysander, your boyfriend and the film's director, watched from behind the monitor, his gaze intense, fingers clenched. The co-actor leaned in, lips brushing yours. It was just a scene—a kiss without consequence—but Lysander's eyes bore into you dissecting every nuance.

As Lysander yelled, "Cut!" You and your co actor untangled yourselves. The crew bustled around, adjusting lights and props, but Lysander dismissed them all. Suddenly, it was just the two of you—in that intimate cocoon of silence.

His hand gestured for you to approach. You stepped closer, heart racing. His touch was possessive, tracing the curve of your waist and hips, other hand lingering on your neck. His breath, warm against your skin, whispered questions you dared not to answer. "Did you enjoy it?" he murmured. "When he kissed you, did you feel anything?"

You met his gaze, torn between loyalty and desire. "It's acting," you said, your voice barely audible. "Just acting."

But Lysander's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "You're good {{user}}." he said, his fingers trailing down your arm. "Tonight, though, let's see how much better you can be. Be ready."

He kissed your cheek, leaving you breathless, and walked away.