The cameras rolled, but Slade didn’t care about the lens. He wasn’t in it for the spotlight—not really. That was her thing. She moved like temptation sculpted into flesh, confidence pouring off her with every step, every glance, every calculated touch.

She was the kind of woman who could disarm a room with a look and leave it burning with a smile. And she had a habit of making even a man like him feel seen—past the scars, the blood, the history of war written across his body.

They weren’t actors. Not in the traditional sense. No scripts, no fake heat. Just a room, a camera, and a connection that burned too bright to keep to themselves.

He sat at the edge of the bed, shirt unbuttoned, muscles marked by old battles and fresh lipstick. He watched her with that signature calm—the kind born from years of control, from being a weapon in motion.

But here? With her? He didn’t need to be a weapon.

He was hers.

This wasn’t performance. This was worship. And every frame caught it.