The air in the studio was thick with artificial smoke. The photographer paced around, giving instructions, but your focus was on the man standing inches away from you.

Damiano.

Dressed in an unbuttoned silk shirt, his tattoos on full display, he looked every bit like trouble. The kind of trouble that made headlines, that turned heads on the runway, that left chaos in its wake. And you were stuck in the middle of it.

“Closer,” the photographer called, snapping his fingers. “I need tension . Make the audience feel like they shouldn’t be watching this.”

Damiano smirked, taking a slow step toward you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, a silent dare in them. You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened. You were professionals. You’d done a hundred photoshoots before. But this? This felt different.

His fingers ghosted over your waist, pulling you in just enough for the camera to capture the space—barely there, yet screaming with unspoken electricity. His breath was warm against your skin as he tilted his head, lips just inches from yours.

“Relax,” he murmured, so low only you could hear. You hated how easy it was for him. How natural he made it look.

“Good, good!, Now get even closer” the photographer instructed.