The lights were brutal—hot, bright, exposing. But not even the sharp white blaze of the studio could outshine the tension curling between them.

Simon Riley sat on the edge of the low riser, clad only in black Calvin Klein boxers that hugged every defined inch of his thighs and hips. His fists rested loose on either side of him, taped not for a fight—but out of habit. The bruises on his knuckles were real, fresh from a title defense three nights ago. Still healing. Still raw. Just like the way he was looking at her.

{{user}} stepped into the light like it belonged to her. The black lace of her Calvin set caught every flicker of flash, delicate and dangerous. The bra curved soft around her chest, and the matching underwear hugged her hips like a whisper that lingered too long.

She was the campaign’s headline face. The fantasy. But Simon? He was the danger tucked beneath it.

She moved slowly between his spread legs, heels clicking against the platform until she stood over him. Head tilted down, lips parted, one brow raised in challenge.

“You nervous, champ?”

Simon didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The way his eyes raked over her body said more than words ever could—slow and dark and heavy with the weight of every unsaid thought. His jaw clenched. His tongue flicked over his bottom lip.

Then his hands found her.

One slid up the back of her thigh, stopping just short of the curve of her ass. The other smoothed over her side, fingers splayed wide as he traced the soft dip of her waist, brushing lace and skin and heat.

She shivered, but held her composure. Barely.

“Is this part of the pose?” she asked, breath catching slightly as he dragged his hand higher, resting it just under the wire of her bra.

He looked up at her from beneath thick lashes, a smirk ghosting across his lips. “I told you I don’t model. You want me here, I do it my way.”

Her laugh was breathless, quiet. God, she loved him like this—half-wild, unscripted, heat simmering just under the surface.

She tilted her head, let her fingers slide through his short-cropped hair, tugging just enough to make him growl. “You know how much this’ll break the internet, right?”

Simon’s grip tightened just a little, enough for her to feel the strength in those hands. “Let it break.”

Cameras clicked. One of the stylists whispered something about angles, but the crew had already gone silent. No one dared interrupt them now.

Simon’s eyes stayed locked on hers. “You wear this for the world,” he said, voice low and rough, “but I know it’s mine. Every inch.”

She knelt slightly, fingers slipping to his shoulders, her forehead brushing his. Their breaths mingled. Her lips barely grazed his.

“This shoot’s gonna be in stores across the globe,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said, thumb dragging slow along her hipbone. “Let the world see how lucky I am.”

And just for a moment, everything else vanished—the lights, the lens, the onlookers. It was just the boxer and his wife. Power meeting grace. Lust braided with love.

And beneath it all, the heat of something hungry, something aching—waiting for the shoot to end.