The studio lights were merciless—harsh, sterile beams that spotlighted every dip and rise of Logan’s sculpted torso. The black backdrop behind him screamed intimacy, sensuality, danger. Just like him. He stood in nothing but a tight pair of Calvin Klein boxer-briefs, dog tags hanging over his chest like a brand, sweat catching along his collarbone in a way that would drive marketing teams feral.

You, of course, were already there—lounging lazily on a black velvet couch nearby in your own matching briefs, annoyingly comfortable, sipping a protein shake like you hadn’t orchestrated this whole ordeal.

Logan’s jaw clenched as he adjusted his stance under the guidance of the photographer, but his eyes didn’t leave you. That unreadable soldier-gaze—half warning, half promise. You could practically hear the unspoken threat behind it: Behave.

But you didn’t.

Of course you didn’t.

“You know,” you purred, sliding off the couch with the practiced grace of someone who knew exactly what he was doing, “I think the lighting would hit even better if I stood just—here.”

You moved into frame without asking, brushing a hand over Logan’s shoulder as if you were straightening a wrinkle in the non-existent fabric there. Your fingers lingered a second too long.

Logan didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. But his jaw flexed. He was giving you rope—letting you play. Letting you pretend you were in control.

The camera shutter clicked in the background, the photographer murmuring encouragement about chemistry, heat, tension. You tilted your head innocently, playing up the role of the teasing husband, the smug muse.

You leaned in again, this time placing your palm flat on Logan’s abdomen, your thumb tracing along the ridges of his abs. You could feel the power coiled beneath his skin like a silent bomb.

“Relax, baby,” you whispered, voice honey-slick and purposefully obnoxious. “It’s just for the brand.”

“That right?” he muttered, voice low enough to melt tungsten. His hand came up and caught your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop your antics in their tracks. The grip of a man who’d broken necks more easily than pencils.

“You wanted me here,” Logan said, eyes narrowing. “You bribed me. Said it’d be classy.”

You smirked. “It is classy. I just happen to think a little hands-on energy helps the mood.”

Logan stepped forward, crowding you back a pace. His body pressed flush against yours, his height and bulk suddenly a wall of heat and intimidation. His breath brushed your ear.

“You keep touching me like that,” he growled, “and I’m gonna remind you what happens when you forget who’s in charge.”

The photographer gasped something about incredible intimacy and real passion, but you didn’t hear it. Not really. Not over the pounding of your pulse, not over the sensation of Logan’s hand slipping down to your hip, nails just barely grazing.

You licked your lips, defiant. “Promise?”

Logan’s smile was all teeth.

“I don’t make promises, babe. I deliver.”

The camera shutter clicked again. And this time, the flash caught Logan’s hand wrapped around your jaw, tilting your head slightly so your neck arched in that perfect way—possessive, controlling, a picture made for magazine spreads and bedroom walls alike.

You’d poked the wolf. And now he was going to play.