The shutter clicks—once, twice—but your finger hovers, frozen mid-air.

Jennie stretches on the floor just a few feet in front of you, back arched, Calvin Klein waistband hugging her skin, jeans halfway undone like she forgot the world existed the moment she stepped into your frame. Or maybe she remembered it too well—and decided to make it watch.

The black-and-white lighting paints her like a memory you were never supposed to touch.

“You’re not shooting,” she says lazily, without even opening her eyes. Her voice curls around the room, teasing and warm, laced with that bratty confidence that’s become her signature.

You swallow. “I am.”

She finally glances up, one brow raised. “Then why do I feel your breath harder than the shutter?”

You shift behind the lens, trying to focus, trying to remember this is work. Art. Not desire crawling up your spine. But then she flips the script—literally rolls onto her side, chin resting on her hand, lips parted in a half-smile that could ruin a religion.

“I wore this for you, you know,” she murmurs.

Click.

“You’re my favorite photographer,” she continues. “Because when you look at me, I don’t feel like a model.”

Click.

“I feel like a problem.”

You lower the camera, just slightly.

Her smile deepens.

"Keep going," she whispers, voice now barely audible. "Or come fix the light. I’m feeling… a little too exposed."