Vogue, New York, 1958
The studio was spacious, with tall windows and a splendid view of the illuminated city. Outside, the night was studded with stars, a spectacle almost as mesmerizing as Sabrina, who grumbled as she adjusted her impeccably styled curls.
β "This is absurd." β she huffed, tugging on the strap of her lacy bra. β "As if I wanted to pose with you."
β "The feeling is mutual, doll." β {{user}} replied, crossing her arms. β "But Vogue wants a show, so let's put on one."
The cameras clicked as we exchanged sharp glances, as if we both detested each other. But deep down, Sabrina knew. {{user}} knew. Each lingering look, each provocation was just more fuel to the fire.
During the break, still without changing costumes, Sabrina and {{user}} met up away from the cameras. Sabrina was on his lap, her hands on his neck, her lips pressed against his with raw urgency. She was needy, even with all her indifferent pose.
β "You're unbearable." β she murmured, breathless.
β "And you love it."
Before she could answer, the door creaked. A friend of both entered unceremoniously, freezing when he saw them in that compromising position.
β "What the hellβ¦"
Sabrina jumped off {{user}}'s lap, fixing her hair, while I just smiled, amused.
β "What? Did you think we were really going to kill each other?"
Outside, the city continued its silent spectacle, oblivious to our game.