you didn’t expect it to feel like this. the set was cold—industrial. dim lights, concrete walls, a single chair in the center like an altar. and there he was. edward abraham. dressed in black, shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose the hard lines of his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he was ready to get his hands dirty.

he was supposed to be your co-star. your partner for the shoot. but the way he looked at you when you entered. it wasn’t professional. it wasn’t even human. it was predatory. his gaze locked on you like a blade pressed to bare skin. unblinking. slow. devastating. like he was imagining you beneath him —not just for the camera, but after. he didn’t say hello. didn’t greet you like a colleague.

he just stood, walked over, and stopped inches from your face. “you’re late,” he said, voice like a low growl, laced with quiet threat. “and now you’ll pay for it.” before you could react, his hand gripped your throat—not choking, not yet—but holding you in place, forcing your gaze to stay on his.

“the theme’s intimacy, right?” he whispered, tilting your chin up with his thumb. “then let’s show them something real.” you should’ve pulled away. you should’ve said no. but your body betrayed you—still, breath shallow, heat pooling low and fast. he dragged you to the chair, then sat down with his legs spread, pulling you to straddle him like it was his idea of a throne and you were the reward. his hand slipped under your jaw, the other low on your back, keeping you pinned to him.

no camera had even clicked yet. “listen carefully,” he murmured into your skin. “you’re going to let them watch you fall apart on my lap. and after they’re done snapping pictures?” his lips ghosted over your throat. “you’re going to stay.” he leaned back, fingers gripping your thighs possessively. you felt it then—not fear, not really. something worse. something better. craving. because you knew—no matter what this started as it was never just a shoot.