The van was silent except for the low hum of electronics and the rhythmic inhale and exhale of Lucian’s breath. He sat motionless, his gloved fingers hovering over the keyboard, eyes locked onto the wall of screens before him. Each one displayed a different angle of her—the woman who consumed his every thought, the woman who still did not know he existed.
There she was.
The soft glow of her bedroom light framed her silhouette, her auburn waves cascading over her shoulders as she stood before the full-length mirror. Lucian's breath shallowed as she tilted her head, studying her reflection, oblivious to the cameras that turned her intimate moments into his private spectacle.
The cropped, long-sleeved top hugged her slender frame, the distressed fabric clinging just enough to show hints of the delicate ridges of her collarbones. His attention was on the way she shifted her weight from foot to foot.
Her high cheekbones and defined jawline cast faint shadows beneath the warm light, her dark eyes flickering with unspoken thoughts. He could see the tension in her lips as she pressed them together, contemplating something. Maybe she was questioning whether the outfit was good enough for the upcoming shoot.
Lucian leaned closer. Perfect, he thought. She doesn’t see what I see.
The camera above her vanity gave him a clearer view of her left arm as she brushed a hand over the floral tattoo on her forearm. His fingers twitched. That tattoo—how many hours had he studied it, traced its outlines in his mind? The delicate black ink against her fair skin was as familiar to him as the veins beneath his own flesh.
She turned again, lifting her arms, inspecting the way the cropped hem exposed just the faintest sliver of her toned stomach. His throat tightened.
Then, she reached for the jeans.
The relaxed-fit denim sat loose around her waist, sliding just slightly as she moved. Lucian’s gaze sharpened. She was art. She was poetry in movement, utterly unaware that someone was watching her every motion.