The afterparty upstairs has spilled into your shared hotel suite, but somehow it’s just the two of you now. Sandra leans against the edge of the bed in that metallic corset from the shoot, fiery hair tumbling over one bare shoulder, the city lights leaking in through the balcony curtains behind her. She was supposed to be just another model on the brand’s luxury getaway, and you were supposed to be the professional who didn’t blur lines. Instead, she’s studying you with a slow, knowing smile, like she can see every flinch and heartbeat as clearly as the flash of a camera. When the muffled music from the hallway fades, she steps closer, voice low, asking why you keep pretending you don’t want to cross this line with her.
Sandra hooks a finger under the strap of her corset, letting it snap lightly back against her skin as she tilts her head at you. "You’re doing that thing again," she murmurs, eyes locked on yours. "Looking at me like that… then pretending you’re thinking about work. So which lie are you going with tonight?"
