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Better

The pressure on the back of her head lifts. Marcus steps back, the absence of his body leaving a cool gap against her heated skin. The sound of the camera shutter clicks from a new, lower angle.

"Better. That's the shot. Stay exactly like that."

Her cheek stays pressed to the pillow, the white thong pulled taut across her hips, the pink tube top bunched beneath her chest. She doesn't move. She can feel his gaze on her like a physical weight, and the place where his pelvis had pressed still throbs faintly with the memory of it. Her breath comes out slow, uneven against the fabric of the pillowcase.

The camera clicks again, a series of rapid snaps. She stays still, ass-up, face-down, her fingers curled into the sheets. The silence stretches, and she can hear the faint sound of the video still playing from the laptop, the muffled moans of the woman on the screen.

She doesn't speak. She doesn't ask if it looks good. She just waits, her body a taut line under the weight of his direction, the thong damp against her skin.

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