Hand on her ass

The shutter clicks a few more times, the softbox humming warm against the quiet room. She holds the pose on her knees, the white thong pressing against her, the pink tube top riding high across her chest. Her breath comes shallow as she watches Marcus lower the camera.

He sets it down on the desk and walks toward the bed without a word. His footsteps are unhurried, and she doesn't move as he approaches. He stops at the edge of the mattress, looking down at her, and she feels the weight of his gaze settle across her bare shoulders, her exposed thighs, the curve of her spine.

"I know a better position," he says, his voice low and unhurried.

She tilts her chin up to meet his eyes, but she doesn't ask. She waits.

His hand lands on her ass, palm flat against the bare curve of her cheek. The warmth of his skin is a shock against hers, calloused from handling cameras and gear. She inhales sharply, her spine tightening, her thighs pressing together beneath her. The contact is deliberate, steady, not probing — just his hand resting there, thumb brushing once along the edge of the thong's fabric.

Izzy's heart is pounding so hard she can feel it in her throat. The sensation isn't unwelcome. It's electric, sending a slow pulse of heat down the back of her thighs. She holds her breath, her fingers curling into the sheets beneath her, but she doesn't pull away. She stays still, her body a tense line under his hand, her lips parted as she waits for whatever he does next.

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