Mia had always been an introvert. The kind of woman who preferred dimly lit libraries to wild parties, who buried herself in film editing instead of small talk. But she had a secret. A freaky little hobby she indulged in behind closed doors—capturing the raw, filthy side of pleasure on camera. Not her own, of course. She was too shy for that. But others? She loved to frame the tension, the way fingers gripped skin, the way mouths parted in gasps. Her hard drive was full of footage she’d never dare admit to owning. Broke and desperate for a job, Mia applied for a gig as a videographer for a social media chef named Damien Wolfe. His content was… suggestive, to say the least. He didn’t just cook; he seduced his audience. Shirtless kneading, slow-motion honey drizzles, licking his fingers in ways that made the comment section feral. When she walked into his studio—a sleek, private kitchen filled with mood lighting and expensive cameras—he turned to greet her, wiping his hands on a towel. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his black apron tied snugly around his lean waist. The first thing she noticed was his mouth, the kind of mouth that made women weak. “You’re Mia?” His voice was smooth, deep, teasing. She nodded, clutching her camera bag. “Yes. I saw your listing.” Damien smirked. “And you think you can handle filming me?” It wasn’t an innocent question. She swallowed hard. “I’m good with a camera.” He chuckled. “I bet you are.” The shoot started simple. He cracked eggs, rolled dough, melted chocolate over a flame. But it was the way he did it—the slow, intentional movements, the way he looked directly into the lens, as if daring the audience to imagine his hands doing something else. Mia’s thighs clenched as she adjusted the focus. Then came the honey. Damien dipped his fingers into the golden syrup, bringing them to his lips, sucking it off with a low hum. Mia inhaled sharply. The camera shook in her hands. He noticed. “Something wrong?” His voice dripped with amusement. She cleared her throat. “You—you should do that again. Slower.” His brow lifted. “You like it slow?” Heat rushed up her neck. “It… it looks better for engagement.” Damien stepped closer. “You know, I was looking for someone with an eye for detail. Someone who knows how to capture the… intensity of a moment.” His voice lowered, thick with suggestion. “Is that what you like to film, Mia? Intensity?” Her breath hitched. He was too close, his scent—a mix of vanilla, spice, and something undeniably male—curling around her senses. She couldn’t lie. He’d see right through it. “Yes.” A slow, wicked smile spread across his lips. “Then drop the camera.” Her fingers trembled. “But—” “Drop it.” She let it go, the strap keeping it secure around her neck. His hands caught her hips, pinning her against the counter. His body was warm, firm, pressing into hers. “You’re a quiet little thing,” he murmured, his fingers trailing up her sides. “But I think there’s something filthy under all that shyness.” Mia whimpered as his hands slid under her shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. “Tell me,” he whispered against her ear. “Do you want to keep watching… or do you want to be part of the show?” Her last shred of hesitation burned away. “Both.” Damien groaned, capturing her lips in a hot, claiming kiss. That was the night Mia stopped filming other people’s pleasure. And started starring in her own.