Eight
1494 Words
The moment I stepped into the office, I knew today was going to be a mess.
Not dramatic-mess—anxious, vibrating, everyone-acting-like-they’re-about-to-strip-on-camera mess.
Every woman on the floor was pretending to work while clearly thinking about only one thing: their boudoir shoot.
The studio crew Victor hired had transformed one of the private rooms into something straight out of a luxury magazine. Soft white curtains. Dim golden lights. A velvet chaise lounge that looked like it had seen sin. And racks of lingerie—silk, lace, mesh, all in sets more expensive than my rent.
My stomach twisted.
I could handle moaning into a mic for strangers every day—but posing half-naked in front of a camera felt like an entirely different kind of vulnerability.
I put my bag down, signed in, tried to breathe normally. But the whispers around me kept pricking at my ears.
“I hope they edit cellulite—”
“I’m not wearing that red set. She can’t make me—”
“Do you think the callers will know it’s you?”
“No faces, remember. Just bodies.”
“Victor’s supervising.”
Great.
Just what I needed.
Heat crawled through my chest at the thought of him.
My body still remembered every second of last night—his hands gripping my waist, the heat of his breath, the way he said my name like he was trying not to lose control.
I rolled my neck, pushing the memory away hard.
We weren’t doing that again.
I meant it.
My phone buzzed.
Chloe:
Good luck on your big sexy glamour day lol. Don’t let your fine-ass boss drag you into a closet.
I turned my phone face-down before my face betrayed me.
Because right then, Victor walked in.
Black shirt. Rolled sleeves. Hair annoyingly perfect. And that quiet, controlled confidence he carried everywhere like a second skin.
Everyone instantly shut up.
I didn’t look at him, but I felt him look at me.
It was like a pressure against my skin—heavy, focused, familiar in a way I refused to acknowledge.
He cleared his throat. “Morning, everyone. Today we’re updating VIP profiles with boudoir photos. Just body shots. No faces. And I mean it—no one is required to do anything they’re not comfortable with.”
His eyes slid toward me for a split second.
I looked away before he could trap me in that stare.
“The ones opting out, you’re excused. Your profiles stay the same.”
The girl who’d been anxious all week visibly relaxed.
Good. At least he kept his word.
Meanwhile, I could feel Victor’s attention brushing over me every few seconds—subtle, but definitely there. Like he still remembered the sound I made when he—
No. I’m not thinking about that at work.
The photographer started calling names, one by one. Every girl who came back out was flustered, red-faced, adjusting straps and hair and pretending like she didn’t just pose half-naked in front of a stranger.
My own nerves were beginning to chew through my stomach.
Then I realized something.
Victor wasn’t leaving.
He stayed right near the door of the shooting room—pretending to go through papers, pretending to be busy, but watching the movement of everyone who went in and out.
And sometimes… I caught him watching me.
Not sexually.
Something else.
Like he wanted to see whether I’d break. Whether I’d run. Whether last night meant something I wasn’t ready to name.
I exhaled slowly, steadying myself.
It’s just a shoot, I told myself. Just another weird workday. And Victor Cole is just my boss.
Even though my body still throbbed with memories that said otherwise.
The longer the day dragged, the more the air felt thick—like everyone was holding the same breath, waiting.
My turn was getting closer, and every woman who exited the studio returned looking… different.
A little flushed.
A little self-conscious.
A little proud.
One girl practically glowed as she floated back to her desk.
Another muttered, “God, why do I even have that much cleavage? My back hurts.”
I tried to distract myself by answering calls—breathy, seductive, confident-sounding calls.
Funny how I could act like s*x didn’t faze me at all with a headset on, but the idea of posing in lingerie almost had my knees shaking.
By the time lunch ended, my nerves were simmering again.
Victor passed by my desk twice.
Not saying anything.
Not lingering too obviously.
But looking.
Really looking.
His gaze brushed my skin like a warm hand every time, leaving a trail of awareness down my spine.
We hadn’t talked about last night.
We hadn’t talked about the fact that my body still ached in places he had touched—rough hands, rougher kisses, the way the car windows fogged over like we were two reckless teenagers unable to stop.
I swallowed and shifted in my seat.
My pulse wouldn’t behave.
Around two, the photographer called out:
“Jade? You’re up next.”
Adrenaline shot through me.
The room seemed to exhale in my direction. Some girls were trying not to stare. Others offered sympathetic smiles.
I stood, smoothing my hands down my skirt even though it didn’t help at all.
Victor looked up from where he stood beside the door.
The moment our eyes met, heat pricked along my cheeks.
He said nothing.
But the look…
Damn.
It was like he still remembered every second of how I sounded last night.
And what made it worse was—I remembered too.
I walked toward the studio, trying to keep my expression neutral. Trying not to react. Trying to pretend he wasn’t watching the sway of my hips like he had the night before when he pulled me into his car—
I closed my eyes for half a second.
Nope.
Not going there.
Inside, the studio was warm with soft lighting and luxurious textures. The photographer, a woman in her late forties with a calm, reassuring presence, smiled at me gently.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll guide you through everything. Pick any set you’re comfortable in. No faces, nothing overly revealing unless you choose it. The camera is your friend.”
I nodded, appreciating the controlled, professional energy she carried.
But when I turned toward the rack of lingerie, my heart still hammered.
Black lace.
Soft blush silk.
Sheer wine-red mesh that would look indecent on anyone.
I inhaled slowly and selected a black set—minimal, elegant, nothing too dramatic. The matching robe was sheer, but at least it moved nicely when I walked.
When I stepped into the changing room and shut the curtain, the reality hit fully.
This is happening. Jade West is about to pose for a VIP boudoir profile.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror and paused.
Yeah… I was nervous.
But I also looked… beautiful.
Womanly.
Strong.
Maybe this wasn’t a bad thing.
When I emerged, the photographer smiled again—reassuring, gentle.
“Perfect. You look stunning. Ready?”
I nodded.
But just as I stepped toward the chaise lounge…
The door opened.
Victor.
He stepped in—not all the way, just enough to speak quietly with the photographer. His voice was low, but in the small space, I could hear every word.
“Don’t post anything until I review the final selection, please.”
The photographer nodded.
He thanked her.
Then his gaze flicked to me.
Just one second.
One single second.
Heat punched through my chest so hard I nearly forgot how to breathe.
His eyes traveled down—lingerie, robe, bare legs—and I swore a muscle in his jaw tightened before he forcibly looked away.
“Carry on,” he said, and stepped back out.
The door shut.
Silence filled the room.
My pulse was a wild, stumbling mess.
The photographer raised a brow. “Your boss?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Ah,” she said with a knowing hum. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“That look on his face,” she said lightly as she adjusted the lights. “Like a man trying really, really hard not to want something he shouldn’t.”
My face went hot.
“It’s not like that.”
She smirked.
“Of course not, sweetheart. Come on. Let’s make you feel powerful.”
I exhaled, letting the moment settle, letting my heartbeat slow.
“Ready?” she asked again.
I nodded.
Because suddenly, I was.
I stepped toward the chaise lounge, the soft fabric brushing my skin, and positioned myself as she directed.
Soft light.
Warm room.
Silk against my thighs.
For the first time all day, I wasn’t nervous.
I felt… good.
Confident.
And maybe that confidence was fueled a little by Victor’s reaction—even though I would never, ever admit it.
“Perfect,” the photographer murmured. “Let’s begin.”
- Writer
