On a shooting

She was brought in to translate for a Hungarian girl on set. One look at Missy and the job stopped mattering. That pale skin, the kind of blonde that catches light like satin, and a body still soft with youth. After the cameras cut, the real invitation came—his studio, his bed. They never made it past the bedroom. He had her on her back, legs open, his mouth hot between her thighs while she clutched the sheets and moaned like the accent was gone. He flipped her onto her knees, hair spilling down her spine, and drove into her with the same hunger that had started the second he saw her. Straight sex, no pauses, no mercy. Black hair across the pillow when he bent over her again, his grip tight on her hips. She took every thrust and asked for more, the kind of girl who came alive once the lights were off and the door was locked.