We stepped into the studio, the air still humming from the session in the study. The bright white lights were already on, blinding and hot. Vaughan didn't go for the bed first. He went for the tripod.
"Pictures first, Ms. Angel," he said. His voice was back to that professional, cold tone, but his eyes were dark with hunger. "I need to document this. All of it."
He began to bark orders. He didn't ask; he commanded. He told me to strike poses that were vulgar and raw. He made me spread myself for the lens, showing every inch of my heat under the harsh glare. He made me use my own fingers to open my folds, captured in high-definition. I was dripping.
"Wider," he growled. "I want the camera to see exactly how wet you are for me."
Vaughan stepped out of his own clothes. I watched him as he
