The studio is warm. Not just the lights — everything.

The kind of warm that clings to your skin and makes you feel like you’re already doing something you shouldn’t.

I arrive in a robe that barely behaves, hair curled to perfection, lips glossy like I’ve been kissed by trouble. The photographer tries to act professional… but the second his eyes land on me, I can see it.

He’s already losing.

“Honey,” he says, clearing his throat like that’s going to help. “We’ll start simple. Just a few test shots.”

I smile, slow and sweet. “Mmm… sure, baby.”

He adjusts the camera. Checks the lighting. Pretends my legs aren’t crossed like that on purpose.

I slip out of the robe like I’m unwrapping a present. Lingerie underneath — golden satin with lace that looks like it was made to be tugged on. Not ripped. Not ruined.

Tugged.

“Chin up,” he tells me.

I do it… but I add a little tilt to my hips, the kind that makes men forget how to breathe.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Every flash feels like a little bite of attention. Every shutter sound feels like a heartbeat I’m stealing from him one frame at a time.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

I step closer, slow enough to make him watch. “Yeah?”

His eyes flick down — the mistake — then back up, like he’s trying to remember he has manners.

“Yeah,” he says again, softer.

Good.

I turn, letting him get the angles he wants… and a few he doesn’t deserve. I arch my back just a little, like a pinup daydream. I let my hand drift over my waist like I’m checking myself out in the mirror.

He tries to direct me, but it’s cute how it’s actually me directing him.

“On the stool,” he says, voice shaky.

I climb onto it like a showgirl — slow legs, pointed toes, all that gorgeous patience that makes men desperate. I sit, then lean forward just enough to make the air change.

Click.

His hands tighten on the camera. He swallows hard.

I let my smile turn honey-thick. “Are you sure you can handle a little photoshoot with me?”

He hesitates. That’s adorable.

“It’s my job,” he says, trying for confidence.

I laugh softly. “No, baby. Your job is to take the pictures.”

I slide one strap down my shoulder. Not all the way. Just enough to suggest what he’s imagining.

His eyes widen like I just gave him permission to ruin his own thoughts.

“Honey…” he warns.

“What?” I blink innocently. “Too much?”

He doesn’t answer. He just takes the shot.

And that’s when I know exactly how the rest of the night is going to go.

I stand up, slow, and step closer to the camera. Close enough that he has to tilt the lens upward to keep me in frame. Close enough that his focus is definitely not on his settings anymore.

“You want steam?” I whisper. “I can give you steam.”

I lean in toward the lens like I’m kissing it. Like I’m kissing him through it. Like I’m leaving lipstick marks on his self-control.

Click.

His hands shake a little this time.

“Good boy,” I purr, and his breath catches like that did something violent to his brain.

I make it worse, of course.

I turn away, giving him a perfect view of my curves, then glance back over my shoulder with a look that says: you’re lucky I’m letting you see this.

“How’s the lighting?” I ask.

He’s staring.

“Perfect,” he says automatically.

“Mmm.” I nod like I’m satisfied. “Then keep shooting.”

I move like I’m posing for someone who’s going to pay for this later. Like every glance is a promise. Like every smile is a soft little threat.

By the time he lowers the camera, his cheeks are pink and his voice is rough.

“I think we got it,” he says.

I walk right up to him, sweet perfume and hot confidence. “Did we?”

He looks down at me like he’s lost inside the idea of what he’s not allowed to do.

I tap the camera gently. “Show me.”

He flips through the shots — frame after frame of me looking expensive, wicked, and completely aware of what I’m doing to him.

I hum softly, approving. “Mmm… that one’s my favorite.”

“Which one?” he asks.

I point to the one where I’m leaning toward the lens, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded like I’m about to say something filthy.

He exhales slowly. “That one’s… dangerous.”

I smile. “That’s the point.”

I step back, slipping my robe on like I’m covering up a weapon. I tie it neatly, like I didn’t just spend the last hour turning his professionalism into a joke.

Then I lean in and whisper, soft as sugar: “Next time… you don’t just take the pictures.”

And I walk out like a pinup dream… leaving him in the warm glow of the lights with nothing but my scent and those photos burned into his brain.

Honey doesn’t do “just modeling.”

Honey does temptation.