The absurdity of it hit Phei like a slow filthy punchline:
Hours of lights, cameras, stylists fussing over every inch of him like he was a statue that needed perfecting—and now here he was, half-naked in the same damn makeup chair, with two women who had spent the day pretending to be professionals now treating him like their private feast.
The locked door, the distant murmur of the crew on the other side, the faint smell of setting powder and hairspray still clinging to the air… it was ridiculous but just as sinfully perfect.
Soraya dropped lower without another word her knees hit the floor between his spread legs with a soft, inelegant thud.
Her short skirt rode all the way up her thighs but she didn't bother fixing it.
Her gentle soft long fingers slid up Phei's powerful muscles of his calves first; her palms were hot and a little shaky from the sheer reality of touching him like this after hours of imagining it.
