All Chapters of LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The moment Jess called “action,” the warehouse shrank to nothing but the couch, the lights, the camera lens, and him. I walked toward Marcus exactly the way the script demanded: slow, hips rolling with fake confidence, sheer robe slipping off one shoulder like I’d practiced in the mirror a hundred times. My heart was slamming so hard I was sure the boom mic picked it up. Every step made my lace panties rub against my swollen clit. I was already soaked. I had been soaked since the second I recognized his voice behind the mask. He sat sprawled on the grey leather like he owned the room. Legs wide. One arm draped along the back of the couch. The black boxer briefs did nothing to hide how thick and hard he already was. The outline of his cock pressed obscenely against the fabric. The head was clearly defined. A dark wet spot spread at the tip. He watched me approach with that same lazy, predatory tilt to his head he used to give me when I came downstairs in sleep shorts and a tank top

Marcus fucked me like the cameras were not even there.Deep. Hard. Relentless.Every thrust slammed home with a force that rattled my bones and made the leather couch groan beneath us. The wet slap of skin against skin echoed through the warehouse set, loud enough to drown out the low hum of the overhead lights, the soft whir of the cameras, and even the distant murmur of the crew shifting behind the monitors. My moans mixed with his low grunts. The sounds came from somewhere primal inside both of us, raw and unrehearsed. My tits bounced wildly with every snap of his hips. My nipples scraped against his chest hair until they burned with sensitivity. Sweat poured off him in rivulets and dripped onto my skin, mixing with mine, making every slide of our bodies slick and obscene.He hooked one of my legs over his shoulder. The new angle opened me wider. He sank even deeper. The head of his cock pressed against my cervix with every stroke. The stretch was almost too much. Almost painful. B

I did not open the studio door that morning because I believed inspiration would walk in on its own.I opened it because the silence had become a living thing, pressing against my ribs, and the only way to drown it out was to let five strangers inside.The loft took up the entire top floor of a converted 19th-century warehouse in the heart of the city. Floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides. Polished concrete floors that cost more per square meter than most people’s cars. A private elevator that opened directly into the space. Black steel beams overhead. A long marble island in the kitchen area where I used to mix paint and fuck Elena against the edge until she screamed. The rooftop terrace beyond the sliding doors overlooked the skyline — lights glittering like broken glass at night. I had bought the building six years ago with the proceeds from my second major exhibition. Cash. No mortgage. No compromise.I was rich. Disgustingly rich. The kind of rich where galleries begged to show

Lila rose on trembling legs the moment I spoke her name.The slim redhead with the freckles scattered across her collarbone and the small, high breasts that barely filled a handful. She had been watching Sophia’s interview with wide eyes and parted lips, her fingers still buried between her thighs, circling her clit in slow, unconscious strokes. Now she stood naked in the centre of the studio, her long legs shaking slightly, her pale skin flushed pink from neck to thighs. Her pussy was a neat, trimmed strip of copper hair above smooth, swollen lips already glistening with her own arousal. She looked fragile. Delicate. Like a porcelain doll someone had dared to break.I pointed to the low wooden platform I kept in the corner for larger installations.“Lie down on your back. Arms above your head. Legs spread wide.”She obeyed without a word. Her body sank onto the cool wood. She stretched her arms up until her fingers brushed the edge. Her thighs parted. The position opened her complete

Mei rose quietly when I called her name.She was the smallest of them all. Petite. Asian. Delicate features that seemed carved from porcelain. Her black hair fell straight and glossy to the middle of her back. Her body was tiny but perfectly proportioned: small, high breasts with dark nipples already peaked from watching the others, narrow waist, gentle flare of hips, smooth legs that ended in small feet. Her pussy was bare except for a thin strip of dark hair above the slit. She walked toward me with soft, measured steps, eyes downcast at first, then lifting to meet mine. There was no fear in her gaze. Only curiosity. And a quiet, patient hunger.I pointed to the tall canvas that stood alone in the centre of the room. The one I had not touched in months. It was still white. Still empty.“Stand behind it,” I said. “Be my model. Seduce me through the canvas. Touch yourself. Move for me. Let me see if I can paint you.”She nodded once. Slipped behind the canvas. I could see only her sil