​I headed toward the private dressing rooms in the back of the studio. The hallway was quiet, away from the hum of the crew and the heavy bass of the playback music. As I pushed open the door to my room, I expected it to be empty.

​Instead, I found Abigail.

​She was standing by my mirror, her back to me. Her hands were gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles were white. She didn't turn around when I entered, but I could see her reflection in the glass. Her face was flushed, her hair slightly disheveled, and her eyes were fixed on the floor.

​"You're supposed to be supervising the set, Abby," I said, closing the door behind me with a soft click.

​She finally looked up, her blue eyes meeting mine in the mirror. There was no ice left in them—only a raw, frantic confusion. "I couldn't stay in there," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Watching you... doing that to them... in front of everyone..."

​I walked up behind her, the heat from my body radiating off me in the small space. I didn't touch her, but I stood close enough that she could smell the sex and the sweat still clinging to me.

​"You didn't have to watch," I murmured, leaning down so my breath brushed the shell of her ear. "But you did. You watched every second. And we both know why."

I didn't give her a chance to recover. I stepped even closer, my chest pressing against her back, trapping her between my body and the vanity. I could feel the frantic, hummingbird beat of her heart through the fabric of her tailored blazer.

​"You've been playing the cold professional ever since I might you, Abigail," I whispered, my hands sliding slowly down her arms to her waist. "But your body is a liar."

​She let out a shaky, broken breath, her head lolling back against my shoulder. The resistance was draining out of her, replaced by a heavy, liquid heat.

I began to explore her through the expensive wool of her business suit, my palms tracing the sharp curve of her hips and the firm line of her thighs. She didn't push me away; she leaned into me, a soft, helpless moan escaping her lips.

​I reached for the front of her slacks. The metallic zip sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. I slid my hand inside, my fingers diving past the silk of her underwear to find the source of her heat.

​She was soaked.

​"Oh god, Druski...." she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut as I began to tease her. She arched her back, her breathing coming in hard, jagged hitches that rattled her chest. The high-powered executive was gone, replaced by a woman who was absolutely starving for the very thing she'd spent weeks pretending to hate.

​I moved my fingers with a slow, agonizing rhythm, feeling her pulse against my hand. Every time I brushed against her clit, she whimpered, her fingers clawing at the marble countertop for balance.

​"Look at yourself, Abby," I commanded, forcing her to open her eyes and look at our reflection. "Look at what the 'pornoman' is doing to you."

​She looked—seeing her own flushed face, her disheveled hair, and my hand disappeared deep inside her professional attire. A fresh wave of arousal hit her, and she let out a loud, uninhibited moan, her knees buckling as she finally surrendered to the sensation.

I slid two fingers deep inside her, finding her tight, slick core. Abigail's head snapped back, a loud, unrestrained moan tearing from her throat as I began to pump into her. She was incredibly responsive, her internal muscles clenching around my hand with every stroke. I could feel her coming undone, her professional facade melting into a puddle of raw, desperate need.

​I reached for my waistband, ready to finally bury my cock inside her and finish what we'd started on that kitchen island the night before. I wanted to hear her scream my name while I claimed her in the middle of her own workspace.

​**Click. Creak. **

​The door swung open, and the heavy, sterilized air of the hallway rushed in.

​"Druski, Lana says we need to—"

​Sasha froze in the doorway. Her eyes went wide, darting from my hand disappeared inside Abigail's unzipped slacks to Abigail's flushed, frantic face. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by Abigail's heavy, ragged gasps for air.

​"Oh... oh," Sasha stammered, her face turning a bright shade of red. "I... I'm so sorry. I didn't think... I'll just..." She started to back out, then remembered why she'd come. "Lana... she's losing her patience,Druski. She says the lighting is perfect and we need you back on the set now for part two."

​Abigail scrambled to pull herself together, frantically zipping her pants and smoothing her blazer with trembling hands. She couldn't even look at Sasha—or me. She just stared at the floor, her chest still heaving as she tried to find her voice.

​"I'll... I'll be right there,"I will be right there,"I said, calmly.

​Sasha nodded quickly and vanished, the door closing with a soft thud.

​I turned back to Abigail. She was trying to put her mask back on, but it was cracked beyond repair. I reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers still damp with her.

​"Part two, Abby," I murmured, a slow, predatory grin crossing my face."Let me not keep the director waiting. But remember... we aren't finished here. Not by a long shot."

I walked out of the dressing room without looking back, leaving the heavy, charged silence behind me. The image of Abigail—disheveled, gasping for air, and clutching the vanity—stayed in my mind. She looked human for the first time, her lethal "assassin" edge blunted by a hunger she couldn't control. I had stripped away the suit and the title; now, I just had to wait for the rest of her to collapse.

​When I stepped back onto the soundstage, the transformation was already complete. The crew had worked with surgical precision. The leather couch had been wiped clean, the lighting had shifted from amber to a moody, cinematic blue, and the scent of floor wax unsuccessfully masked the lingering electricity of the first act.

​Sasha and Jess were already in position, looking refreshed but still carrying that post-orgasmic glow. They watched me walk in, their eyes tracking the movement of my hips with a new level of familiarity.

​Lana Grande stood in the center of the set, her arms crossed beneath her prominent chest, her silver bob gleaming under the spotlights. She looked like a general surveying a battlefield.

​"Good of you to join us, Hart," she said, her smoky voice echoing through the rafters. She didn't ask where I'd been; the look in her eyes suggested she already knew—and approved. "The first act was about appetite. This part... this is about possession."

​She walked toward me, adjusting the heavy silver necklace around her throat. "It's time for even better magic. We're going to push the boundaries of what 'The CEO' can do. I want this to be the scene that makes people forget every other male performer in this industry."

​She leaned in close, her perfume—something dark and expensive—filling my senses. "I want you to take them like you own them, and I want you to look at the camera like you're taking the person watching it, too. Total dominance."

​"I can handle that," I said, my voice low and steady.

​"I know you can," she murmured. "Positions! Sasha, Jess, on your knees. Hart, I want you standing over them. Let's show the world some real magic."

​I took my place, the heat of the lamps hitting my skin once more. Just as the cameras started to roll, I saw Abigail slip back into the studio. She was tucked away in the shadows, her clothes straightened, but her face was still pale and her eyes were fixed on me with a look of terrified fascination.

​"Action!" Lana barked.

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