"Shower. Now. Quickly."

Sierra's voice carried that razor-sharp edge—the one that promised swift, merciless retaliation if he so much as hesitated. The kind of tone that had ended stronger men than him.

"I was literally about to—"

"Faster, honey," Maddie interrupted, practically vibrating in place like a chihuahua who'd mainlined espresso straight from the bean. "You promised, remember? You promised."

Phei blinked.

Promised?

What the hell had he—

Oh.

Oh, fuck me sideways with a tripod.

The memory slammed into him like a freight train made of bad decisions and post-orgasm stupidity.

Three nights ago.

Sierra's nails dragging lazy circles across his chest. His brain floating in a blissful, endorphin-soaked void. Maddie's muffled whining filtering through the door—again—about being excluded from the fun. He'd been half-dead, balls thoroughly creampied her, IQ hovering somewhere around room temperature, and somehow, in that vulnerable state, he'd muttered the fatal words.

"The photos."

"THE PHOTOS!" Maddie squealed, clapping her hands together with the unhinged glee of someone who'd just been handed a flamethrower and told to go wild. "You remembered!"

"I was really hoping that entire conversation had been a traumatic hallucination. Like a fever dream. Or early-onset dementia."

"Nope." Sierra's smile curved slow and dangerous, the smile of a cat who'd cornered two very tasty mice and was deciding which one to play with first. "You agreed. Very enthusiastically, if memory serves. Something about 'capturing our beauty for eternity' and 'artistic nudes that would make the Renaissance painters weep.' Extremely poetic. Extremely horny."

"I had just come three times in forty minutes. My brain was legally dead."

"Consent is consent, Dragon." Sierra's eyes glittered. "No take-backs. No buyer's remorse."

Phei opened his mouth—some half-formed protest about coercion, duress, temporary insanity—then closed it again.

There was no winning this. Not against both of them. Not when they were united in a common goal. That was a losing war before it even started.

"Shower," Sierra repeated, pointing toward the en-suite like a general directing troops into battle. "Ten minutes. We've been setting up all afternoon while you were out playing with your balls."

"Basketball," he corrected weakly. "I was playing basket—"

"Ten. Minutes."

Setting up?

What did that even mean? His mind flashed to tripods, lighting rigs, backdrops—oh God, they hadn't actually bought professional photography equipment, had they?

"GO!" Maddie physically shoved him toward the bathroom, palms flat against his back, using surprising strength even for someone who is a volleyball star. "The golden hour is peaking right now! Natural light waits for no man—not even one with a dick that could legitimately split me in half!"

Phei resigned and went.

Mostly because the alternative was being dragged.

The shower was the fastest of his life—record-breaking, Olympic-qualifying speed. Not because he was eager (though his cock had already started perking up at the mental images, the traitorous bastard), but because he'd learned the hard way that making Sierra and Maddie wait was a dangerous game.

They didn't get mad.

They got creative.

The kind of creative that involved "forgetting" to wear clothes for an entire day. Or "accidentally" dropping things in front of him seventeen separate times. Or teaming up to stretch in the living room in ways that should be illegal in at least forty states.

Living with them wasn't cohabitation.

It was psychological warfare disguised as domestic bliss.

Eight minutes later, he emerged in clean clothes—simple black t-shirt, grey sweatpants, specifically chosen because they were loose enough to hide any... developments.

He toweled his hair dry, gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror (still alive, still sane, mostly), and stepped into the doorway.

And stopped dead.

His penthouse had been transformed.

The living room—now looked like a high-end photography studio had seduced a Victoria's Secret catalogue in the middle of the night and the resulting love child had exploded across every surface.

Ring lights. Not one. Not two. Three massive, glowing halos positioned around the sectional like a tribunal of judgment ready to sentence him to eternal thirst.

Softboxes in the corners, diffusing the dying golden-hour sun into something so flattering it felt manipulative. A seamless white backdrop stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows, fabric taut and pristine, with even more lights bouncing off it like they were trying to erase every shadow in existence.

His table—gone. Vanished. Probably sold for parts. In its place: a legit Victorian fainting couch in deep burgundy velvet, curved and plush and positioned like it had been placed by a professional who charged by the hour and knew exactly how to make a woman's body look like sin incarnate.

Where the hell had they even gotten a fainting couch?

Had they ordered it this while he was in shower? How quick!

Did same-day-same-minute fainting-couch delivery exist in Paradise?

"What the absolute fuck," Phei said, voice flat with the exhaustion of a man who had accepted his fate.

"Language," Sierra called from somewhere deeper in the penthouse, singsong and utterly unrepentant. "And you're welcome."

And it only got worse.

The guest bathroom door stood open, revealing a scene straight out of some billionaire's fever dream.

Dozens of candles—hundreds, maybe—flickering around the massive soaking tub like they were prepping for a ritual sacrifice. Rose petals strewn across the marble like blood spatter at a very aesthetic crime scene.

Another ring light on a tripod, aimed directly at the tub, because apparently even bubble baths needed to be shot in 4K now.

****

But the master bedroom?

Christ.

His bed—his perfectly normal, ridiculously comfortable bed—he watched as they turned it over into something that belonged on the cover of a luxury erotica magazine. Sheets swapped for deep midnight-blue silk that caught the light like liquid. Sheer gauzy curtains draped around the four posts, turning the whole thing into either a romantic dreamscape or a very expensive spider's web designed specifically to trap men who thought with their dicks.

More lights. Reflectors. A full-length mirror strategically angled to catch every possible reflection.

"You bought all this," Phei said. Not a question. A flat, low accusation aimed straight at the ceiling, as if the universe itself had personally betrayed him.

"We bought all this," Maddie corrected with a bright, wicked little laugh, materializing beside him like a horny succubus summoned by unchecked spending.

One second the space was empty, the next she was pressed to his side, wrapped in a whisper-thin black silk robe that absolutely had not been there a heartbeat ago.

The robe was scandalously short—barely grazing the tops of her thick, golden thighs—and tied with the laziest knot known to man.

It gaped open at the chest, slipping off one smooth shoulder to reveal a thin crimson strap of lace that disappeared into the deepest, most obscene cleavage he'd ever tried not to stare at.

The silk clung to every lethal curve: heavy, gravity-defying tits straining the fabric, nipples already hard and poking insistently through the thin layers, the soft swell of her belly leading down to hips made for bruising hands.

Every breath threatened to untie the robe completely and let it slide to the floor.

She smelled like warm vanilla and expensive trouble, her tousled hair brushing his arm as she leaned in closer, deliberately pressing one lush breast against his bicep.

The hem of the robe rode up when she moved, flashing the barest hint of matching crimson lace panties—a see through at the gusset, the delicate fabric glued to her puffy lips in a perfect, glistening camel-toe that left nothing to imagination.

"Express delivery is a beautiful thing when your credit card has no limit," she purred, voice dripping honey and sin. One manicured hand—nails painted that same cock-sucking crimson—trailed lightly down his chest, stopping just above his belt.

"We bought it all up while you were off getting sweaty with your little basketball boys. Every toy, every outfit, every filthy little accessory you could ever want to use on us."

Her tongue darted out to wet her plump bottom lip, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with promise as she rose on her toes, letting the robe gap further—enough to flash one full, perfect breast, nipple dark and tight, begging for teeth.

"All you have to do, big-hot-bad-brother," she whispered against his ear, hot breath sending a shiver straight to his cock, "is point… and click."

She pressed something heavy and expensive into his hands.

A camera.

A full-frame mirrorless beast—matte black, weighty, with a prime lens that probably cost more than his first car. The kind of gear fashion photographers used for shoots that ended up in Vogue or on billboards featuring half-naked supermodels.

"I don't know how to use this thing."

"It's on auto, baby." Sierra emerged from the master bath like a walking felony in a barely-there black silk robe—shorter than sin, looser than her morals tonight, the belt tied in a lazy knot that looked one deep breath away from total surrender.

Every step made the silk part and slide open at the front, flashing mouth-watering glimpses of black lace and endless smooth, golden skin.

The robe barely covered the tops of her thighs, riding up just enough to reveal the lacy edge of a thong so delicate it was basically a suggestion—a suggestion, judging by the way the tiny triangle clung to her swollen lips, the fabric dark and translucent where her arousal had already seeped through.

He was doomed.

And honestly?

He couldn't wait to start shooting.

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