The breath Tyr lets out is a soft, relieved sigh. She unfolds herself from the ottoman, her movements fluid and graceful despite the punishing heels.
She runs her fingers through her hair, a simple gesture that's intensely intimate, and for a second, the studio vanishes. It's just her, stretching, oblivious to the effect she has.
The photographer strides toward her, his expression one of hungry admiration. "You are stunning, Tyr. Really. That build… it's absolutely mesmerising."
His hand comes up, fingers poised to skim the bare skin of her waist, to touch what I haven't even dared to claim.
Something in me snaps.
I'm moving before the thought fully forms. In three long strides, I'm between them. The fine wool of my suit jacket settles over her shoulders, enveloping her in a shield of dark fabric, blocking that asshole's view, his intent. The scent of my cologne, something dark and smoky, mingles with her lighter, floral perfume.
