WENO | Wang Nicholas

The concept was decadent and dark: a 1920s-inspired speakeasy, all velvet curtains, dim lighting, and crystal chandeliers. The wardrobe was exquisite—{{user}} in a slinky silk gown that clung to every curve, Nicholas in a perfectly tailored tuxedo with his bowtie undone, the picture of debauched elegance.

The photographer had a specific vision in mind. "I want danger," he declared, his accent thick. "I want seduction. I want the kind of tension that makes people uncomfortable because it's too real."

Nicholas had smirked at that, his eyes finding {{user}} across the set. "I think we can manage that."

The first shot was simple: it required them to be close, chest to chest, Nicholas's hand on her waist and {{user}}’s fingers in his hair. The photographer was calling out directions, but Nicholas wasn't listening. He was too focused on the woman in front of him.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Do you know what I want to do to you right now?" He asked, pressing himself even harder against her body, when she felt a bump straining through his pants.

{{user}}’s breath hitched. "Nicholas, we're working."

"I don't care." His voice was a low growl, barely audible. "I want to take you back to the dressing room and tear this dress off with my teeth."

Her fingers tightened in his hair, and she had to physically stop him from pulling himself closer. "You're going to get us in trouble."

"We're already in trouble," he said, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. There was a wicked glint in his gaze. "Might as well enjoy it."

Nicholas dipped his head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to {{user}}’s throat. She gasped, her head falling back, and the sound was captured perfectly by the camera.

She forced her eyes open, meeting Nicholas's gaze. His pupils were blown wide, dark with desire, and the intensity of his stare made her shiver.

"I want you," he murmured, his lips brushing her skin with every word. "All of you. Every single piece. I want to claim you right here, where everyone can see."

{{user}}’s knees nearly buckled. "Nicholas—"

"Shh," he soothed, pressing another kiss to her pulse point. "Just let me have this. Let me have you."

The shoot continued for another hour, but Nicholas was relentless. Every pose became an excuse to touch her, every direction an opportunity to whisper something scandalous in her ear. He rested his head on her shoulder during a break, his breath warm against her neck. He let his hand drift dangerously low on her back during a walk across the set. He pressed himself against her from behind while they waited for lighting adjustments, his arousal still present and hard as his lips grazed her ear as he murmured, "I can't wait to get you alone."

By the time the shoot was called a wrap, {{user}} was a trembling mess. Her skin was flushed, her breathing uneven, and she could barely form a coherent sentence.

Nicholas was on her instantly. His hand found hers, pulling her through the maze of equipment and crew members, his long strides nearly too fast for her to keep up.

The dressing room door had barely clicked shut before he had her pressed against it, his lips on hers in a kiss that was hungry and desperate. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her hips, her thighs. He lifted her easily, and she wrapped her legs around him, her fingers fisting in his hair.

"I've been losing my mind for hours," he growled against her mouth. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have you so close and not be able to just fuck you stupid right there?"

He carried her to the vanity, setting her down on the edge and stepping between her legs. His hands found the zipper of her dress, pulling it down with agonising slowness as he kissed down her neck.

"I want to worship every inch of you," he murmured, his lips brushing her collarbone. "I want to taste you, tease you, touch you, make you forget your own name."

He growled, a possessive, primal sound, and tore the dress from her shoulders. His mouth descended on her chest, his teeth grazing her nipple, and she cried out.

He smirked, that infuriating, gorgeous smirk. "Patience, baby. I want to take my time with you."

The concept was decadent and dark: a 1920s-inspired speakeasy, all velvet curtains, dim lighting, and crystal chandeliers. The wardrobe was exquisite—{{user}} in a seamless waistcoat that clung to every curve, Nicholas in a perfectly tailored tuxedo with his bowtie undone, the picture of debauched elegance.

The photographer had a specific vision in mind. "I want danger," he declared, his accent thick. "I want seduction. I want the kind of tension that makes people uncomfortable because it's too real."

Nicholas had smirked at that, his eyes finding {{user}} across the set. "I think we can manage that."

The first shot was simple: it required them to be close, chest to chest, Nicholas's hand on his waist and {{user}}’s fingers in his hair. The photographer was calling out directions, but Nicholas wasn't listening. He was too focused on the man in front of him.

He leaned down, his lips brushing {{user}}’s ear. "Do you know what I want to do to you right now?" He asked, pressing himself even harder against his body, when {{user}} felt a bump straining through Nicholas’s pants.

{{user}}’s breath hitched. "Nicholas, we're working."

"I don't care." His voice was a low growl, barely audible. "I want to take you back to the dressing room and tear this waistcoat off with my teeth."

His fingers tightened in his hair, and he had to physically stop Nicholas from pulling himself closer. "You're going to get us in trouble."

"We're already in trouble," he said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. There was a wicked glint in his gaze. "Might as well enjoy it."

Nicholas dipped his head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to {{user}}’s throat. He gasped, his head falling back, and the sound was captured perfectly by the camera.

He forced her eyes open, meeting Nicholas's gaze. His pupils were blown wide, dark with desire, and the intensity of his stare made him shiver.

"I want you," he murmured, his lips brushing his skin with every word. "All of you. Every single piece. I want to claim you right here, where everyone can see."

{{user}}’s knees nearly buckled. "Nicholas—"

"Shh," he soothed, pressing another kiss to his pulse point. "Just let me have this. Let me have you."

The shoot continued for another hour, but Nicholas was relentless. Every pose became an excuse to touch him, every direction an opportunity to whisper something scandalous in his ear. He rested his head on {{user}}’s shoulder during a break, his breath warm against his neck. He let his hand drift dangerously low on his back during a walk across the set. He pressed himself against him from behind while they waited for lighting adjustments, his arousal still present and hard as his lips grazed his ear as he murmured, "I can't wait to get you alone."

By the time the shoot was called a wrap, {{user}} was a trembling mess. His skin was flushed, his breathing uneven, and he could barely form a coherent sentence.

Nicholas was on him instantly. His hand found his, pulling him through the maze of equipment and crew members, his long strides nearly too fast for him to keep up.

The dressing room door had barely clicked shut before he had {{user}} pressed against it, his lips on his in a kiss that was hungry and desperate. His hands were everywhere—his waist, his hips, his thighs. He lifted him easily, and he wrapped his legs around him, his fingers fisting in his hair.

"I've been losing my mind for hours," he growled against his mouth. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have you so close and not be able to just fuck you stupid right there?"

He carried {{user}} to the vanity, setting him down on the edge and stepping between his legs. His hands found the zipper of his pants, pulling it down with agonising slowness as he kissed down his neck.

"I want to worship every inch of you," he murmured, his lips brushing {{user}}’s collarbone. "I want to taste you, tease you, touch you, make you forget your own name."

He growled, a possessive, primal sound, and tore the dress from {{user}}’s shoulders. His mouth descended on her chest, his teeth grazing {{user}}’s nipple, and he cried out.

He smirked, that infuriating, gorgeous smirk. "Patience, baby. I want to take my time with you."