The rain had turned the city into a sheen of wet pavement and glowing headlights, casting a moody romance outside Freya's studio windows. Inside, it was all dimmed lights and jazz pouring softly through hidden speakers.
Freya didn't usually work this late — especially not with company — but a last-minute reshoot meant a dress had to be refit on a model who, ironically, was nowhere to be found.
"I'll do it," Adam offered casually, already shrugging off his jacket.
Freya blinked. "You? That's not exactly regulation."
"Neither is working after hours." He stepped closer, his body language as loose as ever, but there was a heat beneath it — a spark that refused to cool. "Unless you've got a mannequin that can flex and breathe and smirk like I do?"
She tilted her head, pretending to consider. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you — this dress is very snug. And I'll be using pins. Sharp ones."
Adam chuckled. "Is that your way of saying don't get hard?"
Freya didn't smile, but her eyes twinkled. "No. That's my way of saying don't squirm when I poke you."
He peeled off his T-shirt slowly, and she did her best to keep her gaze clinical. Professional. Still, her fingers itched to touch. His chest was toned, his skin smooth and dark like bronze kissed by firelight. A trail of hair disappeared beneath his belt line — and Freya's eyes followed it for a half-second too long.
She cleared her throat. "Turn around. Arms up."
He obeyed, and she slipped the backless silk dress over his shoulders, her fingers brushing against the curve of his neck, the flex of his back muscles. The fabric was tight, intentionally so — it hugged him in ways it wasn't meant to hug a man.
Freya circled him, tugging seams, adjusting hem lines, and every time she leaned in, her body came just a little too close. Her breath warmed his skin. Her perfume made his head swim.
"Not bad," she murmured, running a hand down the side of his hip to smooth a wrinkle.
Adam looked down at her, voice thick. "You always this... hands-on?"
"Only with materials that behave." Her hand lingered, daring, then pulled away.
"I'm not very good at behaving."
"I know."
They locked eyes.
And for a beat — no one moved.
Then: "Turn again," she said, voice husky.
As he turned, his front faced her fully — and the tightness in the dress made it clear just how much of him was pressing against the fabric.
Freya froze.
Adam smirked. "Still think I'm good material?"
"I think," she whispered, stepping closer, "you're stretching the limits of what this fabric can take."
"You're the one who put me in it."
"I didn't think you'd fill it so... thoroughly."
They stood inches apart now. The air between them pulsed with tension.
"Should I take it off?" he asked, softly.
"Not yet," she replied, reaching up — under the guise of adjusting the shoulder strap — but her fingers brushed the side of his throat, his collarbone, trailing down to his chest.
His body shivered under her touch.
"Cold?" she asked.
"No," he said. "Just... aware."
Of her. Of every slow movement. Of the warmth blooming in his core.
She stepped behind him again, smoothing the back of the dress. Her palms pressed flat against his shoulder blades, trailing down... down... until her hands hovered near the small of his back.
She leaned in, whispering, "You're tensing."
"You're touching."
"That's how fittings work."
His voice dropped. "Then fit me again."
She didn't expect that. The boldness. The heat in his words.
Freya exhaled, long and quiet. Then she walked around to face him again.
"I'm not sure if it's the dress or you that's misbehaving."
Adam's voice was quiet but confident. "Maybe it's both."
And then — Freya reached for the hem of the dress. Her fingers slid beneath the silk, adjusting the lining. She tugged the fabric — and her hand brushed against him.
He didn't flinch.
She didn't pull away.
They both knew it wasn't an accident.
Freya looked up slowly, her hand still beneath the silk, resting dangerously close.
"I should stop," she whispered.
"You won't," Adam said.
And he was right.
Their eyes locked.
And Freya did something she hadn't done in a long, long time.
She touched him — gently, deliberately — just long enough to feel the firmness of him through the fabric.
He inhaled, jaw tightening.
"Still want me to behave?" he asked.
She withdrew her hand. Smoothed the fabric. Composed herself.
"I never asked you to," she said.
They stood in silence, tension crackling between them like a live wire.
Then Freya stepped back, lips parted, chest rising and falling with each breath.
"You can take it off now," she said.
"Want to help?" he teased.
She didn't reply. Just watched as he peeled the dress away from his body, slow and deliberate.
He stood in front of her in nothing but his briefs, the outline of him unmistakably bold beneath the soft cotton.
And Freya?
She couldn't look away.
She didn't look away.
He stepped closer, closing the distance.
And then — only then — did she lift a hand and place it on his bare chest.
"I'm not sleeping with you," she said softly, firmly.
Adam leaned in. His breath tickled her neck.
"Not yet," he whispered.