10.

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It's hot and heavy, and my stomach doesn't hesitate to twist and turn. 

I'm overwhelmed, by him. 

His scent, his sight, his presence, and the interactions he blesses me with entertain my thoughts and replay continuously, until I cannot think of a single thing that doesn't include him.

I feel helpless.

Helpless to his aura, his intelligence, his confidence. 

It weakens me and draws down my walls, which I only hope he'll enter. 

But I know that's not possible. 

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As I approach the open, brightly lit photoshoot area, my gaze glazes over the masses of equipment, cameras, angled lights and wires that trail across the floor. Workers fill the room, moving across the cameras and working on their laptops, conversing with one another intently. 

My eye's shift over the room before they finally lock on the tall, towering figure of Mr Dostoevsky entering the room with his assistant and a worker by his side, dressed in complete black.

Black, tailored suit pants, black suit blazer, black undershirt, black tie, black, leather gloves. 

He looks good. Powerful, authoritative. 

And he is. 

His undercut has been cleaned and trimmed, and the left, lengthened locks are swooped back quite neatly from his face, exposing his forehead and such. His skin is lightly glowing, most likely moisturized and prepped for the cameras. 

I need to physically close my jaw as I clamp my lipstick-coated lips closed, my eye's desperate to catch sight of him. 

"30 minutes, tops." 

Rafe comment's softly to my ear as he catches sight of Mr Dostoevsky, and my eye's shift towards Rafe with confusion. 

"Huh?" I hum with confusion, glancing towards Rafe. 

"For how long it took for him to be styled. 30 minutes tops, I'm betting."

"What m-makes you say t-that...?" I ask within a soft mumble, watching the cameras adjust and the lights shift in different angles.

"You've seen the guy's face, don't tell me you haven't. For a businessman in his late 30's, he's blessed with a facial structure that ages like fine wine, honey. They barely need to touch him for him to be camera-ready,"

Rafe chuckles, and as my cheeks heat up with a laugh and a nod, the sight of Mr Dostoevsky's eye's meeting mine instantly ceases my humourous bursts. 

He's perceived me. 

Completely.

I can feel his eyes refuse to avert from my figure, lowering, lifting, and locking on my eye's. 

"In front of the camera, cmon," 

A worker ushers me towards the backdrop before the camera, and as my stilettos lightly click against the wood-panelled floors, I'm placed and stood next to Mr Dostoevsky before the cameras. 

My heart races and my chest seethes with pulsing excitement and nervousness. I can feel his eyes on me, coldly, bluntly. Unemotional and unreactive to my heightened and accentuated make-over, my eyes very nervously meet his for a moment before breaking. 

Then, his voice cuts through my rambling, overwhelming thoughts. 

"Did they sew you into that dress?"

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