Phei's eyes flicked to the low, sleek glass center table in the middle of the living room—wide enough for two bodies, polished black surface reflecting the dim city glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
On it sat the recording gear: a compact tripod already extended, a high-end mirrorless camera mounted and angled slightly downward, a small wireless lav mic clipped to the edge, and a secondary phone rig with a gimbal for handheld close-ups.
Everything already powered on by her before he arrived, red lights blinking softly like predators waiting to pounce.
Everything that has happened so far had been recorded.
Amber's gaze followed his.
Her breath hitched—sharp, audible, a tiny "mmph—" catching in her throat when her eyes landed on the setup.
The sound was pure nervous arousal; her thighs clenched so hard another thick trickle of slick slid visibly down the inside of her leg, pooling at her ankle before she could stop it.
