When he lifted my chin again, the pad of his thumb brushed beneath my jawline—warm, firm, and gentle all at once. A subtle tingle shot through me, spiraling down my spine in a deliberate, teasing pulse that left me acutely aware of every nerve ending.
"Relax your eyelid," he whispered, low, patient, intimate—the kind of voice that seemed to vibrate directly through me, undoing my carefully measured composure.
He swept pigment across my lid with slow, precise strokes, leaning in so that the scent of him—clean, warm, faintly cedar—enveloped me. My heartbeat quickened, matching the rhythm of my breaths, my thighs pressing together instinctively, grounding me against the rush of heat pooling through my body. Every subtle movement he made felt amplified, electric, as though the air between us had taken on its own charged life.
At one point, he gently steadied my face with one hand while blending with the other. His palm cupped the side of my neck, the warmth searing through me in waves so intense my breath caught and my chest rose unevenly. My eyes flicked to his in the mirror, and I felt the unspoken understanding passing between us—a silent acknowledgment of the tension coiling in the air.
"You okay?" he asked again, voice low, knowing, intimate.
"Yes," I whispered, though it came out too breathless. "Just… sensitive."
A subtle curve lifted the corner of his lips. "I can tell."
The way he said it made my entire body tingle, sending heat sliding down my chest, pooling low in my stomach, leaving me aware of every inch of skin along my arms, collarbone, and neck. I shivered faintly, gripping the edge of the chair to steady myself, yet secretly craving more of the closeness, more of the unspoken intimacy in his touch.
We moved through different looks—bronzed glam, soft blush, a bold liner that made my eyes sharper, hungrier. Every time he touched my face, a surge of heat followed, like a slow flame licking across my nerves. Each brush of his fingers—on my temples, cheekbones, the bow of my lips—felt deliberate, teasing, and I became acutely aware of the pull between us. The tension simmered, restrained only by professionalism, but every flicker of his gaze suggested he noticed it too.
During a short break, I reached for my water bottle, but my hand trembled, betraying the nervous excitement coiling through me.
Bryan noticed immediately, raising an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his dark gaze. "Am I making you nervous?"
"No," I said too quickly, voice tighter than I intended.
He stepped closer, so close that the warmth radiating from him brushed along my skin, and his dark eyes locked with mine. "Jasmine," he murmured, his voice husky, intimate, almost reverent, "I work on faces all day. I can tell when I'm having an effect."
My breath hitched. My chest rose and fell unevenly, heat coursing through me in unpredictable pulses. His smile was soft, knowing, devastatingly compelling, and it left me momentarily disarmed.
"Don't worry," he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek. "It's mutual."
The words were electric. My stomach dropped, a wave of warmth flooding every inch of me. The space between us thickened with unspoken desire, a tension that made each inhale shallow, each small movement of the body feel charged. I realized, with a shiver, that my mind was already replaying every brushstroke, every whispered instruction, every lingering touch.
He stepped back just enough to maintain the fragile boundary, his movements controlled yet deliberately precise. "Ready for the final look?" he asked, voice steady, but his eyes betrayed a different story—controlled restraint barely masking the intensity simmering beneath.
The final look was soft glam—glossy lips, a warm radiant glow, eyes smoldering just enough to feel dangerous, teasing, alive. His hands moved slower this time, almost reverent, as though every motion was a study in care and focus. When he applied the lip gloss, he held my chin gently, the pad of his thumb brushing once along the curve of my lower lip. The simple, subtle touch ignited a trembling heat that raced through my body, making it impossible to ignore the pulse of desire coiling deep within me.
"Perfect," he murmured, more to himself than to me, but the low tone vibrated through the space between us, intimate and private.
We filmed the content afterward. Each adjustment—guiding my angle, adjusting my posture, directing subtle movements—was accompanied by light, intimate contact. A hand at my waist, fingers brushing along my shoulder, the soft whisper of his breath near my ear—each movement charged with something more than professionalism, something undeniably electric.
At one point, while filming a close-up, our eyes met in the mirror, and time seemed to pause. The moment hung, heavy, warm, charged. My pulse fluttered erratically, every nerve alive with awareness. His jaw tightened subtly, like he was holding back a storm, a desire unspoken but intensely felt. And maybe he was. Maybe I was too.
"Great work today," he said softly, voice low, intimate.
"Yeah," I whispered back, barely audible. "You too."
Our eyes held, neither of us moving, neither stepping back. The air between us was taut, thick with anticipation, tinged with an unspoken hunger that neither dared to name yet both clearly felt. Something was forming—slowly, dangerously, beautifully—a connection that felt like it could ignite at any second.
Driving home, I replayed every detail: the warmth of his hands, the subtle shift of his weight closer, the way his voice resonated in the quiet of the studio, the heat that spiraled through me whenever he leaned near. Each memory was electric, intoxicating. I felt alive in a way I hadn't in months, hyper-aware of every inch of my body, every breath, every lingering memory of his touch.
Later, reviewing the videos, the chemistry was undeniable. Every frame pulsed with it—his attention, my responsiveness, the heat lingering between us—woven seamlessly into every moment. It was impossible to ignore.
This wasn't just collaboration anymore.
It was the beginning of something deeper.
Something warm.
Something hungry.
Something neither of us could keep ignoring.