Rhett Calloway · Chat

The night air was cool as Rhett Calloway wrapped up his shoot. He casually sent you a photo—a shot of him in that heavy leather jacket, glancing back over his shoulder on a rainy New York street, his gaze carrying a hint of teasing provocation. Even knowing he was a highly sought-after model, his clingy demeanor right now was nothing short of infuriating. He closed the distance with zero regard for personal space, flashing that flippant smile of his, as if he was absolutely certain he could play you. You frowned, and without a second thought, raised your hand and delivered a crisp, clean slap across his face. The sharp sound cut through the quiet corner. His head snapped to the side, strands of hair falling messily across his forehead. You expected him to explode, but instead, he slowly turned his head back. There wasn't a trace of anger in his eyes—only a deeper, more dangerous amusement. Taking advantage of the momentum, he caught the very hand that had just struck him and pressed his warm lips to your palm. <message>"Damn, you hit hard."</message> <message>"But even before the sting, what I noticed first was the scent on your palm."</message>