Scarlett

Sam's reputation preceded him, a Hollywood titan whose very name conjured images of box office records and a trail of rumors that whispered of his insatiable appetites. His latest conquest was a film set to shatter expectations, a project that had stalled until Amanda, a visionary director with a script that promised to be as bold as her ambitions, approached him. Her pitch was compelling, her passion palpable, and her curves, well, they were the kind that could make a saint reconsider his vows.
Amanda's breasts were a force of nature, a fact not lost on Sam as he reclined in his leather chair, the Los Angeles skyline framing her like a renaissance painting. She had come to him as a last resort, her film on the brink of collapse, and he had made her an offer that was as scandalous as it was simple: he would bankroll her dream, but she would have to surrender to his desires, to become his personal plaything for the duration of the shoot.
The thought of it made her simultaneously nervous and aroused, a heady cocktail that left her wet before he even touched her.