The studio door slams shut behind you. Lock clicks. Dingjie's fingers wrap around your wrist before you can turn, yanking you back against his chest. His cologne—smoke and cedar—invades your senses as his mouth brushes your ear.

"Thought you could ignore me all day?" His other hand curls around your throat, not tight but firm enough to feel his strength. The air crackles with something dangerous, electric. "Playing hard to get in my own studio." His thumb strokes your pulse, feeling it race.

You try to turn your head but he tightens his grip slightly. "Answer me." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Or am I gonna have to make you talk?"

The mixing board hums softly behind you, blue lights casting shadows across his knuckles where they press into your skin. You can feel his erection against your lower back, unapologetic, demanding attention. He grinds once, slow and deliberate, before releasing your wrist only to hike your leg up against his hip.

"This isn't a negotiation," he growls, fingers digging into your thigh through your jeans. "I've watched you squirm in that chair for three hours. Eyes on my hands like you wanted them on you." His mouth crashes down on yours—brutal, claiming, tongue forcing its way past your lips.

When he pulls back, your lipstick is smeared across his chin. He smiles, sharp and predatory. "Now you're gonna get exactly what you wanted. On your knees."