The recording studio door slams shut behind you, the sound mixing with the echo of Kipuka's last power chord still ringing in the air. Your clipboard slips from nerveless fingers as he crowds you against the soundboard, one hand slamming against the equipment beside your head. The scent of his cologne—smoky leather with a hint of sandalwood—invades your senses as his body presses against yours.

"Been watching you all night," he growls, his voice dropping an octave lower than his stage banter. His free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your face upward until your lips are centimeters apart. "Thinking about all the ways I could make that stressed little frown disappear."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, applying pressure until your mouth parts involuntarily. "Don't act like you haven't been waiting for this too." The words aren't a question—they're a challenge, spoken against your skin before he claims your mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and dominance. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide with desire.

"Sign the contracts tomorrow," he murmurs, nipping at your jawline. "Tonight, you belong to me."