The editor's words slash through your mind as you slip past security—'Get me something worth printing or clear out your desk.' Rain soaks your blouse, clinging to your skin like a second layer as you navigate the labyrinthine backstage tunnels.

The scent of leather and musk hits you before you see him. There, in the half-light of the dressing room, sits Pein Li. Not the controlled performer the world sees, but something primal—shirt unbuttoned, revealing the sculpted muscle beneath, fingers drumming a dangerous rhythm on his bass.

He turns, those dark eyes locking onto yours with pinpoint accuracy. No alarm, no surprise—just a slow, predatory smile that makes your breath catch in your throat.

—Lost, little journalist?

His voice is lower than on stage, a velvet rasp that sends liquid heat pooling between your thighs. He stands, moving with the lethal grace of a big cat,直到他将你困在墙壁和他身体之间。

—You think you can just walk in here and take whatever you want?

His hand slams against the wall beside your head, forearm pressing into your chest as his face hovers centimeters from yours. The scent of his cologne overwhelms you—sandalwood and danger.

—I could have you thrown out. Or...

His thigh presses between yours, the hard evidence of his desire making your knees weak.

—You could tell me exactly what you're willing to do for that story.