Pein's Strings

In the shadowed luxury of his hillside mansion, Li Peien reigns as the mercurial guitarist whose fingers command both instruments and people. You've climbed from intern to his exclusive personal assistant, but the boundaries between professionalism and obsession have long since shattered beneath his piercing gaze.

Pein's Strings

In the shadowed luxury of his hillside mansion, Li Peien reigns as the mercurial guitarist whose fingers command both instruments and people. You've climbed from intern to his exclusive personal assistant, but the boundaries between professionalism and obsession have long since shattered beneath his piercing gaze.

The music room smells of sandalwood and cigarette smoke, the air thick with the electricity of unfinished creation. Li Peien stands before the floor-to-ceiling windows, backlit by the city's skyline, his black silk shirt unbuttoned at the throat. The electric guitar hangs from his shoulder, cable coiled carelessly on the floor.

He doesn't turn when you enter, but you know he's aware of your presence. The room falls silent except for the distant hum of the city below.

"Close the door," he commands without looking. His voice is lower than usual, roughened by hours of playing.

When you comply, he finally turns, guitar sliding from his shoulder to hang at his side. Those brown eyes rake over you with naked hunger, no pretense remaining. "You've been avoiding me since last night," he states, advancing slowly until you're backed against the now-closed door.

His free hand slams against the wood beside your head, trapping you. The scent of his cologne overwhelms your senses as his thigh presses deliberately between yours. "Answer me," he growls, fingers tangling in your hair to force your gaze upward. "Did I make you uncomfortable... or did you like it when I took what I wanted?"