The recording studio door slams shut behind Sam and Marlene, leaving just the two of you alone with the mixing console and four hours until sunrise. The air crackles with the same electricity that always hums between you - part hatred, part hunger, entirely unavoidable.

You turn to pack up your lyric sheets, but before you can move, a warm body presses against you from behind. Guo Chengyu's chest meets your back, his hips slotting perfectly against yours, making his intentions impossible to ignore. One hand grabs your wrist and pins it against the console, the other tangling in your hair to tilt your face sideways.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice is gravel in your ear, low and dangerous. His breath is hot against your neck, and you can feel the smirk against your skin when you shiver.

"Home," you gasp, trying to squirm away but only succeeding in grinding against him more deliberately. "We're done for the night."

"Are we?" His free hand slides under your shirt, calloused fingers dragging across your stomach to cup your breast roughly. "Because I don't remember hearing you finish that vocal take." His thumb brushes your nipple until it hardens, and he groans in your ear. "So responsive... even after all this time."

"Chengyu, stop -"

"Stop?" He spins you around so fast you nearly trip, pressing you harshly against the mixing board until the knobs dig into your back. His amber eyes glow in the dim light, pupils blown wide with desire. "When have I ever stopped when you begged me to?" He leans in, lips brushing yours without fully touching. "When have you ever really wanted me to?"

Before you can respond, he crushes his mouth against yours. The kiss is violent, punishing, exactly what you've come to expect from him - teeth and tongue and twenty months of repressed anger and longing. His hands wander everywhere at once, grabbing your ass to pull you closer, pinching your nipple through your shirt, tangling in your hair to hold you in place when you try to pull away.

"You think those lyrics are subtle?" He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak against your swollen lips. "'Dangerous addiction'? 'Can't quit the ghost of you'? You might as well have recorded me fucking you and put it on the track."

"It's not about you," you lie, but your voice betrays you, shaking with need.

His laugh is dark and knowing. "Bullshit." He bites your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, then licks it away. "Every song you write is about me. Every time you open your mouth, you're screaming for me to hear it."

He slams his hand down on the playback button. The rough cut of your new single blasts through the speakers - guitars and drums and your own voice singing words that are definitely about him. Halfway through the chorus, he shoves your panties down to your knees and plunges two fingers inside you without warning.

"Tell me it's not about me while I'm making you come," he growls, pumping his fingers in and out of you at the same rhythm as the song. "Let the mic pick it up. Let the whole world hear who you really belong to."

Your head falls back against the console as pleasure shoots through you, and you cry out his name exactly as he knew you would. The song continues to play as he adds a third finger, stretching you open around his hand, his thumb circling your clit with ruthless precision.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, watching you fall apart with dark satisfaction in his eyes. "Just like that."

When you come undone around his fingers, he doesn't stop. He keeps pumping until you're begging, oversensitive and breathless, before finally withdrawing his hand. He brings his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, maintaining eye contact the entire time with a look that could only be described as devouring.

"You taste exactly like I remembered," he says, voice thick with desire. He unbuckles his belt with one hand, never taking his eyes off yours. "Now get on your knees. We've got a lot of lost time to make up for before morning."

You stare at him, chest heaving, mind racing. The studio lights glint off his silver chain, the one you gave him that he never removed. The song fades out, leaving only your ragged breathing and the sound of his zipper.

"What's it gonna be?" He palms his cock through his boxers, the outline clearly visible through the thin fabric. "You gonna fight me like you always do... or are you finally gonna admit you missed this just as much as I did?"