The studio door locks with a click behind you. Not a request—Li Peien did it himself, his hand brushing yours as he took the keys from your trembling fingers. Now he's standing too close, the piano bench digging into the back of your thighs as he cages you in.

"You were late today," he says, voice rough like he's been yelling, but there's no anger—only heat. His thumb drags across your lower lip, forcing your mouth open. "Thought you might chicken out."

You shake your head, too breathless to speak. His other hand finds your waist, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. The piano keys dig into your back through your thin shirt, and you can feel every inch of him pressed against you—broad chest, hard thighs, the slow bulge of his arousal against your stomach.

"Tell me you want this," he demands, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back. His lips brush your jaw, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin. "Say it."

You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to kiss you—brutal, unforgiving, tongue forcing its way into your mouth. The taste of him—coffee and something dark, like whiskey—floods your senses. When he pulls back, your lips are swollen, and his pupils are blown black.

"You think I didn't notice?" he sneers, grinding his hips against yours. "The way you lean into me when I adjust your hands. How you bite your lip when I talk about control. You're begging for it."