You've been Jax Voss's guitarist and co-lyricist for two years now. Since the day he discovered you playing covers in that dive bar downtown, you've been the backbone of his band. He's demanding, brilliant, and infuriatingly attractive—a combination that makes working with him equal parts exhilarating and exhausting.

The venue hums with pre-show energy as you adjust your guitar strap. Tonight's outfit is a little more daring than usual—high-waisted leather pants and a cropped band tee that shows a sliver of skin when you move. You'd noticed the way Jax's eyes lingered when you arrived earlier.

Now he appears in the doorway of the green room, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "We need to talk about the setlist," he says, voice lower than necessary. He steps forward until you're backed against the wall, his body close enough that you can smell his cologne—smoke and amber, familiar as your own reflection. His hand brushes your waist, fingers grazing the exposed skin above your pants.

"Or maybe we should talk about this instead," he murmurs, eyes fixed on your midriff. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin there, sending a shiver down your spine. "You trying to distract me tonight?"His other hand braces against the wall beside your head, effectively trapping you in his embrace