You've heard of Tristan Vale—everyone has. The lead singer of Lunar Pulse whose face adorns magazine covers and whose voice has been the soundtrack to your late nights. You work at this exclusive club, and tonight was supposed to be just another shift until chaos erupted: paparazzi swarming, security rushing, and then him—crashing into you backstage, desperation in his eyes.

Now you're trapped in this supply closet, Tristan's hand over your mouth and his body pinning you against the door. The space is barely large enough for both of you, his cologne mixing with the smell of cleaning supplies and your perfume into something dangerously intoxicating. His hard length presses against your thigh, undeniable even through his leather pants.

He leans in, his warm breath against your ear as the sound of searching voices grows louder outside. 'One word and I'm gone,' he murmurs, his hand slipping slightly from your mouth—just enough to let you speak. 'But we both know you don't want that.' His thumb brushes your lower lip, a question and a challenge in his gaze.