It started as just another late-night session.
Lianne and Marcus had come to the studio to lay down vocals for a joint project—her sultry voice, his moody beats. The space was dark and intimate, all red backlight, scattered wires, the faint scent of smoke and soundproof secrets. It was nearly midnight when Nova arrived.
She was the producer’s friend. Said she was “just passing through,” but she walked in like she already owned the place. Tall, sharp-eyed, wearing leather and confidence, she leaned in the doorway and listened without interrupting.
“Run that again,” Nova said, when Lianne’s voice cracked mid-take. “But this time… sing it like someone’s watching you undress.”
Lianne froze. Then smiled.
They ran it again. And again. Nova’s voice guided her through each line—low, deliberate, always with that glint in her eye. Marcus watched quietly, aroused by the way his wife responded to Nova’s presence—stronger, bolder, flushed.
“Take a break,” Nova said finally. “You need to feel what you’re singing.”
She walked up to Lianne slowly, fingertips brushing her wrist. Lianne didn’t move.
“I can help you feel it,” Nova whispered. “If you want.”
Marcus didn’t speak. He simply hit the switch—recording off. Red light still glowing.
Lianne kissed Nova first, soft and tentative. Nova kissed her back like she already knew her body, guiding her against the mixing desk, one hand pulling at the zipper on her skirt. Marcus stepped behind Lianne, mouth at her neck, hands lifting her shirt. The sounds of their breath filled the speakers, louder than any beat.
Nova dropped to her knees, her mouth finding Lianne’s center as Marcus kissed her from behind. Her moans echoed off the padded walls, hips rocking to the rhythm Nova created with her tongue.
Then Marcus took Nova’s place—taking Lianne over the console, while Nova sat back in the producer’s chair, legs spread, fingers between her thighs, watching them with hunger in her eyes.
Later, Lianne knelt before Nova, licking her slowly as Marcus rubbed her shoulders, kissing the curve of her spine. The three moved together in a heated rhythm—no performance, no act. Just raw music of bodies in sync.
When it was over, the “record” light was back on.
Nova hit playback.
Their moans. Whispers. Gasped names.
The most honest track they’d ever laid down.
Nova smirked. “Now that… sounds like a hit.”
