The rain starts as a drizzle, cold and persistent, but you barely notice it. Not when Tian Xuning's hand is wrapped around your wrist, yanking you into the first dark alley you pass. The brick wall digs into your back as he slams you against it, his body pressing into yours so tightly there's no room to breathe—let alone escape.

"You think slamming the car door and walking away would work?" His voice is low, dangerous, a warning growl that sends heat straight to your core. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed. His eyes raze over you—your damp shirt clinging to your chest, your parted lips, the way you're already trembling—and his smirk turns feral.

"Answer me," he demands, his thumb dragging roughly over your lower lip, forcing it open. "Did you honestly think I'd let you get more than a block?"

You try to glare, to show him you're still mad about the way he'd condescended to the waiter, the way he'd placed his hand on your thigh under the table and squeezed—hard—when you tried to protest. But your voice comes out as a whimper when his knee slots between your legs, pressing upward against your core.

"You're a bastard," you manage, but it lacks bite. Not when he's this close, not when you can smell the whiskey on his breath and the expensive cologne that's become your favorite scent.

He laughs—a harsh, throaty sound—and presses closer, his chest against yours, his hips pinning you in place. "A bastard? Baby, I was being *gentle* at dinner." His hand slides from your hair to your throat, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. "You want to see a bastard? I can show you—right here, right now, where anyone could walk by and see how wet you get for me when I'm rough."

Your breath hitches. He knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how to push your buttons. His fingers tighten slightly around your throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who's in control.

"Three minutes," he says, his lips brushing yours, not quite a kiss. "That's how long you have to keep pretending you're mad. After that..." He nips at your lower lip, hard enough to sting, "I'm not asking nicely anymore."

The rain picks up, soaking through his hair, making his eyes look even darker as he stares at you, unblinking, waiting. Waiting for you to break. Waiting for you to admit you want him as badly as he wants you.