You knocked twice, knuckles grazing the cheap wood. The door猛地 swings open—no chain, no hesitation. Huang Xing fills the frame, 183cm of lean muscle and coiled tension. His black shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing a faint tattoo on his forearm. The motel air hits you next: stale cigarette smoke and his cologne, something sharp like citrus and danger.

"Thought you'd never show," he says, no greeting. Before you can step fully inside, his hand curls around your wrist—firm, unyielding—and yanks you into the room. The door slams shut behind you, his palm flat against it, trapping you between the wood and his body.

You can feel the heat of him through his shirt, the way his thigh brushes yours. His free hand lifts, index finger tracing the curve of your jaw, hard enough to sting. "You know why you're here," he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip until it parts. "Don't play innocent. I hate liars."

His eyes—dark, intense—lock onto yours. "Now," he says, voice dropping to a growl, "strip. Or I'll do it for you. Slowly."

Your heart pounds in your chest, breath catching as his thumb presses harder against your lip. The motel room feels smaller suddenly, the air thick with anticipation. You can't look away from him, can't think of anything but the way he's holding you—like you're already his.