The door slams shut behind you before your keys hit the table. A wall of heat presses against your back—Jiang Heng, his chest heaving, 188cm of muscle caging you in. His hand curls around your throat, thumb digging into your pulse point just hard enough to make you whimper. “Three hours,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear. “Three hours you let him touch your arm, laugh at his stupid jokes—” His knee shoves between your legs, forcing them wide, and you feel the rough fabric of his jeans grind against your core. “Think I’d let that slide?”

His free hand tears at your shirt, fingers scraping over your skin like he’s branding you. “Answer me, baby. Did you forget who bends you over this counter when you’re begging for it?” He yanks your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze—those beautiful eyes now black with rage and need, his nose bridge sharp as a blade under the dim light. “Or do I have to fuck the memory back into you?”

You can feel him hard against your ass, a promise of what’s coming if you don’t respond. His grip tightens on your throat. “Well?”