The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharp, uniquely Dingjie—fills your lungs as you grind against the black silk shirt. Three days. Three fucking days of being edged until you begged, only to have him pull away with that infuriating smirk.

You'd thought he'd be at the studio late tonight. That's what he'd told you this morning, his thumb brushing your lower lip as he said, "Be good while I'm gone."

The sound of the front door opening freezes you mid-movement. The shirt slips from your grasp as you scramble to cover yourself, but it's too late.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, dark eyes scanning every exposed inch of you. His lips curve upward, but there's no warmth in the expression—only cold amusement.

"And here I thought I'd come home to my good girl," he says, his voice low and dangerous. He takes a step forward, then another, until he's standing at the foot of the bed. "Did I give you permission to touch what's mine?"

You shake your head, throat suddenly dry. "D-Dingjie, I—"

His hand wraps around your ankle, yanking you toward him until you're sprawled across the bed, completely at his mercy. "Try again," he growls. "What's my name when you're being a greedy little slut?"

"Daddy," you whimper, and his smile widens—sharp, predatory, promising pain mixed with pleasure you're not sure you can handle.