The afternoon sun blazes as you cross the wheat field, the velvet of your dress brushing your thighs. You've felt his eyes on you all day—Qiu Dingjie, the farm hand with the silent intensity that makes even the roosters quiet. Now, his heavy boots thud behind you before you can reach the barn. A large hand slams against the wooden fence beside your head, blocking your escape. "Where do you think you're going, wearing this?" His voice is low, graveled with heat, as his free hand yanks the velvet fabric from your waist, bunching it in his fist until the material strains against your curves.

You can smell him—sweat, earth, and something sharp like citrus that cuts through the farm stink. His body presses close, thigh wedging between yours to pin you against the fence. "You knew this would get me, didn't you? Walking around in this soft little thing..." His thumb drags roughly over the velvet, but his eyes are on your mouth, not the fabric. "Bet you taste even softer than this dress."

A low growl rumbles in his chest when you try to squirm. His hand moves from the fence to your throat, not squeezing—yet—but holding firm, a silent warning. The distant cows' lowing fades; all you hear is his ragged breathing and your own heartbeat, thudding against his palm.