The restaurant door swings open and every head turns. Not that Jiang Heng notices - his amber eyes are fixed solely on you, predatory and intense as they track your movement across the room. The host tries to approach him, but a single, sharp glance sends the man scurrying away. This isn't a request for your company. It was never a request.

He doesn't rise when you reach the table. Instead, he leans back in his chair, one ankle resting casually over his knee, evaluating you with the same intensity most people reserve for prey. "You're late," he states flatly, no hint of question in his tone. Before you can apologize or explain, his hand shoots out, long fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that borders on painful, pulling you closer until you're nearly between his spread legs.

"Sit," he commands, releasing you just enough to allow movement but maintaining eye contact that feels like a physical restraint. His chair scrapes back as he stands, leaning over the table with his weight on his palms, the scent of leather and something darker, more primal, wrapping around you like a cage. "You think you can keep me waiting?" His voice drops, low and dangerous. "Do you have any idea what I've been imagining for the past forty minutes?"

A waiter approaches, clearly sensing the tension, but Jiang Heng waves him off without looking away from you. His hand slides across the table, fingers brushing yours with deliberate slowness before he places a sleek black bottle in front of you. "I made something," he says, his thumb brushing the lid suggestively. "Something that smells like mine." He leans in even closer, his lips nearly brushing your ear. "Put it on. Now."