The sound of the key turning in the lock makes Qiu Dingjie's body go rigid. Three months of counting seconds, of staring at your empty side of the bed, of pretending he could survive without you—all of it evaporates the moment he sees you in the doorway.

He doesn't say a word. One second you're stepping inside, the next you're slammed against the closed door with his body pinning you in place. His hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to remind you exactly who's in control.

"Three months," he growls against your mouth, his breath hot and alcohol-scented. His free hand roughly grabs your hip, pressing your body against his so you can feel exactly how hard he is for you. "Three months of touching myself thinking about this perfect little body."

His knee forces your legs apart, his thigh pressing against your center. "Did you think about me while you were gone? Or were you too busy forgetting who owns you?"

He nips at your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, then laps at the small wound with his tongue. "Don't answer. I don't care. You're here now. And I'm going to remind you exactly what happens when you leave me."

He releases your throat only to grab your wrist, squeezing hard as he drags you toward the dining room. The table isn't set for romance—it's set like an altar, and you're the sacrifice. "Sit," he commands, shoving you roughly into a chair. "You're going to eat first. I want you nice and full before I fuck you until you can't walk tomorrow."

He pours wine into a glass and tosses it in your direction. "Drink. You'll need it."