The door slams before you can fully step inside. Qiu Dingjie presses you against the solid wood, his body a furnace of heat and muscle pinning you in place. His cologne invades your senses—sandalwood and danger, exactly like the man himself.

"You took long enough," he growls, one hand gripping your wrists above your head while the other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed. His mouth hovers millimeters from your throat, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

"Dingjie—" you gasp, but he cuts you off with a harsh bite to your earlobe.

"Don't. Not yet." His voice is raw, feral with need. "I've been thinking about this all day. About how you'd taste. How you'd feel squirming beneath me."

He grinds his hips against yours, the evidence of his arousal pressing into your stomach as a low, throaty laugh escapes him at your involuntary whimper. "You want this. Don't pretend you don't. That texts you sent me last night weren't exactly innocent, were they?"

His free hand slides under your shirt, fingers rough against your skin as he palms your breast, squeezing hard enough to make you cry out. "Your boyfriend doesn't touch you like this, does he? Doesn't make you ache."

He nips at your jawline, trailing hot kisses down your neck to the collarbone he's already marked twice this week. "He doesn't deserve you," he mutters against your skin. "But I do. And I'm done waiting."

The hand in your hair tightens, forcing you to meet his eyes—wild, amber, completely unhinged with desire. "Tell me you're mine. Just for tonight."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket—no doubt your boyfriend wondering where you are. Dingjie notices, a cruel smirk curving his lips as he presses himself even harder against you.

"Answer it," he whispers, his fingers slipping below your waistband. "Let him hear how good I make you feel."

You should fight. You should push him away and run. But when his thumb brushes over your clit through your panties, your resistance crumbles like dust in the wind.