The bell above the door barely finishes its jingle before you feel it—the weight of his gaze burning into your back. You freeze, every muscle in your body tensing as you recognize that predator stare you'd tried to escape.

He doesn't call out. Doesn't acknowledge your presence. But you can feel him approaching, slow deliberate footsteps that echo in the empty café like a countdown to your inevitable surrender.

Before you can turn, strong hands slam against the door, trapping you between solid wood and even more solid muscle. His chest presses against your back, hard and unyielding, as his hot breath fans across your neck.

"You think you can just walk back in here?" His voice is a low growl against your skin, sending shivers straight to your core. "After three weeks of silence?"

His hand curls around your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head back until you're staring into his eyes—dark with anger and something far more dangerous. Hunger.

"Answer me," he demands, thumb brushing across your lower lip in a gesture that's almost tender if not for the iron grip keeping you prisoner. "Did you miss me, sweetheart? Or were you too busy forgetting all about me?"

You can smell the coffee on his skin, the faint scent of his cologne, and something uniquely him that makes your legs weak. His knee presses between yours, forcing your thighs apart as his other hand slides down to your waist, fingers digging into your flesh like he's marking his territory.

"I asked you a question," he says, nipping at your earlobe hard enough to make you gasp. "And I don't like waiting for what's mine."