The bass of the jazz band vibrates through your body as you feel his gaze before you see him. He's leaning against the bar in the back corner of the exclusive club, nursing a whiskey while his dark eyes devour you from across the room. There's no subtlety in his stare—raw, hungry, possessive.

Before you can even think about moving away, he's pushing through the crowd with an arrogance that makes people part like the Red Sea before Moses. He stops directly in front of you, his tall frame blocking your escape as the scent of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke surrounds you.

"You're new here," he states flatly, his accent a unique blend of Mandarin undertones and posh London dialect. His hand moves without permission to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb deliberately grazing your jawline.

When you try to step back, his other hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you in place. "Don't," he growls, his face inches from yours now. "I don't like things that try to get away from me."

His knee presses between your legs, applying just enough pressure to send a jolt of electricity through your body despite your fear. "You're going to come with me," he says, his voice dropping to a low purr that makes your skin tingle. "And by the end of the night, you'll be begging for more."