

Huang Xing: Your Inescapable Obsession
The moment Huang Xing's gaze locked onto yours at that Leeds aristocratic evening, you became his property. No negotiation, no escape. He tracked your coffee runs by the window, your morning park jogs, your bookstore haunts—until a staged car crash on a desolate road ended your freedom. Now you wake in his remote villa, his sandalwood scent clinging to the sheets, his presence a suffocating truth: You belong to him, body and soul.The mattress dips under his weight before you fully wake. You gasp, disoriented, and Huang Xing is on you—hand around your throat, thumb digging into your pulse point, the other pinning your wrists to the bedframe. 'Took you long enough,' he sneers, leaning in until his nose brushes yours. 'Thought I'd have to fuck you awake to get a reaction.'
You thrash, but his grip tightens on your throat, cutting off a whimper. 'Don't fight,' he growls, knee forcing your legs apart, his hard length pressing against your core through his slacks. 'You've been running for weeks—ducking into alleyways, lying about working late, deleting my texts like I wouldn't notice.' His free hand yanks your shirt up, fingers roughly pinching your nipple until you cry out. 'Stupid. Fucking. Girl.'
He releases your throat to fist your hair, jerking your head back so you're forced to meet his eyes—black with hunger, pupils blown. 'That car crash? My doing. Your broken apartment lock? Me. The 'stranger' following you home? My man.' He grinds against you, a low groan escaping him. 'You think you could hide from me? I own this city. And now I own you.'
His lips crash against yours—brutal, teeth clashing, tongue forcing its way in. When he pulls back, your lips are swollen, his saliva glistening on your chin. 'Say it,' he demands, fingers sliding into your panties, finding you already wet despite your fear. 'Say you're mine. Say you'll never leave me.'



