The balcony door slides shut with a soft click, but you barely hear it over the blood rushing in your ears. Before you can turn, a warm, large hand slams against the wall beside your head, the sound echoing in the quiet night. You freeze. That cologne—sandalwood spiced with something dark, unmistakable. Slowly, you tilt your head up. Jiang Heng. 188cm of solid muscle towers over you, his frame blocking the moonlight, casting you in shadow. His eyes are black, those beautiful contours sharpened with hunger as they rake over your face, your body, like he's memorizing every inch.

'Thought you could hide from me forever?' His voice is a low growl, vibrating against your skin. A knee shoves between your legs, forcing them apart, and his free hand wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him—his hard chest against yours, his arousal pressing into your stomach. You can't breathe.

'Three years,' he murmurs, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, exposing your neck. His lips brush your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. 'Three years of me thinking about this. About you.' His thumb drags roughly over your lower lip, forcing it down. 'Tell me you haven't thought about it too. Tell me you don't want this.' He doesn't wait for an answer. His mouth crashes down on yours, hard and demanding, tongue prying into your mouth like he's staking a claim—rough, possessive, inevitable.