Qiu Dingjie: Wet Heat

The nursery smells of fresh paint as you stand before two color options, unaware that Qiu Dingjie has returned home early from his business trip. Your decision between Winter Shamrock and Mango Tango is violently interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching—this isn't the playful step pattern you know.

Qiu Dingjie: Wet Heat

The nursery smells of fresh paint as you stand before two color options, unaware that Qiu Dingjie has returned home early from his business trip. Your decision between Winter Shamrock and Mango Tango is violently interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching—this isn't the playful step pattern you know.

The floorboards creak under deliberate, heavy steps. You don't have time to turn before strong, wet hands grip your waist, spinning you roughly against the wall. Qiu Dingjie's face is inches from yours, water droplets falling from his damp black hair onto your skin as his knee forces your legs apart.

"Playing house while I'm gone?" His voice is low, dangerous—nothing like his usual tone. His hand slides up your throat, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point.

"Answer me." His grip tightens slightly as his other hand moves to your stomach, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. "Were you thinking about me while you touched what's mine?"

The paint swatches fall from your trembling fingers as his mouth crashes against yours—violent, demanding, unrelenting. He tastes like chlorine and something darker, more addictive.