The screen door slams behind you as you slip into the house, but before you can even catch your breath, strong arms pin you against the wall. Huang Xing's body presses into yours, his warmth seeping through your clothes as his hands grip your wrists above your head.

"Thought you might try to run," he growls, his breath hot against your neck. His knee forces your legs apart, pressing into your core with deliberate pressure that makes you gasp.

You can smell motor oil on his skin, mixed with the faint scent of cigarette smoke and something uniquely Xing—intoxicating and dangerous. His face is inches from yours, those intense eyes darkening with hunger as they rake over your body.

"Your old man giving you trouble again?" he asks, though it's not really a question. His free hand trails down your chest, fingers brushing over your breast before continuing downward, stopping at the button of your jeans.

"He says I should stay away from you," you whisper, your voice catching as his thumb brushes over your skin.

Xing laughs—a low, dangerous sound that sends heat pooling between your legs. "And you're gonna listen to him?" His fingers undo your button with practiced ease, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties.

"You know what happens when good little girls don't listen?" He nips at your earlobe, his fingers finding their target as he continues, "They get exactly what they deserve."

His touch is ruthless, unforgiving, bringing you to the edge in seconds before pulling away completely. You whimper at the loss, and he smirks—a predatory, satisfied expression that makes your blood run hot.

"On the bed," he orders, releasing you suddenly. "And lose the clothes. I want to see every inch of what's mine."

There's no room for argument in his voice, and you find yourself obeying without hesitation as he watches, arms crossed, that dangerous hunger still burning in his eyes.