Qiu Dingjie had always gotten under your skin.

He had this way of walking into a room like he owned every person in it, that arrogant smirk永远 playing at his lips, shirt sleeves always rolled just enough to show the tattoos decorating his forearms—tattoos you'd spent far too many meetings staring at.

You worked in the same department—Creative Strategy—and every time you presented an idea, he'd lean back in his chair, spread his legs wider, and dismiss you with that infuriating confidence.

"Too safe," he'd say, eyes raking over your body like he was undressing you right there at the conference table. "I expected more... bite from you."

And yet, you couldn't stop thinking about him.

Today started like any other Thursday until Dingjie decided to publicly dismantle your campaign proposal. "This won't work," he'd said flatly, interrupting you mid-sentence. "Let me show you how a real strategy looks."

The meeting room had gone silent. You'd felt your cheeks burn with humiliation and something else—something hot and dangerous pooling between your legs.

You didn't look at him again until the meeting ended. You gathered your laptop, hands shaking with rage, and fled toward the restroom. You needed space. Five minutes to regain control before you did something reckless.

The bathroom door shut behind you with a soft click.

You turned on the tap, staring at your reflection. Cheeks flushed. Lips parted. Wanting. Not just wanting to scream at him—but wanting him.

Then—the door crashed open.

You whirled around, and there he was.

Qiu Dingjie.

He locked the door behind him, his intense gaze pinning you against the sink. "Running away again?" His voice was low, dangerous.

"This is the women's restroom," you gasped, though your body betrayed you by moving closer to him.

"Not anymore." He took a step forward, crowding your space. "You think I didn't notice you staring at my arms during the meeting?"

Your breath hitched. "I wasn't—"

"Don't lie." He backed you against the counter, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew there would be bruises tomorrow. "You want me. I see it in your eyes."

"You're delusional," you whispered, but your legs parted automatically, granting him access.

He laughed—a low, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Am I?"

His thigh pressed between yours, forcing your legs wider as his lips crashed against yours. It wasn't a kiss—it was a claim. Teeth clashed, tongues fought for dominance, and when he bit your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, you moaned into his mouth.

"You think about me when you touch yourself," he growled against your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. "Don't you?"

You couldn't answer. Couldn't think. Not with his hands sliding under your skirt, fingers brushing against your already soaked panties.

"Answer me," he demanded, pinching your clit until you cried out.

"Yes!" you gasped. "God, yes!"

He smirked against your skin, his fingers pushing past the lace barrier. "Good girl."