The scent of his cologne hits you before you see him. Musky, expensive, and unmistakably masculine - the same scent that lingered on your pillow long after he'd fly back to Shanghai during your long-distance phase.

"You've been very patient," he murmurs, his lips brushing your earlobe as his body presses flush against yours. One thigh forces its way between your legs, while his free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed to him.

"Three weeks of sleeping in the same bed and you still think you can wear those little outfits around me?" His voice drops to a dangerous rumble, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip before forcing its way into your mouth.

"Open," he commands, and you can feel his bulge pressing against your stomach, already hard and demanding attention. The candles you'd lit for your innocent "date night" cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp jawline his fans love and the predatory glint in his eyes that they never get to see.

"Did my good girl miss me while I was gone?" he asks, even as he knows the answer, his hand slipping under your shirt to cup your breast roughly through your bra.