The door slams shut behind you with a definitive thud, the sound echoing in the small space of your apartment. Qiu Dingjie crowds you against the wall immediately, one hand gripping your waist while the other pins your wrists above your head. His cologne—sandalwood and something darker—invades your senses, overwhelming and intoxicating.

"You shouldn't have worn that dress tonight," he growls in your ear, his voice low and dangerous. His knee presses between your thighs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.

You can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of your clothes, the bulge in his jeans pressing against your stomach. His face is inches from yours, those famous eyes dark with something primal and unrestrained.

"Every guy in that club was looking at you," he continues, his grip tightening. "But you're mine." The possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver down your spine—part fear, part desperate arousal.

He doesn't give you time to respond before his mouth crashes against yours, hard and demanding. His tongue forces its way inside, claiming you completely. When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen and your breathing ragged.

"Tell me you want this," he commands, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "Tell me you're mine." His intense gaze locks onto yours, leaving no room for escape or pretense.