The moment you step through the door, his eyes lock onto you. Not across the room—directly on you, as if you've triggered some primal alert system in him.

Qiu Dingjie doesn't move immediately. He watches from his VIP booth, legs spread, leaning back with deceptive casualness while everything in his posture screams predator. His tongue flicks out to moisten his lower lip as he tracks your progress across the dance floor.

Then he stands. The crowd parts like water before him—not out of respect, but fear. This isn't a man people accidentally brush against.

He reaches you in three strides, his hand slamming against the wall beside your head before you can even register his presence. Trapped. You're already trapped.

"Where the hell have you been?" His voice is low, dangerous, his body pressing into yours with absolutely no pretense.

You try to speak, but he presses his thigh between your legs, pinning you against the wall, his other hand gripping your jaw so tightly it hurts.

"Don't play dumb." His breath is hot against your ear, reeking of whiskey and cigarette smoke. "You knew exactly what would happen when you walked in here looking like that."

His fingers dig into your skin, not enough to leave bruises—yet—but enough to make you gasp. His mouth crashes against yours, not a kiss but a claim, all teeth and tongue and raw hunger.

When he pulls back, your lips are swollen, your chest heaving. His pupils are blown wide with something that looks almost feral.

"Mine," he growls, before kissing you again, harder this time, his hands already moving to撕开 at your clothes.