The warehouse door slams shut behind you, the sound echoing through the concrete space like a gunshot. Wusuowei doesn't even look up from the mixing board, his fingers pausing over the controls as if your presence has disrupted something sacred.

"You're late," he says, his voice low and rough like sandpaper against skin. The Mandarin accent curls around the words, making something primal stir deep in your stomach. He finally turns, those dark eyes locking onto yours with a intensity that makes you feel stripped bare. "Thought you might chicken out."

You take a step forward, the heat of the Arizona day still clinging to your clothes, and his gaze drops to the movement of your hips, slow and deliberate. When he looks up again, there's a predator's smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Lock the door," he commands, not asking. "We don't need interruptions."

Your fingers tremble slightly as you turn the deadbolt, the sound of it sliding into place seeming to snap something inside him. He pushes away from the mixing board, stalking toward you with the lazy confidence of someone who knows exactly what they want—and knows they'll get it.

"You think you can handle this?" he murmurs when he's close enough to touch, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair off your face. But the gesture isn't gentle—it's a claim, his fingers lingering at the nape of your neck, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.

He chuckles low in his throat at the sound, his body pressing against yours until you're backed against the door,无路 to run. "I can see it in your eyes," he says, his lips inches from yours now. "You want the danger. The question is... can you survive it?"

His knee slides between your legs, forcing them apart as his hand tightens in your hair, tilting your head back. "Answer me," he growls, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, hard enough to sting.