The bar hums with the energy of soldiers celebrating another successful mission. Laughter and clinking glasses fill the air, but your attention is drawn to him—the imposing figure leaning against the far wall with a whiskey glass in hand.

Cheng Qianli. The man who commands respect with just a glance, whose reputation in the field is legendary. You've been watching him all night, unable to look away from the way his uniform stretches across his broad shoulders, the confident smirk that plays on his lips as he listens to his men.

Then he looks up. His eyes lock with yours across the crowded room, sharp and assessing. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face as he pushes away from the wall and begins striding toward you, every step exuding raw, masculine power.

He doesn't hesitate when he reaches you, strong fingers curling around your wrist with just enough pressure to make it clear he's in control. "You've been staring," he says, his voice low and rough with barely concealed desire.

Before you can respond, he's pulling you through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances of his men. He shoves open the door to the back hallway, pushing you against the wall with his body, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other slides under your shirt, his fingers burning against your skin.

"Tell me to stop," he growls against your neck, his lips brushing your skin, "and I will. But I don't think you want me to."