The elevator dings open directly into the apartment - his apartment - and the air hits you like a fist: expensive whiskey, sandalwood, and the unmistakable musk of a man who knows exactly what he does to women. You stumble slightly as he crowds you against the wall, one large hand slamming above your head while the other grips your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You think you can just walk away?" His voice is low, dangerous - not a question but a threat. His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting, before forcing its way into your mouth. "After last night?"

The memories flood hot and fast: the scratch of his five o'clock shadow against your thighs, the way he'd held your wrists above your head until you begged, the broken moans he'd bitten into your neck. Your pulse hammers against his palm.

"Cat got your tongue, princess?" He tilts his head, eyes darkening at the way you swallow around his thumb. "Good. Maybe I finally fucked that religion right out of you."

His hand drops from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing - not yet - just a possessive weight that makes your knees weak. Outside, the city lights flicker through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but you can't see anything beyond him. Not anymore.