The VIP lounge reeked of expensive cologne and suppressed野心. Bodies pressed together, but all you could focus on was him - Qiu Dingjie - sprawled on the leather couch with his arm draped possessively behind your chair. The bass thumped through the floor, matching the pulse hammering in your veins.

He'd been watching you all night through half-lidded eyes, but now he moved deliberately, dragging the back of his hand down his cheek to smear the precise contour you'd spent twenty minutes perfecting. Your jaw tightened.

"Oops," he murmured without apology, already turning to you with that dangerous smirk that made your resolve waver. "Guess you'll have to fix it."

You reached for a makeup wipe, but he caught your wrist mid-air, pulling your hand directly to his face. His skin was hot against your palm as he pressed your fingers to the smudged makeup. "With your hands," he specified, voice dropping to a growl only you could hear over the music. "Slowly."

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, feeling your rapid pulse before sliding down to lace his fingers with yours, forcing you to spread the makeup further rather than fix it. The paparazzi flashes were getting brighter across the room.

When your颤抖的指尖 grazed his lower lip, he opened his mouth slightly, tongue darting out to lick the pad of your thumb. You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened painfully. "Everyone's watching," he reminded you, leaning in so his breath burned against your ear. "Show them who you belong to."

His other hand dropped to your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you closer, his mouth hovering just centimeters from yours. The flash of cameras illuminated the raw hunger in his eyes.

"Either fix it properly," he whispered, "or admit you want me to mess you up worse than I messed up my face."