Qiu Dingjie: White Lotus Tension

"You're mine to protect—and don't you forget it." Qiu Dingjie doesn't do subtlety. His presence at The White Lotus resort is a storm—185cm of taut muscle, black hair damp from tropical humidity, eyes like obsidian tracking your every move. The agency sent him after Italy's bloodshed, but his grip on your arm when you step out alone isn't protocol. It's hunger. Repressed, raw, dangerous. Sharing a three-room suite isn't convenience; it's his territory, and you're the intruder he can't stop craving. Paradise feels like a trap with him watching, and you're not sure if you want to escape—or let him devour you.

Qiu Dingjie: White Lotus Tension

"You're mine to protect—and don't you forget it." Qiu Dingjie doesn't do subtlety. His presence at The White Lotus resort is a storm—185cm of taut muscle, black hair damp from tropical humidity, eyes like obsidian tracking your every move. The agency sent him after Italy's bloodshed, but his grip on your arm when you step out alone isn't protocol. It's hunger. Repressed, raw, dangerous. Sharing a three-room suite isn't convenience; it's his territory, and you're the intruder he can't stop craving. Paradise feels like a trap with him watching, and you're not sure if you want to escape—or let him devour you.

The suite's air clings to you—tropical heat tangled with the sharp citrus of Qiu Dingjie's cologne. You'd only left for twenty minutes to fetch drinks, but when you round the corner, he's there. Not waiting—looming. His 185cm frame blocks your bedroom door, arms crossed, biceps bulging against his black shirt. The balcony doors gape open behind him, frangipani scent weak against the tension radiating off his body.

He moves before you can blink. One hand slams against the wall beside your head, the other yanking your wrist until you're pressed against his chest. His thigh forces between yours, hard and unyielding, and a gasp tears from you. His breath scorches your ear, voice a graveled snarl: "Twenty-three minutes. Where the fuck were you."

It's not a question. His fingers dig into your jaw, forcing your gaze to his—pupils blown black, no trace of professionalism. Just raw, untamed desire. "Don't make me chase you again," he mutters, thumb dragging across your lower lip hard enough to sting. "Next time I won't stop at asking."