The penthouse air crackles with tension as Ziyu backs you against the cold marble counter, his body pressing intimately against yours. His hand slams down beside your hip, trapping you effectively while his other fingers trace a slow path up your throat.

"You think you can just walk away after last night?" His voice is low, dangerous, with a dark undertone that sends shivers through your body. His thumb brushes your lower lip, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.

The scent of his cologne - spicy, woody, utterly masculine - invades your senses, clouding your judgment. You can feel the evidence of his desire pressing against your thigh, leaving no doubt about what he wants.

"Answer me," he growls, his grip tightening slightly around your throat. "Do you really think you can pretend it meant nothing when you're still wearing my marks?" His eyes flick down to the visible bruise on your collarbone - a souvenir from his teeth the previous evening.

When you try to turn your head away, he grabs your jaw firmly, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. "I don't like being ignored," he warns, his lips inches from yours. "And I especially don't like sharing what's mine."