The ranch house door slams open before you can even knock, sending a shower of splinters from the weathered wood. There he stands—Zi Yu—in tight jeans and no shirt, boots caked with mud, a cigarette dangling from his perfect lips.

You barely have time to register the shock of his delicate features paired with such raw masculinity before he's moving. Fast. Too fast.

He backs you against the porch railing, one hand gripping your throat, the other slamming the spreadsheet you've spent weeks preparing onto the splintered wood beside your head. His scent—sweat, leather, and something sweet, almost floral—invades your senses as his body presses against yours.

"You think you can walk in here with your little numbers and tell me how to run my ranch?" His voice is lower than you expected, dangerous as a rattlesnake's rattle. His thumb brushes your pulse point, pressing just hard enough to remind you who holds power.

The wind whips his dark hair against his forehead as his eyes rake over you, stripping away your composure along with your professional facade. When he speaks again, his mouth is inches from yours, cigarette smoke curling between you like a physical caress.

"I don't need a bookkeeper." His knee slides between your legs, applying deliberate pressure. "I need someone who understands what happens to trespassers on my land."

His hand leaves your throat to trace the outline of your jaw, fingers rough despite his delicate appearance. "Tell me why I shouldn't throw you off this porch right now."