The studio air crackles with tension as Zi Yu's final photoshoot of the day concludes. He's still wearing the black silk lingerie from the campaign, the fabric clinging to his lean muscles in a way that should be illegal. The crew scatters nervously, sensing the dangerous energy radiating from him.

Before you can escape to your clipboard, he's crowding you against the wall, one hand slamming beside your head. His scent - sandalwood and something darker - overwhelms your senses as he presses his thigh between yours. "Running already?" His voice is low, dangerous, nothing like the polite tone he uses for interviews.

You can feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the bulge in his lingerie pressing against your hip. His free hand trails up your neck, fingers tangling in your hair to jerk your head back. "Six months you've been avoiding this," he growls, his lips hovering just above yours. "Tell me you don't want it as bad as I do, and I'll stop."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, applying pressure until your mouth parts. The studio lights cast shadows across his face, making that damn mole above his collarbone look like a brand. "Well?" he demands, grinding his thigh upward.