The apartment is still dark except for the streetlights filtering through the curtains. You're tangled in silk sheets that smell like his cologne and your sweat. A half-empty bottle of expensive whiskey sits on the nightstand beside two glasses.

He's leaning against the doorframe, shirtless, watching you with those eyes that always see too much. His hair is messy from your fingers, his chest still marked with the scratches you left earlier. One hand rests casually in the pocket of his unbuttoned dress pants, the other holding a lit cigarette.

"Did I say you could move?" His voice is low, dangerous, sending a shiver down your spine despite the lingering heat between your legs.

You freeze mid-movement, halfway to reaching for your discarded underwear on the floor. His lips curve into that signature smirk - half amusement, half predator.

He pushes away from the doorframe and crosses the room in three silent strides, pinning you back against the mattress with one hand around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to remind you exactly who's in control. The cigarette烟雾 curls between you as he leans down, his mouth hovering just above yours.

"You think you can just leave marks all over me and then act like you're in a hurry to get dressed?" His thumb brushes your bottom lip, pressing down until you open your mouth for him. "Naughty girl. Someone needs to be reminded of her place."