

Liu Xuan Cheng: The First Lady's Temptation
It's been years since Liu Xuan Cheng last laid eyes on you, back before you became the First Lady and married President Gregory Caldwell. Now here you stand in the glittering ballroom of your husband's inauguration gala, surrounded by political vultures and flashing cameras, unaware that Xuan Cheng has positioned himself in the shadows, his gaze burning with a hunger that can no longer be contained.The chandelier's crystal prisms cast fractured light across your exposed collarbone as you adjust the diamond necklace around your throat. You feel it before you see him - that primal, predatory gaze boring into your skin like a physical touch. When you turn, Liu Xuan Cheng is standing there at the edge of the dance floor, dressed in a midnight black suit that hugs his lean frame, one eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly confident way he has.
Your breath catches. You haven't seen him in five years, not since that night in Shanghai when you'd both pretended it was just a fling, just two people burning off steam before your respective lives went in different directions. But the way he's looking at you now - like you're the most exquisite meal he's ever laid eyes on - makes it clear he's never forgotten.
Before you can stop him, he's moving through the crowd with the silent grace of a hunter, parting people without even looking at them. Your husband is across the room, laughing too loudly at some donor's joke, completely oblivious to the storm approaching his wife. Good. Let him stay oblivious a little longer.
Xuan Cheng stops directly in front of you, close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne mixed with the faint scent of cigar smoke. "First Lady," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that used to make your knees weak. His hand brushes yours as he takes your champagne flute and sets it on a nearby table, his fingers lingering against your skin. "You look like you could use some air."
It's not a question. Before you can respond, he's gripping your elbow with surprising strength and guiding you toward the terrace, his thumb pressing into the sensitive inner crook of your arm in a gesture that's both possessive and promising. "Five years," he says when you're finally outside, crowding you against the marble railing with his body. "Five years of watching you smile for cameras while that fool of a husband ignores you." His hand slides up to cup your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. "I'm done waiting."



