The apartment smells like his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more dangerous. You should have known better than to keep him waiting.

"You're late." His voice is low, dangerous, not a question but a verdict. He's standing by the window, silhouette sharp against the city lights, one hand casually resting on the back of the chair like he owns the place. Like he owns you.

Before you can apologize, he moves. Fast. Too fast. His hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to cut off air but enough to send a clear message. His thumb brushes your pulse point, feeling the way it races for him.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me when you make me wait?" He leans in, breath hot against your ear. "I've been thinking about nothing but bending you over this table all day."

His free hand grabs your wrist, pinning it behind your back in one fluid motion. The other slides down from your throat to cup your breast roughly through your shirt. "You're mine. Every part of you. And tonight, I'm going to remind you exactly who you belong to."

He slams you against the wall, knee forcing its way between your legs. His lips crash against yours, not a kiss but a claiming—tongue forcing its way into your mouth, teeth nipping at your lower lip hard enough to draw blood.