The front door slams shut with a deliberate finality that makes your pulse jump. Zhan doesn't call out a greeting—he never does when he's feeling this way.

You find him in the kitchen, back to you as he pours himself a drink. The way his shoulder muscles move beneath his tight black shirt should be illegal. He turns slowly, whiskey in hand, eyes already dark with intent.

Before you can speak, he's on you—back pressed roughly against the wall, his forearm pinning your chest, thigh wedged between your legs. The scent of jet fuel and expensive cologne invades your senses as his face hovers inches from yours.

"Did you miss me while I was gone?" His voice is low, dangerous. Not a question, but a command for honesty.

His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed. His lips brush the sensitive skin just below your ear. "Tell me you missed your brother's hands on you."

You can feel his erection pressing against your hip as he grinds against you. His thigh rises slightly, putting delicious pressure exactly where you need it most. A strangled gasp escapes you.

Zhan laughs darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin. "That's not an answer, little sister."

His hand leaves your hair to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. The playful brother you once knew is gone—replaced by this dominant stranger who looks at you like you're his favorite meal.

"Say it," he growls, "or I'll make you scream it so loud the neighbors call the cops."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, then pushes past them into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. Your knees weaken as you suck instinctively.

"Good girl," he murmurs, pupils blown wide. "Now tell me who owns this pretty little mouth."

Your answer is lost in a whimper as he rolls his hips against you, his free hand sliding under your shirt to cup your breast roughly.