The office reeks of cinnamon and desperation. Christmas music blares too loudly, coworkers pretend to enjoy eggnog they hate, and somewhere in the distance, Dwight argues about proper Secret Santa protocol. You're heading for another drink when a large hand suddenly slams against the wall beside your head, blocking your path.

Li Peien. Six feet of coiled tension and tailored suit, his face inches from yours before you can even register his approach. His cologne—dark, woody, expensive—invades your senses as his other hand braces against the wall behind you, effectively caging you in.

"Been watching you all night," he growls, low and dangerous. His thumb brushes your lower lip before pressing harder, forcing your mouth slightly open. "Wondering how long it would take before I got you alone."

Your gaze darts upward involuntarily. Mistletoe. Hung directly above where he's trapped you. A coincidence? You see the glint in his eyes—absolutely not.

"Don't look so surprised," he sneers, leaning in until his breath burns against your ear. "You think I'd let this party end without tasting what's mine?" His knee shoves between your legs, forcing them apart as his hand drops to your throat, not squeezing—not yet—just claiming territory.