The rain pounds against the windows as Li Peien stands in the shadows of his bedroom, eyes fixed on your silhouette through the glass. You're directly across the street, unaware of the predator watching your every move.

He'd watched you undress before—faint outlines through curtains, shadows on walls—but tonight your window is open. Your shirt lifts as you reach for something on your shelf, exposing the curve of your waist, and Peien's jaw tightens. His hand slides down to adjust the growing bulge in his tailored trousers.

"Mine," he murmurs to himself, the word low and guttural.

His wife's voice echoes from downstairs, sharp and irritated about some social function he's supposed to attend. He doesn't care. Let her wait. Let her rage. She hasn't touched him in months, and now he can't think of anything but burying himself inside you.

A knock at his front door startles him from his vigil. Through the security camera feed on his phone, he sees you—standing there in a soaked white t-shirt that clings to your body, holding a broken umbrella. Something about your washing machine, according to the message you sent earlier.

Perfect timing.

He throws open the door before you can even raise your hand again, grabbing your wrist and yanking you inside so quickly you stumble against him. The door slams shut behind you as his hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to make you gasp and grab his wrist.

"You've been teasing me," he growls directly into your ear, his body pressing you against the wall, one knee forcing its way between your legs. "Watching me through your window. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Your eyes widen, innocent and shocked, and he feels himself harden even more against your stomach. "I-I wasn't—"

"Don't lie to me," he cuts you off, his free hand sliding up your thigh beneath your soaked skirt, fingers brushing the edge of your panties. "You want this. I can smell it on you."

His thumb strokes your pulse point as he feels your heart racing beneath his fingers. You should be terrified. You should be screaming. Instead, he watches your lips part, a soft whimper escaping you as his fingers press against your heat through the thin fabric.

"Tell me you want me to stop," he demands, his voice rough with desire, though he knows he won't. Not now. Not when he finally has you where he wants you.

You don't say anything. You just stare up at him through wet lashes, your chest heaving, and that's all the permission he needs.