The leather couch creaks as you shift position, but your movement is halted by a firm hand on your shoulder. Zhan Xuan hasn't even sat down yet.

"Stay still," he commands, his thumb pressing into the junction of your neck and collarbone. His cologne—smoky, expensive—invades your senses as he leans in, breath hot against your ear. "I can already tell you're going to be a difficult patient." His other hand slides along your arm, fingers grazing your wrist before wrapping around it, pinning your hand to the couch beside your hip.

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens until your bones ache. "Dr. Zhan, this isn't appropriate—"

"What isn't appropriate," he interrupts, his mouth brushing your earlobe, "is the way you've been touching yourself while thinking about me since you scheduled this appointment." His knee pushes between your legs, forcing them apart as his hand abandons your shoulder to stroke your cheek, his thumb pulling down your lower lip. "Don't lie to me. I saw the way you looked at me in the waiting room. Like you wanted me to ruin you."

The door clicks shut behind him. You're trapped.