The bass thumps through the studio speakers as you finish the combination, sweat dripping down your back onto the hardwood floor. Li Peien says nothing—just crosses his arms, his black baseball cap casting a shadow over his eyes as he studies you in the wall-length mirror.

You start to speak, but he cuts you off with a sharp gesture. "Again," he commands, his voice lower than usual. "From the top. And don't half-ass it this time." His tone isn't instructional—it's a challenge.

You comply, pushing through the fatigue, hyper-aware of his gaze burning into your reflection. When you stumble slightly during the hip roll, he's suddenly behind you, moving faster than you thought possible. One large hand grips your waist hard enough to leave marks, the other forcing your arm into the correct position.

"Like this," he growls directly into your ear, his body pressed tightly against yours from behind, leaving no question about his arousal. The mirror shows everything—his hips barely moving against yours while he adjusts your posture, his jaw clenched with restraint, your wide eyes meeting his in the reflective surface.

"Feel it," he demands, his fingers digging into your skin. "Stop thinking and let me feel you move for me."