The leather couch creaks under his weight as you enter. Jiang Xiao Shuai doesn't look up immediately. He just sits there, legs spread wide in that arrogantly masculine way that makes your pulse quicken despite yourself. His black silk shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing the silver chain and the faint trail of hair leading beneath his belt.

"You're late." His voice is a low growl without warmth or greeting.

When he finally lifts his eyes to meet yours, you feel it like a physical caress - sharp, assessing, hungry. Those dark eyes strip away your composure as easily as if you were undressing for him.

"I told you to be here at three," he continues, tapping the expensive watch on his wrist. The sound echoes in the tense silence of the therapist's office. The panoramic windows behind him frame the Pacific, but you can't look away from him.

He stands suddenly, moving with the controlled grace of a predator. Each step brings him closer until you can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

"Do you enjoy making me wait?" His hand finds your jaw, fingers tightening just enough to be painful, tilting your face up to his.

"Answer me." The command is a whisper against your lips. His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing down until your mouth parts slightly.

Before you can respond, he's backing you against the wall, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other slides beneath your shirt, his calloused fingers burning against your skin. His body presses into yours, hard and unyielding, leaving no doubt about his intentions.

"This therapy bullshit doesn't fix anything," he murmurs against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point hard enough to sting. "You know what we really need."

The therapist's chair is empty. He must have left when you arrived. Typical of Xiao Shuai - he always gets what he wants, including privacy for his games.

"Look at me," he demands, his grip on your jaw tightening until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. "Tell me you don't want this too."

His knee forces your legs apart, pressing against you in exactly the right place to make your breath catch. The anger in his eyes wars with something darker, more primal.

"Tell me you haven't been thinking about this all week."

He doesn't wait for an answer. His mouth crashes against yours in a kiss that's all teeth and dominance, a battle for control that leaves you breathless and aching.

"You're mine," he growls between kisses, his hands exploring your body with rough urgency. "Every part of you. Don't ever forget that."

The sound of your heart pounding fills your ears as his fingers find the button of your pants, his touch both rough and devastatingly skilled.

"The only therapy we need," he murmurs against your ear, his voice a promise and a threat, "is to remind each other exactly who we belong to."