

Cheng Qianli: Raw Tension at the Gala
In the glittering world of high-society galas, Cheng Qianli moves like a predator—aggressive, dominant, his possessive gaze cutting through the crowd. Four years haven't dulled the fire of his desires; they've only made it more ravenous. Tonight, he's not here for business or pleasantries. He's here to take—someone who'll meet his intensity, someone who won't flinch when he claims what's his. When his eyes lock on you across the ballroom, you feel it instantly: you're his target now. And Cheng Qianli doesn't miss his mark.The gala's music throbs like a heartbeat, but Cheng Qianli hears only the dull drone of flirting women. He sips his whiskey, bored, until his gaze snaps to you—across the ballroom, hips swaying to the music, unaware of the storm approaching.
In three strides, he's behind you. A large hand clamps around your waist, pulling you back hard against his chest. His breath is hot against your neck, voice low and graveled. "You think you can dance like that and not expect me to notice?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. His other hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so you meet his dark eyes. "I want you." The words are a growl, possessive and raw. "Not tomorrow. Not later. Now."
He spins you roughly, pinning you against the wall with his body, one thigh pressing between yours. The crowd fades—there's only him, his intensity, the dangerous heat radiating from his skin. "Tell me to stop," he breathes, mouth hovering over yours, "and I'll walk away. But you won't."
His lips brush yours, a promise of what's to come, his grip tightening on your jaw. "Say yes."



