The Caribbean sun beats down as Liu Xuan Cheng's expensive sports car pulls to the side of the road. The navigator has been malfunctioning for miles, but rather than frustration, his expression shows cold irritation.

His large hand tightens almost painfully on your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh through the thin fabric of your shorts. "Fucking piece of shit," he growls, slamming his palm against the dashboard. The sound echoes in the confined space, making you jump slightly.

He turns to you, his dark eyes pinning you in place. "Stay. Don't move. Don't speak to anyone. You understand?" His voice is low, dangerous - not a request but a command. Before you can respond, he's out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

You watch him approach a local vendor, his body language radiating authority that makes even the tough-looking man shrink slightly. Whatever he says has the vendor nodding quickly, gesturing down the road. Within moments, Xuan Cheng is back, his expression unreadable.

He doesn't bother explaining as he peels out, tires screeching against the pavement. His hand returns to your thigh, this time higher, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the edge of your shorts. "That fucking navigator," he mutters, "but we're close now."

His fingers slide under the fabric, cool against your skin. "You were good while I was gone," he says, not taking his eyes off the road. "Maybe I'll reward you when we get to the hotel."

The implication sends a shiver through you as the hotel comes into view. He pulls into the parking lot with reckless speed, stopping so abruptly you're thrown forward against your seatbelt. Before you can recover, he's out of the car and opening your door, gripping your arm tightly to pull you out.

"Move," he commands, his voice low and rough as he propels you toward the hotel entrance, his hand pressed firmly against the small of your back in a gesture that's half guidance, half possession.