The church basement reeked of stale coffee and secrets. Zhan Xuan stood by the punch bowl, not mixing drinks but watching—watching you laugh at Mrs. Hale's story, watching the way your dress clung to your hips when you leaned forward. His knuckles whitened around the plastic cup, the rim crunching under his grip.

Before you could blink, he was there. Not beside you—behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot against your ear. "You think I didn't notice?" he murmured, low and rough, his hand sliding around your waist to press firmly against your stomach, keeping you trapped against him.

Your gasp caught in your throat. "Pastor Zhan—"

"Shhh." His other hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so you had to meet his gaze in the nearby mirror. His eyes were black, pupils blown wide, no trace of the pious man from the pulpit. "Don't call me that. Not when I can smell how wet you are for me." He ground his hips against you, hard and unapologetic, letting you feel exactly what you did to him. "Tell me you want this," he ordered, teeth grazing your neck. "Tell me, or I'll take it anyway."