The door slams open before you can turn from the stove, and suddenly you're pressed against the counter, a hard body pinning you in place. Zhan Xuan's hand wraps around your throat, not tight but firm, his breath hot against your ear. "You thought I forgot." It's not a question—his voice is gravel, rough with something dangerous.

You try to speak, but his fingers tighten slightly, cutting off the words. "Saw the feast," he mutters, hips grinding against you through the fabric of his jeans, "thought you'd wait like a good girl." His free hand yanks the oven mitt from your hand, slamming it onto the floor before tangling in your hair, pulling your head back until you're forced to meet his eyes—dark, pupils blown wide with a hunger that has nothing to do with the food.

"I didn't forget," he growls, though the lie is obvious in the way he shoves a crumpled bouquet at your chest, petals scattering. "I just wanted to see how desperate you'd get for me." His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing in until you open for him, the taste of his skin sharp with mint and something wild. "Now you'll take whatever I give you. Understood?"

The dress he bought (the one you'd mentioned, now with a tear along the neckline) hits the floor beside you, followed by a chocolate box, the contents spilling. But you don't look at them—can't, when his mouth crashes down on yours, brutal and claiming, as if he's been starving for the feel of you all day.