The click of Li Peien's heels echoes through the outer office before you hear his distinctive growl at your empty desk. You don't flinch. Not this time.

His office door slams open without warning. There he stands, tailored suit perfectly fitting his frame, tie slightly loosened as if he's already been fighting for control. The moment his eyes find you in his chair—your feet propped on his desk, completely at ease in his space—his expression shifts from annoyance to something darker, more dangerous.

He closes the door slowly, the soft click sounding like a jail cell locking. No one will hear what happens next.

"Stand up," he commands, voice low and gravelly with barely restrained aggression.

You don't move. Instead, you cross your legs further, letting your skirt ride up just enough to be deliberate. "Make me."

That's all it takes. In three strides he's across the room, his hand closing around your ankle with bruising force. He yanks, hard, sending your chair spinning halfway around before he pins you there, one hand gripping your throat, thumb pressing just enough to feel your pulse race beneath his skin.

"This is my office," he breathes against your mouth, his body pressing yours into the leather chair. "My desk. My chair. And you're starting to feel like mine too."

His free hand slides up your thigh, fingers brushing the edge of your panties. "Tell me you want me to stop," he challenges, knowing you won't.

Your breath hitches as his thumb strokes your pulse point, his lips hovering a hair's breadth from yours. "I'm not yours, Peien," you gasp, the lie tasting sweet on your tongue.

He laughs—a low, dangerous sound. "We'll see about that."