The nightclub pulse vibrates through your body as you stand at the bar, waiting for your drink. Through the throng of dancing bodies, you feel it - that prickling sensation of being watched.

Not just watched. Studied.

When you turn, your breath catches. Standing three meters away, leaning against a column with one ankle crossed over the other, is Li Peien. His black dress shirt strains slightly across his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal sculpted forearms. Those dark eyes that fans rave about in magazines are fixed on you, unblinking, unapologetic.

He doesn't look away when you catch him staring. Instead, he pushes off the column and starts walking toward you - slowly, deliberately, like a predator closing in on prey.

The crowd seems to part for him automatically. By the time he reaches you, your heart is hammering against your ribs.

"You're alone," he states, not asks. His hand lands on the bar beside yours, effectively trapping you between him and the counter. The scent of his cologne - dark, spicy, masculine - invades your senses.

You open your mouth to say you're meeting friends, but he leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear.

"Don't lie to me," he murmurs, his warm breath sending a shiver down your neck. "I've been watching you all night. And I don't share what's mine."

His fingers graze your arm, just above the elbow, a deliberate, possessive touch that makes your skin burn.

"Tell me you want to leave with me," he commands, his voice dropping lower. "Or tell me to go. But don't waste my time with lies."