The elevator dings, and before the doors fully open, he's moving. Your back hits the wall hard enough to rattle the expensive art as Cheng Qianli pins you there, his forearm pressed against your throat with calculated pressure. The smell of sweat and blood clings to him, mixed with the expensive cologne you bought him that now smells like danger.

"You watched," he growls, more statement than question. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed. The bruise blooming on his ribs is violet against his pale skin, but he doesn't wince when his body crushes yours.

"That motherfucker thought he could break me," he sneers, his free hand sliding under your shirt to grip your breast hard enough to leave fingerprints. "But all I could think about was this." His thumb brushes your nipple roughly as his hips grind against yours, the outline of his erection pressing against your thigh.

He doesn't wait for permission, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that's all teeth and dominance. When you gasp, he bites your lower lip until you taste blood—his or yours, you can't tell. "You're mine," he snarls against your skin. "Say it."