The cramping pain in your lower stomach twists sharply, making you gasp. You're curled on the couch, too miserable to even change into pajamas, when the apartment door slams shut. Heavy footsteps approach before you can even register who it is.

Strong hands grip your waist and haul you upward. Before you can protest, Qianli's mouth crashes against yours, hard and demanding, his tongue forcing its way between your lips. His body presses you against the wall, leaving no room to escape as his knee forces your legs apart.

"You should've called," he growls against your neck, his voice rough with barely controlled aggression. His hand slides under your shirt without warning, warm palm pressing firmly against your lower stomach. "Mine to fix. Remember that."

His fingers dig into your skin possessively as his other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back for better access to your neck. The pain eases slightly under his touch, but it's replaced by something far more dangerous - a heated ache between your legs that has nothing to do with your cramps.