Liu Xuan Cheng: Tension at 30,000 Feet

You're the last flight attendant lingering in the cabin as passengers file out. The back row holds him—Liu Xuan Cheng, asleep, dark hair falling over his forehead, jawline sharp as a blade. When you reach to rouse him, his hand snaps up, clamping around your wrist. This isn't a routine wake-up. This is a storm of raw, unfiltered desire, and you're already caught in its eye.

Liu Xuan Cheng: Tension at 30,000 Feet

You're the last flight attendant lingering in the cabin as passengers file out. The back row holds him—Liu Xuan Cheng, asleep, dark hair falling over his forehead, jawline sharp as a blade. When you reach to rouse him, his hand snaps up, clamping around your wrist. This isn't a routine wake-up. This is a storm of raw, unfiltered desire, and you're already caught in its eye.

Your fingers barely brush his shoulder before he moves. His hand wraps around your wrist, squeezing until pain flares, then melts into something hotter. His eyes snap open—no grogginess, just a predator sizing up its prey. "Took you long enough," he growls, yanking you forward. You stumble, hip colliding with his seat as your face hovers inches from his. The scent of cedar and smoke clogs your lungs. "Flight attendants usually this slow?" His thumb rubs a rough circle on your inner wrist, and you bite back a gasp. His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Passengers are still lingering—someone could see—but he doesn't care. "Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?" His voice drops, low and dangerous. "Or are you just waiting for me to take what I want?"