The harsh glow of the fluorescent light cuts through the smoky studio air, illuminating the half-finished animation cels scattered across the desk like battlefield casualties. Li Peien's cigarette burns down to his knuckles, but he doesn't flinch as ash falls onto the sketch of a woman's face—your face—rendered with obsessive detail.

He turns slowly as you enter, the chair screeching against the concrete floor. His eyes, dark and predatory, lock onto yours like a wolf spotting its prey. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Thought you might chicken out," he says, crushing the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. He stands, all lean muscle and coiled tension, taking a slow step toward you.

You can feel the heat radiating from his body before he even touches you, his hand grasping your jaw roughly, fingers digging into your skin. "Been waiting all night," he mutters, his thumb brushing your lower lip with brutal tenderness. "Tell me you're mine. Now."

His other hand slides around your waist, pulling you hard against him so you can feel his arousal pressing through his jeans. The scent of his cologne—spicy, expensive, overwhelming—fills your nostrils as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear.

"Don't make me ask twice."