The morning after was a test of wills.
Jiawen woke before dawn, tangled in the expensive sheets of a hotel suite she hadn't meant to step foot in. Her hair was still damp from his kisses, her skin still humming from his touch. She slipped out of bed carefully, moving as if he might wake at any moment and pull her back in.
But Lu Zeyan lay motionless, one arm sprawled across the pillow, his breathing even and deep. She watched him for a moment—how peaceful he looked in sleep, stripped of the steely intensity he wore like armor when awake.
A twinge of something warm and unsettling pulsed in her chest. She quickly shook it off.
She dressed in silence, slipping her blouse back over skin that still felt too hot. Her skirt was wrinkled, her hair a mess, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She needed to get out—before the fragile calm of this early hour shattered and they were forced to face what had happened between them.
When she slipped out the door and into the cool, empty corridor, her heart was pounding. She couldn't stop replaying the way he had looked at her last night—possessive, hungry—and the way she had responded, her own needs clawing to the surface.
As she rode the elevator down, she reminded herself over and over: This doesn't change anything.
But as she stepped out into the quiet morning, she knew she was lying to herself.
The day was a blur. She threw herself into work, her mind racing with spreadsheets and investor updates, anything to keep from thinking about the way his hands had felt on her hips or the low, rough sounds he made when he was buried inside her.
But it was no use. His presence lingered—every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. Every brush of her own skin reminded her of the way he had traced her curves, claiming her like she was his.
She tried to tell herself it was just lust. A physical reaction, nothing more. But the memory of his lips on her throat, his breath hot against her ear, was too intimate to be just about the body.
Focus, she told herself, tapping her pen against her notepad. Don't let him get under your skin.
But that night, when she lay in her own bed, she couldn't sleep. Her mind kept drifting back to the hotel suite, to the feel of him moving inside her, and she pressed her thighs together with a frustrated groan.
She was losing herself in him, piece by dangerous piece.
When she saw him again, two days later, it was like nothing had changed. He was calm, controlled—businesslike as always. They met in the boardroom, surrounded by the senior team, and he barely glanced at her.
It was almost a relief. Almost.
But when the meeting ended and the others filed out, he didn't move. He waited until the last assistant closed the door behind them before he looked up, his dark eyes locking onto hers.
"Stay," he said softly.
Her heart kicked in her chest. She hesitated, then sank back into her chair.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence was thick, electric.
Finally, he spoke. "You've been avoiding me."
She swallowed. "I've been… busy."
A faint smile curved his lips. "Liar."
She flinched at the word, her cheeks flushing. "It was just one night," she said quietly. "It doesn't have to mean anything."
He rose, his movements fluid, controlled. He walked around the table until he stood behind her chair, his fingers brushing her hair back from her neck.
"You think you can just forget what happened between us?" he asked, his voice low.
She closed her eyes, shivering at the heat of his breath. "We agreed—no attachments."
He leaned closer, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. "But you're already attached," he murmured. "I can feel it."
Her breath hitched, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "No," she whispered. "I'm not."
His hand slid down to her shoulder, the light touch sending shivers down her spine. "You're lying to yourself," he said softly.
She turned her head, meeting his gaze. "And what about you?" she shot back. "Are you going to pretend this is just… casual for you?"
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—something vulnerable, raw. But then it was gone, replaced by cool detachment.
"I told you before," he said. "This doesn't change anything."
She swallowed hard. "Then why are you doing this?"
He paused, his fingers tightening slightly on her shoulder. "Because I can't stop," he said quietly. "And neither can you."
The words cut through her like a blade. She hated how true they felt—how her body responded to his every touch, how her heart beat faster just being near him.
She turned away, her chest tight. "This is dangerous," she said.
He smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. "Everything worth wanting is."
Before she could respond, he turned and walked back to his seat, picking up a file like nothing had happened.
And she was left there, her hands trembling, knowing that whatever they had started—whatever this was—it was already spiraling out of control.
That night, she dreamed of him.
She woke in the dark, her sheets damp with sweat, her skin tingling as if he had just touched her. She pressed her hand between her legs, trying to ease the ache, but it wasn't enough.
She needed him. She hated herself for it, but she did.
She tried to fight it—tried to bury herself in work, in late nights and endless coffee. But every time she looked at him—every time he stood too close or spoke in that low, commanding voice—her body remembered.
And so did her heart.
The next evening, he called her.
"Come to me," he said simply.
She hesitated, phone pressed to her ear, her breath coming fast. "I can't keep doing this," she whispered.
"You can," he said. "And you will."
She closed her eyes, a shiver running through her. "I'm scared, Zeyan."
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "I know," he said. "But I promise you, I'll take care of you."
It was that promise that undid her. That quiet, steady certainty in his voice—the way he spoke as if he already owned her.
She found herself in his suite again that night, standing at the door with her heart in her throat.
He opened the door, his eyes dark and hot. "Come here," he said.
She stepped inside, her pulse pounding.
He closed the door behind her, then reached out, his hand slipping into her hair. "You've been thinking about me," he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheek.
She didn't deny it. "Yes."
He smiled faintly, leaning in to kiss her—slow and deep, a promise and a threat all at once.
He took her that night like he was claiming her.
Slow at first, drawing out every shiver, every breathless gasp. He kissed her until she was shaking, his hands everywhere—her hair, her throat, her hips. When he finally slid inside her, it felt like coming home and losing herself all at once.
He moved with a fierce tenderness, each thrust deliberate, his mouth at her ear whispering things that made her shiver. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her body burning with need.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips—a surrender she couldn't stop.
Afterwards, he held her close, his breath warm against her temple.
"You're mine," he murmured. "Even if you can't admit it yet."
She lay there in the dark, her head on his chest, and knew he was right.
She was his.
And it terrified her.
End of Chapter Six.