Jiawen woke before dawn, her head pillowed on Lu Zeyan's chest. His hand rested loosely at her waist, his breathing deep and even in the hush of the early morning. The room was warm, the sheets twisted around them in the aftermath of the night's fever.
For a moment, she let herself pretend this was normal—waking up in the arms of a man who wanted her, who made her feel things she'd buried so long ago. But reality seeped in with every beat of her heart.
This was not love. This was an arrangement, a tangle of bodies and needs. It was supposed to be simple.
She slipped out of his embrace carefully, easing her legs from his and sitting at the edge of the bed. The ache between her thighs was a throbbing memory of how thoroughly he had taken her, how completely she had given in.
She reached for her clothes, gathering them in the half-light of the room. She didn't want to wake him, didn't want to see those dark eyes that seemed to read her so easily.
But as she reached for her blouse, his hand shot out, catching her wrist.
"Where are you going?" His voice was still thick with sleep, but there was no mistaking the command in it.
"I have work," she murmured, not meeting his eyes.
He tugged her back into bed, his hand sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against his body. She gasped softly at the feel of him, already half-hard against her hip.
"You're not leaving yet," he said, his lips brushing her shoulder. "Not when I'm not done with you."
Her breath hitched, her body already betraying her. She closed her eyes, her resolve slipping like sand through her fingers.
"Zeyan…" she whispered.
His teeth grazed her neck. "Stay," he said. "Just a little longer."
They moved together in the pale light of dawn, slow and unhurried this time. His hands were patient, exploring every inch of her as if he needed to memorize her curves. She moaned softly when his mouth closed over her breast, her fingers weaving into his hair.
"Look at me," he murmured, and she obeyed, her eyes locking with his as he slid inside her.
He moved with a deliberate control, his hips rolling slowly, each thrust sending heat spiraling through her. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, and he caught her lips in a deep, possessive kiss.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips, her body arching beneath him.
He held her close afterwards, his hand stroking her hair, and for a moment she let herself melt into his warmth.
But when the sun rose fully, she pulled away.
Later, as she dressed, she caught his gaze in the mirror. He was watching her, his eyes dark and unreadable.
"What are you thinking?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer for a long moment. "That you're trying too hard to pretend this doesn't mean anything," he said finally.
She looked away. "We agreed—no feelings."
His mouth curved faintly. "We did. But you're already breaking that rule."
Her pulse quickened. "I'm not."
He stood, his body tall and imposing as he moved closer. "You are," he said, his voice low. "And so am I."
Her breath caught. "Then what are we doing?"
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "We're doing exactly what we both need," he said. "No more, no less."
She swallowed, her heart hammering. She wanted to believe him—wanted to believe that this wouldn't end in heartbreak.
But deep down, she knew they were both lying.
She tried to go back to normal after that, but nothing felt the same.
At the office, she found herself distracted by every memory of him—his hands on her body, his lips on her skin. She couldn't escape the heat of it, even in the bright, clinical light of her office.
He acted as if nothing had changed. In meetings, he was the same cold, focused CEO, his gaze steady and impassive. But sometimes, when no one else was watching, he'd let his hand brush against hers under the table—a fleeting, electric touch that made her breath catch.
It was driving her crazy.
One night, she stayed late at the office, buried in work. She was hoping that if she exhausted herself enough, she wouldn't dream of him—wouldn't wake up aching for his touch.
But as she left her office, she nearly ran straight into him.
"Working late?" he asked, his voice calm, but his eyes hot.
She swallowed, clutching her folder to her chest. "I have deadlines."
He stepped closer, his presence filling the corridor. "I don't like it when you work so hard you forget to sleep."
She tried to keep her voice steady. "You don't get to decide that."
His smile was faint, but there was something dangerous in it. "Don't I?"
She glared at him. "This isn't part of the arrangement."
He reached out, his thumb brushing her lower lip. "Everything about you is part of the arrangement," he murmured.
Her breath caught, her body responding despite herself.
"I should go home," she said shakily.
He nodded, but his hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer. "I'll take you."
He drove her home in silence, the tension between them thick as the night air. When they reached her apartment, he killed the engine but didn't move.
She turned to him, her pulse pounding. "Zeyan—"
He cut her off with a kiss, hard and claiming, his hand tangling in her hair. She moaned into his mouth, her resolve crumbling.
"Invite me in," he said against her lips.
She hesitated. She knew she shouldn't—knew that every time she let him in, he took a little more of her.
But she was too far gone to say no.
"Come in," she whispered.
Inside, he pushed her against the door, his mouth hot and demanding on her neck. She gasped, her hands fisting in his shirt as he lifted her, carrying her to the bedroom like she weighed nothing.
He laid her on the bed, his eyes dark with hunger. "Take your clothes off," he said softly.
She obeyed, her fingers trembling as she stripped for him. When she was bare, he stood back for a moment, his gaze sweeping over her with a heat that made her shiver.
"You're beautiful," he said, his voice rough.
Then he was on her, his mouth trailing fire down her throat, his hands mapping every inch of her skin. He took his time, teasing her until she was writhing beneath him, begging for more.
When he finally entered her, it was slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on hers. She arched into him, her hands clutching his shoulders, and he groaned low in his throat.
"You're mine," he said, each thrust deep and claiming. "Say it."
She whimpered, her head tossing on the pillow. "I'm yours."
He kissed her hard, his hips slamming into hers. "Again."
"I'm yours," she gasped.
He took her harder then, each stroke pushing her closer to the edge. When she came, it was with a cry, her nails raking down his back.
He followed her over, his body shuddering as he spilled inside her, his breath hot against her ear.
Afterwards, he held her close, their bodies slick with sweat. She lay against his chest, her heart racing.
In the quiet that followed, she whispered, "What happens when this ends?"
His hand stroked her hair slowly. "It doesn't have to end."
"But it will," she said, her voice small. "We both know it."
He was silent for a long moment. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"Not tonight," he said softly. "Tonight, you're mine."
She closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. She knew it was temporary—knew she was only fooling herself.
But for tonight, she let herself believe him.
End of Chapter Seven.