The next morning, the weight of his presence was everywhere.
Jiawen woke to find Lu Zeyan already dressed, standing by the window as if he'd been up for hours. His tailored suit hugged his broad shoulders, his dark eyes watching the city below.
She propped herself up on her elbow, the sheet slipping to reveal her bare shoulders. "You're leaving?"
He turned to her, his gaze sweeping over her slowly. "I have meetings."
She nodded, trying to hide the pang in her chest. "Of course."
He walked back to the bed, his hand brushing her hair back from her face. "You look good in my bed," he said quietly.
Her breath caught. "Don't say things like that."
His lips curved faintly. "Why not? It's the truth."
She looked away. "This is supposed to be simple."
He didn't answer, just bent to kiss her softly. "Get some rest. I'll see you tonight."
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
She spent the day trying to pretend she was fine.
At work, she buried herself in tasks, ignoring the way her phone buzzed with messages from him. Short, direct texts that felt like orders.
Lunch. Be ready.
Wear the dress I bought you.
Tonight, my place.
Each message was a reminder of the hold he had on her. And each one sent a thrill through her, even though she tried to deny it.
By evening, she was a bundle of nerves.
She changed into the dress he'd chosen for her—a deep red silk that clung to every curve. When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. She looked… dangerous. Wanted.
When he arrived to pick her up, he didn't say a word, just let his eyes rake over her in a way that made her pulse race.
His penthouse was even more opulent than the first time she'd been there. The city lights spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glow of the skyline painting everything in gold and silver.
He poured them drinks—whiskey for him, red wine for her—and watched her over the rim of his glass.
"You look beautiful tonight," he said softly.
She sipped her wine, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach. "You said that this was just physical," she said, her voice steady. "But you keep… saying things."
He set his glass down, his eyes locked on hers. "Do you want me to stop?"
She swallowed hard. "I don't know."
He stood, moving closer. "I think you do."
His hands slid to her waist, pulling her close. She shivered at the heat of his body, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
"Tell me to stop," he said softly, his lips brushing her ear. "Tell me you don't want this."
She closed her eyes. "I can't."
They didn't make it to the bedroom.
He lifted her onto the kitchen counter, the cold marble shocking against her skin. His mouth was hot on her throat, his hands sliding under her dress to find the heat between her thighs.
She gasped, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. "Zeyan—"
He cut her off with a kiss, deep and hungry. His fingers slipped beneath her panties, stroking her until she was gasping, her hips rocking against his hand.
"Look at me," he said, his voice rough.
She opened her eyes, meeting his dark gaze as he pushed two fingers inside her. She moaned, her head falling back, but he caught her chin, forcing her to hold his stare.
"I love how you look when you're falling apart," he murmured.
She was shaking, her body so close to the edge. "Please," she gasped.
He didn't stop, his fingers moving faster, his thumb circling her clit. "Come for me," he ordered.
And she did—her body shattering around his hand, a cry tearing from her throat.
When she came down, he lifted her off the counter and carried her to the bedroom. He undressed her slowly, his touch reverent, as if she were something precious.
"You're mine tonight," he said, laying her back on the bed. "All mine."
She didn't argue. She didn't want to.
The night was a blur of heat and sweat and soft, desperate sounds. He took her over and over, each time slower, deeper, as if he was trying to carve himself into her skin.
She lost track of how many times she came, her body trembling, her throat raw from his name.
When he finally spilled inside her, it was with a groan, his body shuddering over hers. He collapsed beside her, pulling her close, his face buried in her hair.
For a long time, they just lay there, their breathing slowing.
She thought he'd leave afterwards, that he'd pull away like he always did.
But he stayed.
In the quiet of the night, he traced circles on her bare back, his hand gentle, almost tender.
"Tell me what you're thinking," he murmured.
She hesitated. "I'm thinking… this isn't just about sex anymore."
He didn't answer right away. Then he kissed her forehead. "I know."
She closed her eyes. "That scares me."
He didn't try to deny it. "It scares me too," he said softly.
The next morning, she woke before him, her head resting on his chest.
She watched him sleep, his face relaxed in a way she'd never seen before. Vulnerable. Human.
For a moment, she let herself imagine what it would be like if this wasn't temporary. If this was real.
But she knew better.
She slid out of bed quietly, dressing in the half-light of dawn. She found a note on the nightstand, scrawled in his neat, sharp handwriting.
Tonight. My office.
A shiver ran down her spine.
That night, she arrived at his office just before ten. The building was nearly empty, the halls quiet, the only light coming from the glow of his office windows.
She paused at the door, her heart pounding. When she knocked, his voice called out softly.
"Come in."
He was seated behind his massive desk, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, his tie loosened. His eyes met hers, and something in them made her breath catch.
"Lock the door," he said quietly.
She did.
He stood, moving around the desk to stand in front of her. "You know what I want," he said, his voice low.
She nodded, her pulse quickening.
He reached out, his fingers tangling in her hair. "On your knees."
She sank to the floor, her hands resting on his thighs as she looked up at him.
He unbuckled his belt slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Show me how much you want this."
She took him into her mouth, her lips soft and eager around him. He groaned, his hand tightening in her hair as she moved, her tongue swirling around the head of his cock.
"Good girl," he murmured, his hips rocking slowly.
She loved the taste of him, the way he looked down at her like she was the only thing in the world. She worked him with her mouth and hand, her own arousal pooling between her thighs.
When he came, it was with a low curse, his body shuddering as he spilled into her mouth.
She swallowed it all, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark with need.
He pulled her to her feet, his mouth crashing down on hers in a hard, desperate kiss.
"Mine," he growled against her lips.
"Yours," she whispered back.
And she meant it—god help her, she meant it.
End of Chapter Eight.