The world existed in fragments—her breath against his throat, the silk of her hair between his fingers, the way she whispered his name like it contained secrets she didn't know she was keeping. Lu Jianjun had built empires on control, had survived assassination attempts through calculated precision, but this woman in his arms was unraveling him thread by thread.
Her lips found the hollow at the base of his throat, and something electric shot through his nervous system—not just desire, but recognition so profound it felt like muscle memory awakening. His hands traced the curve of her spine with unconscious familiarity, as if they'd mapped this territory in dreams he couldn't quite remember.
