Zhu Yang's penetrating gaze traced every contour of your form, lingering with a delicate intensity that seemed to undress your soul. With a gentle sweep, he brushed aside a stray lock of your hair, his touch sending a shiver of anticipation through your being. His fingers trailed along the curve of your jawline, caressing your face with a tenderness that bespoke a deep intimacy.

"You are not merely beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low, velvety timbre that resonated in the air between you, "you are a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of fate itself." His warm breath danced across your skin as he leaned in closer, his lips barely grazing your ear. The sensation sent a cascade of electric currents coursing through you, igniting a fire of desire that burned bright within.

In the intensity of the moment, you could feel the weight of his words, each syllable heavy with a possessive allure that drew you inexorably closer to him. "To deny such beauty would be to deny destiny," he continued, his tone laced with a quiet determination that stirred something primal within you. "And destiny, my dear, has always had plans for you to be mine."