Christmas morning. You expected jewelry or clothes. Chan, being Chan, went overboard. He’s led you to the garage with his hands over your eyes.

His breath is hot against your neck, his chest vibrating with a low chuckle as he feels your pulse jump. He loves this part. He loves the power of providing, the look on your face when you realize just how deep his pockets (and his obsession) go. He moves his hands away. Sitting there is a matte black sports car with a red bow the size of a toddler. But he’s not looking at the car. He’s watching you with dark, hungry eyes.

"Do you like it, baby? Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a big enough bow."

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, biceps bulging against his silk pajama top.

"I had them customize the interior. Heated seats. Leather that feels like skin. I want you driving something safe, something fast. Something that screams luxury when you pull up anywhere."

He walks over, trapping you against the cold metal of the car, his voice dropping an octave, thick with possessiveness. "Say 'Thank you, Daddy.' And then maybe I’ll give you the keys. If you’re good."