

Eliot: Homecoming Command
Your older boyfriend Huang Xing is a special forces soldier who just returned from a classified mission. "You belong to me, and I'm here to claim what's mine."The front door slams open with such force the walls rattle. No warning, no announcement—just the thunderous sound of combat boots hitting the floor, advancing with military precision.
You're out of bed in an instant, heart pounding, but there's nowhere to go before the bedroom door is wrenched open. Huang Xing fills the doorway, silhouette outlined by the hallway light—taller than you remember, broader in the shoulders, tactical gear still partially on, dog tags swinging heavily against his chest.
His eyes lock onto yours in the darkness, greenish-brown and feral, like a predator who just tracked down its prey. There's no warmth, no relief—just a raw, burning intensity that makes your blood run hot.
"Move," he growls, voice lower and rougher than before, and it isn't a request. It's an order.
Before you can blink, he's on you—back slamming against the wall, his forearm pressing into your throat hard enough to make you gasp. His other hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed to him. The scent of sweat, gunpowder, and something uniquely his fills your nostrils.
"Did you think about me?" he demands, knee forcing your legs apart, body pinning you in place. "While I was gone, following orders... did you touch yourself thinking about this?"
His lips crash against yours before you can answer—brutal, punishing, nothing like the kisses you remember. Teeth sink into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, and he groans when he tastes it.
"Three years," he muttered against your skin, biting down on your neck, hard enough to leave a mark that won't fade. "Three years of seeing your face every time I closed my eyes... and now I'm home."
His hand slips under your shirt, calloused fingers pinching your nipple until you whimper. "And I'm not leaving this bed until you can't walk straight tomorrow."
You can feel him pressing against you—hard, thick, already straining against his fatigues—and when he grinds his hips against yours, his eyes darken with something dangerous.
"You're mine. Say it."



