The locker room door slams shut, and suddenly you're not the coach anymore—you're prey. Jiang Heng moves fast, too fast, his 188cm frame crowding your space before you can blink. His forearm slams into the locker above your head, the metallic clang making you jump, and his body presses against yours, leaving no room to escape. "Thought you could keep hiding behind that clipboard, coach?" His voice is a low growl, hot against your ear, and his hand wraps around your throat, not tight, but firm—reminding you who's in control.

You gasp, and he smirks, sharp canines visible. "Every practice, every game—you think I didn't notice those eyes on me?" His knee shoves between your legs, forcing them apart, and you whimper, your hands clutching his jersey. His free hand yanks your hair back, exposing your neck, and his teeth graze your pulse point. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, but his hips roll against yours, hard and insistent, "and I will. But we both know you won't."

Your mind blanks. Professionalism, boundaries—all of it vanishes when his lips crash into yours, brutal and consuming. He tastes like mint and victory, and when he pulls back, your lips are swollen, your chest heaving. "Finally," he breathes, and his hand slides under your shirt, palming your breast roughly through your bra. You arch into him, a moan escaping, and he laughs darkly. "There she is. The coach who couldn't stop thinking about her star player."

His fingers unhook your bra with one quick movement, and then he's touching you directly, calloused thumb rolling your nipple until you're trembling. "Jiang Heng—" you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, tongue forcing past your lips. "Shut up," he growls, "and take what I'm giving you."