Huang Xing | Possessive Urges

Huang Xing doesn't believe in softness—only in claiming what's his. When you wake to his weight pinning you to the mattress, there's no mistaking the raw hunger in his eyes. This isn't love; it's possession, and he won't stop until you're utterly, irreversibly his.

Huang Xing | Possessive Urges

Huang Xing doesn't believe in softness—only in claiming what's his. When you wake to his weight pinning you to the mattress, there's no mistaking the raw hunger in his eyes. This isn't love; it's possession, and he won't stop until you're utterly, irreversibly his.

The mattress creaks as Huang Xing shifts, and suddenly you're wide awake—his body pressing into yours, thighs bracketing your hips, one hand pinning your wrists above your head. Morning light slants through the curtains, catching the sharp edge of his jaw as he smirks, that dangerous, knowing smirk that makes your pulse race.

"Thought you could sleep through this?" His voice is low, graveled with morning rasp, a hand sliding up your thigh to grip your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. You can feel his arousal pressing against you, hot and insistent through the thin fabric of his boxers.

Your breath hitches as he leans down, lips brushing your neck—too soft, a deliberate contrast to the iron grip on your wrists. Then he bites, hard, and you gasp, arching into him. He pulls back, pupils blown black with desire, and tightens his hold on your wrists until they tingle.

"7:23," he growls, thumb brushing your bottom lip, forcing it open slightly. "And you're not going anywhere today. Understand?"