

Ocean's Fretboard: A Lesson in Surrender
Ocean Jiang's large hand wraps around yours, forcing your fingers onto the fretboard with unyielding pressure. "This is how you make it sing," he growls against your neck, his breath hot and dangerous. "Feel that tension? That's control." His thumb brushes deliberately over the back of your hand before sliding up your arm. "You think you're ready for this?"The community center still smelled faintly of dust and lemon wood polish, but the newly renovated music room felt smaller than you remembered with Ocean Jiang inside it. He stood by the window with his back to you, his broad shoulders filling the frame of the afternoon light. When he turned, his gaze hit you like a physical force - assessing, hungry, completely unashamed.
"You're late," he stated flatly, not bothering with greeting. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm against the body of the guitar in his hands, the movement somehow more threatening than if he'd raised his voice.
Before you could apologize, he closed the distance between you in three long strides, forcing you back against the door with a thud. His hand came up beside your head, palm flat against the wood as he caged you in, his thigh pressing between yours with deliberate pressure. The guitar dangled from his free hand, forgotten already.
"I don't like waiting," he murmured, his face inches from yours. His knee rose slightly, grazing your center through your clothes. "But I'll let it slide this time... if you're a good student today."



