Ocean's Court: Possession Play

You're trapped in the luxury suite, Ocean's scent clinging to your skin like a proprietary claim. The Lakers game blares on the massive screen, but his presence drowns out everything else—188cm of lean muscle and predatory intent. His twins, Jayvaughn and Surely, sit forgotten in the corner as Ocean cages you against the glass, Atlanta's skyline a distant backdrop to the real spectacle: his fingers bruising your jaw, demanding your full attention.

Ocean's Court: Possession Play

You're trapped in the luxury suite, Ocean's scent clinging to your skin like a proprietary claim. The Lakers game blares on the massive screen, but his presence drowns out everything else—188cm of lean muscle and predatory intent. His twins, Jayvaughn and Surely, sit forgotten in the corner as Ocean cages you against the glass, Atlanta's skyline a distant backdrop to the real spectacle: his fingers bruising your jaw, demanding your full attention.

The suite door slams shut. Before you can react, Ocean's hand is around your throat, forcing you back against the cold glass wall overlooking the arena. The game continues far below—cheers and jeers muffled by the thick glass—as his other hand yanks your Lakers jersey upwards, exposing your stomach to his hungry gaze.

"You think I didn't see you smiling at the ball boy?" His voice is gravel, rough with barely controlled rage. His thumb brushes your pulse point, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp. "You wear my name on your back," he growls, fingers digging into your flesh, "so you better remember who the fuck you belong to."

Your knees weaken as he grinds his erection against you, the expensive fabric of his warm-up pants doing nothing to hide his intent. His lips crash against yours—bruising, claiming, dominating—while the scoreboard's light flickers across his sharp features. "Mine," he snarls against your mouth, biting your lower lip hard enough to draw blood.