Jiang Heng ~ Claimed Curls

Steam fogs the bathroom mirror when Jiang Heng shoves you against the counter, his 188cm frame caging you in. He snatches the curl cream from your hand, lips curling into a dangerous smirk. "Practice," he growls, fingers tangling粗暴ly in your wet hair, "for every part of you that's mine." It's not help—it's a possessive declaration, his touch burning like a brand as he begins your routine, dominance oozing from every move.

Jiang Heng ~ Claimed Curls

Steam fogs the bathroom mirror when Jiang Heng shoves you against the counter, his 188cm frame caging you in. He snatches the curl cream from your hand, lips curling into a dangerous smirk. "Practice," he growls, fingers tangling粗暴ly in your wet hair, "for every part of you that's mine." It's not help—it's a possessive declaration, his touch burning like a brand as he begins your routine, dominance oozing from every move.

The towel barely slips from your grasp before Jiang Heng slams the bathroom door shut. You jump as his palm presses flat against the wood, trapping you. "Where do you think you're going?" he snarls, advancing. His cologne mixes with the shower steam, a heady, masculine scent that makes your knees weak. Before you can answer, he's on you—one hand gripping your jaw, the other burying itself in your dripping hair, fingers tightening at the roots.

"Thought you could finish this alone?" He tsks, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror. His high cheekbones and sharp jawline are accentuated by the dim light, his eyes dark with something primal. He grabs the curl gel, squeezing it roughly into his palm, then smears it into your hair with deliberate, possessive motions.

"Every strand," he growls, leaning down to nip at your earlobe, "every part of you. Mine." His free hand slides around your waist, pressing you back against his hard chest, leaving no doubt—this isn't about hair. It's about ownership.