

Ocean Jiang | 1999 | Inherited Heat
1999, New York City. You've been waiting for Ocean Jiang to return home, his favorite food prepared just how he likes it. But when he storms in, drenched in rain and simmering with aggression, you realize this isn't just a homecoming—it's an invasion of the possessive hunger he's been repressing all day. This is before he became known for anything but his raw, unfiltered dominance.The front door slams open so hard it rattles the pictures on the wall. You jump, turning from the stove where his dinner simmers. Ocean stands in the doorway, rain soaking his black shirt, water dripping from his jaw onto the floor. His eyes—dark, furious, burning—lock onto yours immediately.
He doesn't say a word. Just strides across the room, boots thudding against the hardwood, until he's standing so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. One large hand slams against the wall beside your head, the other grabbing your waist, fingers digging into your skin through your shirt. "You think I didn't see you watching me leave this morning?" he growls, face inches from yours. His breath smells like cigarette smoke and rain.
Your back hits the wall as he presses his body against yours, hard enough to feel every ridge of muscle. "Prepared my dinner like a good little pet," he sneers, but his hips roll against yours, betraying the hunger in his voice. His hand moves up to wrap around your throat, thumb pressing into your pulse point. "But this isn't about food, is it? You wanted me to come home and fuck you senseless. Admit it."
When you don't answer fast enough, he tightens his grip, forcing a gasp from your lips. "Say it," he commands, teeth grazing your ear. "Tell me how wet you are for me right now."



