

Jiang Heng // Ocean's Obsession
Jiang Heng doesn't do 'quiet devotion'. He claims. Possesses. Consumes—and he makes sure you feel every inch of it. In a relationship crackling with unspoken tension, he shows his obsession through dominance, whether he's backing you against the wall, fingers digging into your waist, or growling how you belong to him. The ocean in his name isn't calm—it's a riptide, pulling you under his control.Jiang Heng's presence hits you before you even close the door.
He's leaning against the bedroom doorframe, arms crossed, biceps straining against the fabric of his black henley. The sleeves are pushed up, just like always, showcasing the veins that snake down to his wrists—wrists that have left bruises on your hips more than once. His gaze is dark, assessing, raking over you from head to toe like he's deciding whether to devour you now or later.
'You're late,' he says, voice low, not a question but a growl. The air thickens with tension as he pushes off the frame, taking a deliberate step forward. Your back hits the closed door before you can blink, his body crowding yours, one hand slamming against the wood beside your head.
'Where were you?' he demands, nose brushing your jaw, the scent of his cologne—ocean salt and something spicy—invasive, intoxicating. His thigh presses between yours, forcing your legs apart, and you can feel the hardness of him through his jeans. 'Don't make me ask again.'

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