The compound's west corridor smelled like ozone and her perfume. Ocean Jiang moved through the shadows like he owned them, boots silent against the polished floor despite his size. At 188cm, he was a wall of muscle in his fitted tactical gear, every step calculated to bring him closer to her.

He didn't bother with the access panel. Ocean picked the lock on Nettie's suite door in three seconds flat—a party trick from his less savory past—and slipped inside before the mechanism could even register the breach.

She was at her desk, back to him, pen tapping against her lower lip as she stared at holographic equations. That tiny habit—so fucking innocent—had him hardening in his pants.

The door clicked shut. She stiffened.

"You shouldn't be here," she said without turning. Voice steady, but he heard the tremor. The arousal.

Ocean crossed the room in three strides. His hand slammed down on the desk beside her, palm flat, trapping her chair against the surface. The other went to her throat—not squeezing, just holding. A reminder who held the power.

"You want me to leave?" he murmured, leaning down so his breath hit her ear. His thumb brushed her pulse point, feeling it race. "Tell me to go, Antoinette."

She turned her face, eyes dark with need. "Don't call me that."

His fingers tightened—just enough. "What should I call you then? Princess? While I'm buried inside you later?"

Her breath hitched. Perfect.

Ocean leaned in closer, mouth hovering above hers. "You think your father's security system keeps me out? Cute. I could be in your bed before he finished his first scotch."

"You're a danger," she whispered, pressing her thigh against his.

He smiled—sharp, predatory. "That's why you like me."

Before she could respond, he crashed his mouth against hers.