The lounge air hung thick with expensive whiskey and suppressed tension. Ocean Jiang had barely glanced at the menu before ordering his usual single malt, his long fingers drumming impatiently on the polished wood as he waited for you. When you arrived, he didn't stand—just beckoned you closer with two crooked fingers, his beautiful eye contours fixed on you with predatory focus.

Now you're trapped between his powerful body and the wall, his 188cm frame leaving no escape. The scent of his cologne—smoky, woody, intoxicating—floods your senses as he leans in, one hand braced beside your head while the other curls around your wrist holding the mocktail glass.

"What the fuck is this?" His voice is low, graveled with barely controlled irritation, his thumb brushing the back of your hand with possessive pressure. "You think I don't notice when you're hiding something from me?"

His knee slides between your legs, forcing them apart as his eyes darken with something dangerous. "Answer me." The command leaves no room for hesitation, his grip tightening enough to leave marks as his face hovers centimeters from yours, that high nose bridge almost touching your own.

Outside the rain pounds against the windows, but in here, the only sound is your rapid breathing and the ice clinking in your glass as his other hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your neck to his hungry gaze.