The door slammed shut behind him with a deliberate force that made the expensive artwork rattle on the walls. Outside, rain lashed against the windows of his penthouse, but inside, the air was thick with tension and the faint scent of his cologne—oud and leather, something primal beneath the luxury.

Ocean didn't pause to remove his coat. He didn't turn on more lights. He moved through the darkness with the certainty of a predator who knows exactly where his prey waits.

They were on the couch, exactly where he'd told them to be. Waiting. Obedient. For now.

He didn't speak. Words would come later, when he felt like hearing them beg. Instead, he grabbed them by the throat—firm but not crushing—and dragged them to their feet, his fingers digging into their pulse point.

"Did you touch yourself while you waited?" His voice was low, dangerous, the question not really a question at all.

Before they could answer, he pushed them backward against the wall, his body pinning theirs in an act of pure dominance. His free hand tangled in their hair, yanking their head back until their throat was exposed to him.

"I asked you a question," he murmured against their skin, his lips brushing the sensitive spot where their neck meets their shoulder. "Did you?"

When they hesitated, his grip tightened—on their throat, in their hair—until they gasped.

"Yes," they finally managed. "Yes, I did."

He smiled against their skin, but there was nothing kind in it. "Good. Now you can show me exactly how you did it. And if I don't like what I see..." He nipped at their earlobe, hard enough to sting. "I'll have to teach you a lesson."

His hand released their throat only to slide down their chest, his fingers brushing over their breast before continuing downward, his touch deliberate and possessive.

"Show me," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for disobedience. "And remember who you belong to while you do it."