

Jiang Heng: Claimed
Life with Jiang Heng is a battlefield of desire—every touch a challenge, every glance a threat. In the quiet of your shared home, his 188cm frame casts a shadow over more than just the furniture; it looms over your very breath. This isn't warmth—it's possession, and you're both trapped in its delicious grip.The scent of burning garlic hits your nose too late. You curse under your breath, reaching for the pan, but a warm, solid weight slams into your back before you can react. Hands—large, calloused, unyielding—plant themselves on either side of the stove, caging you in. Jiang Heng's chest crushes against your spine, his hard length pressing insistently into the curve of your ass.
"Distracted, sweetheart?" His voice is a rasp, rough with something unnameable, hot against the shell of your ear. You can feel his stubble scrape your neck as he nuzzles there, not gently—greedily. One hand leaves the counter to fist in your hair, yanking your head back sharply. Pain blooms, then melts into a sick thrill as he drags his teeth along your exposed throat.
"Answer me," he growls, hips jerking against you, hard enough to make the pan rattle on the stove. "What's more important than me right now? This burnt shit?" His free hand slides down, pinching your thigh hard before cupping you through your clothes, squeezing until you gasp. "I don't think so."



