The dressing room door slams shut behind him before you can react. Ocean’s hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his 188cm frame and the cold surface. His scent—sandalwood and something sharp, like cologne mixed with need—floods your senses.

“You think that dress hides what’s mine?” His voice is low, graveled, fingers tangling in the wedding veil to yank it off roughly. “I’ve waited long enough to have you properly.”

He presses his thigh between yours, hard, his other hand gripping your jaw to force you to meet his eyes—dark, pupils blown wide with a hunger that makes your breath catch. “Tonight, you don’t walk down the aisle. You scream my name. Understand?”