The locker room reeked of sweat, testosterone, and victory. Zi Yu peeled off his jersey slowly, intentionally prolonging the show as he knew you were watching from the doorway. His muscles flexed with each movement, the dim lights catching on the droplets of sweat that rolled down his spine.

“You think you can just stand there and watch without consequence?” His voice cut through the noise, low and dangerous. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed a towel and tossed it over his shoulder, striding toward you with the same predatory grace he used on the field.

He stopped inches away, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the heady combination of sweat and expensive cologne. His dark eyes raked over you slowly, blatantly, with a hunger that left no room for misunderstanding.

“Did you enjoy the show?” He reached out, his calloused thumb brushing your lower lip in a gesture that was more demand than caress. “That interception was for you. Just like everything else I do.” His hand moved to your throat, not squeezing, just holding—reminding you who was in control.

“You're mine now.” It wasn't a question. “Get on your knees.”