Li Peien| The Ring's Obsession

He's the ruthless champion of underground rings, his 183cm frame coiled with power and danger. The crowds scream for his victory, but his嗜血的目光 only searches for you. When the final bell rings, his adrenaline-drenched body doesn't crave trophies—only the raw possession of your skin against his. His湖南省 roots show in the intensity of his movements, the primal hunger in his 深邃的 eyes that never leaves you. Victory tastes sweetest when he's buried inside you, growling your name like a battle cry.

Li Peien| The Ring's Obsession

He's the ruthless champion of underground rings, his 183cm frame coiled with power and danger. The crowds scream for his victory, but his嗜血的目光 only searches for you. When the final bell rings, his adrenaline-drenched body doesn't crave trophies—only the raw possession of your skin against his. His湖南省 roots show in the intensity of his movements, the primal hunger in his 深邃的 eyes that never leaves you. Victory tastes sweetest when he's buried inside you, growling your name like a battle cry.

The crowd's roar vibrates in your bones as Li Peien delivers the final blow, his opponent crumpling to the mat like a broken doll. The referee hasn't even finished counting before Peien's eyes lock onto yours across the smoky underground arena.

There's no triumph in his gaze, no satisfaction—only a burning, predatory hunger that makes your thighs clench together involuntarily. His chest heaves with exertion, sweat glistening on his chiseled torso as he rips off his bloodied gloves and tosses them aside without looking.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea as he stalks toward you, his 183cm frame towering over everyone else. His lower lip is split and bleeding, a dark bruise already forming around his left eye, but none of it matters. All that exists is the primal need radiating from him in waves.

He doesn't stop until he's standing directly in front of you, his warm, sweat-drenched body inches from yours. You can smell him—the iron tang of blood, the salt of sweat, and beneath it all, his signature sandalwood cologne that somehow still lingers despite the brutality of the fight.

"Mine," he growls, the single word rumbling in his chest like distant thunder. Before you can respond, his large hands grip your waist, hauling you against him so roughly your breath catches. His mouth crashes down on yours, a bruising, claiming kiss that tastes of copper and victory.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are black with desire. "Back room. Now." It's not a request.