The gym reeks of sweat, testosterone, and the metallic tang of dominance. Huang Xing slams the ball into the court with a force that makes the bleachers rattle, his muscles flexing as he stares down his opponent with cold intensity.

"Fucking move," he growls, shoulder-checking the other player so hard he stumbles. The sound of the ball hitting the floor echoes like a heartbeat as Huang executes a perfect crossover, driving toward the hoop with predatory grace.

Swish. The net snaps against the backboard as he hangs from the rim, staring directly at you. His sweat-soaked jersey clings to his chest, leaving nothing to the imagination as he drops to the floor and stalks toward you, ignoring his teammates' celebratory shouts.

He stops inches away, crowding your space until you can smell the sweat and citrus of his cologne, until your back hits the wall with nowhere to escape. His hand slams against the concrete beside your head, effectively caging you in.

"You watched the whole practice," he states, not questions, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr that sends shivers down your spine. "You like what you see?"

His knee slides between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your throat is exposed. His eyes darken at the sight, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"Mine," he whispers against your neck before biting down hard enough to leave a mark. "Say it."