Chapter Twelve #3
It echoes, bouncing off the walls of my skull, sharp and irritating. I flinch, curling tighter into the rug, pressing my hands over my ears. Make it stop. My head is pounding, a rhythmic thudding that matches the frantic, unsatisfied beat of my heart.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Sihwan! Open the damn door!"
The voice vibrates through the floorboards. It’s deep. Impatient. It scratches against my eardrums, and for a second, I just want to scream at whoever it is to leave me to die in my puddle of misery.
But then the sound registers. Not the words, but the tone. The pitch. It tugs at something in my gut, a hook snagging on a raw nerve.
My body moves before my brain gives permission.
I scramble up, my knees knocking together, feet slipping on the slick hardwood.
I catch myself on the wall, leaving a sweaty handprint on the pristine white paint.
I’m panting, my chest heaving like I’ve just sprinted a 500-meter freestyle, but I keep moving.
I stumble down the hallway, bouncing off the doorframe. I’m a mess. I know I’m a mess. I’m half-naked, shivering, and I probably smell like a locker room that hasn't been cleaned in a decade. But the pounding on the door is the only thing that exists. It’s a beacon.
I reach the entryway, fumbling with the lock. My fingers are clumsy, numb, refusing to cooperate. I curse, a wet, garbled sound, and finally, the deadbolt clicks.
I throw the door open.
The light from the hallway stabs my eyes, blinding and white. I squint, swaying on my feet, trying to focus on the figure looming in front of me.
Black clothes. Tall. Annoyed expression.
"What the f—"
He stops.
The air shifts. It happens in a split second. One moment, I’m staring at a blurry shape; the next, the scent hits me.
It’s not the stale, suffocating heat of my apartment. It’s cold. It’s biting. It smells like snow on asphalt, like bitter ink and ginseng. It smells like him.
Winter. Sharp. Right.
The recognition slams into me. The ache in my gut, the hollowness in my ass, the fever burning my skin—it all snaps into focus. The answer isn't a pill or a hand or a memory. It’s right here.
My vision tunnels. The last shred of my rational brain, the part that cares about dignity or hierarchy or the fact that I hate his guts, evaporates.
"Are you in fucking rut?" he starts, his nose flaring.
I don't let him finish.
I lunge. I grab the front of his shirt, my fingers digging into the fabric, and I yank him forward with everything I have.
He stumbles, caught off guard, and I drag him over the threshold. I kick the door shut behind him—I don't even know if it latches—and shove him backward.
We crash into the wall. The impact knocks the breath out of him, a heavy thud that shakes a picture frame loose.
His hands fly up, landing on my bare arms to steady himself.
His palms are cool, shockingly cool against my fever-hot skin, and the contact makes me hiss, my hips snapping forward instinctively.
He freezes, his grip on my arms tightening, his eyes wide as he stares down at me.
"You good?" His voice is rough, low.
I don't answer. I can't. I just bury my face in his neck, inhaling desperately, trying to drown in that cold, sharp scent.
I clutch at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's melting down.
His shirt bunches under my fists, cool cotton against my scorching palms. I catch the look in his eyes—dark, pupils blown wide, nostrils flaring as my rut-scent slams into him full force.
Hunger. Recognition. No smirk this time, just raw want.
I crash my mouth onto his a second before he can say anything stupid.
He groans into it, low and guttural, the sound vibrating straight down my spine.
His tongue strokes against mine, hot and demanding, tasting like mint and that bitter ginseng edge that clings to him always.
I sigh, melting against him, my whole body lighting up as I grind forward.
Heart slamming in my chest, gut twisting tight with filthy satisfaction—his cock's rock-hard against mine, thick through his pants, matching my desperation beat for beat.
"Fuck," I rasp, dropping a hand to palm him over the denim. He hisses sharp, hips jerking up into my grip.
"Need you," I mutter against the salt of his neck, nipping the skin there. "Inside me. It fucking aches."
He curses—something harsh and bitten-off—and shoves me back a step, just enough to yank at his shirt. Buttons strain. Fabric rips. It's not fast enough. My fingers hook the waistband of his pants as he peels the shirt off his shoulders, exposing lean muscle.
Too slow. Too goddamn slow. I fumble his button open, zipper dragging down with a rasp that echoes in my ears. His cock springs free as I shove pants and boxers to his thighs—heavy, flushed deep red, veins thick and pulsing, tip already slick.
My mouth waters. My ass clenches, empty and starving. Finally.
I moan, the sound ripping out of me raw and desperate, like I've been holding it in for days. My knees buckle, body screaming to worship that thick cock right there in front of me—hot, heavy, leaking for me. I start to sink, mouth watering, tongue already out like some heat-drunk slut.
His hands clamp my biceps, hauling me up hard. "Wait—fuck, I'm not gonna last if you do that."
The words barely register. I growl, low and pissed, twisting in his grip. Fuck waiting. I need it down my throat, need to choke on him until my rut shuts up. I lunge down anyway, teeth grazing air.
He snarls back, pheromones exploding—cold snap of winter, ink-sharp bite flooding my nose, my lungs, my brain. It hits like a gut punch, fuzzing everything out. The world spins, gray at the edges. My muscles go liquid, fight draining fast as my head lolls.
Suddenly, I'm flat on my back, couch cushions bouncing up under me. He's over me, caging me in, all lean power and elegant control. My legs are hooked over his shoulders before I can blink, thighs wrenched wide, my sweatpants stripped. Exposed. Dripping.
"Hey—" I rasp, half-protest, half-whine, hands scrabbling at his arms. Too much air on my hole, too empty.
"Fucking sit still," he grits, voice gravel-rough, eyes black with it.
I claw the couch leather instead, nails digging gouges, back arching off the cushions. Then his face drops between my thighs—breath ghosting hot first, making me twitch.
The hot swipe of his tongue over my hole registers. Flat and firm, dragging slow.
I keen, a sharp, broken sound that rips out of me unfiltered, my back bowing off the couch like I've been shocked. His tongue circles my rim, hot and insistent, pressure building until he sucks—fuck—lips sealing around the puckered muscle, pulling a wet slurp that echoes in my ears.
Then he moans. The vibration hums straight through me, and I lose it, thighs quaking as his tongue parts me, thick tip breaching the ring of muscle.
It pushes in, fills the throbbing ache just enough to tease, lapping at my inner walls with flat, dragging strokes.
My toes curl hard into the cushions, spine twisting, cock jerking untouched to spit a fat bead of precum onto my abs.
It cools instantly, sticky trail burning against fever-hot skin.
"Oh god," I moan, hips snapping up, chasing the wet heat.
He doesn't let up—just keeps fucking me open with his tongue like he's starving for it, thick muscle plunging deep before dragging back out in slow, filthy strokes.
His nose presses hard against my taint with every thrust, sending sparks up my spine.
The mingled scents hit me like a punch to the gut: his crisp winter air pheromones drowning in my own rut-thick musk, turning the air between us into something humid and suffocating.
Saliva drips down my crack, pooling on the leather beneath me with every obscene slurp of his mouth.
I'm shameless now, hips jerking up to meet each thrust, fingers twisted tight in his hair to keep him right where I want him.
"Fuck," I groan, voice wrecked, thighs trembling around his head.
The wet sounds alone should embarrass me, but all I can think about is how fucking empty I'll feel when he stops.
"Enough," I whine, hole clenching around nothing as he pulls back a fraction. My cock throbs, heavy and leaking, ass spasming empty. "Just—fuck, put it in. Please."
He growls right against my hole, the sound rumbling low, lips brushing sensitive skin. "I'm trying to make it comfortable for you. You bitched last time it hurt too much."
I gasp, rut-fever frying my brain, every nerve screaming. "I don't give a fuck if it hurts. Just put your fucking cock in already!"
His eyes flash up at me—dark, amused, feral—and then he's rising, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A string of spit and slick clings to his lower lip for a second before snapping. He looks wrecked already, pupils blown, chest heaving. My vision goes fuzzy trying to focus on him.
He grabs my hips, yanking them down flat to the cushions with a grip that bruises. I hiss at the sudden drag of leather on my back, but it's nothing compared to the way he fists his cock—thick fingers wrapping that flushed monster, stroking once, rough, smearing his own precum down the shaft.
"Fine," he grits out, grinning down at me like he won the lottery. "If that's what you want."
He adjusts his grip on my hips and shifts forward—that thick, flushed cockhead nudging insistently against my stretched rim, still wet from his spit.
No teasing, no hesitation. Just pure, brutal determination as he leans his weight into it, pressing forward in one relentless push that burns through my nerves.