Chapter Twenty-Three #6
"Because I was bored," I say bluntly. "I spent my entire life around the upper class like your parents. People who are so obsessed with dignity and image that they forget how to be alive. They're stagnant. Dull."
I lean in closer, letting my forehead rest against his for a second, breathing in his scent.
"But then you basically jumped me in the bathroom on the first day of school, and there was this loud, arrogant, desperate idiot wearing a jacket that cost more than my bike, demanding everyone look at him."
Sihwan winces, but I don't let him look away.
"And for the first time in years, I actually felt something. Irritation? Sure. But interest."
I pull back just enough to see his face, keeping my hand firm on his jaw.
"Before you, I never thought I'd have a worthy rival. I never met anyone who actually made me want to engage. Everyone else just rolls over, Sihwan. They see the name, or the grades, or the face, and they submit. But you?"
I smirk, a small, genuine thing.
"You fought me. You tripped me on a soccer field. You tried to steal my kills. You give me a challenge."
I run my thumb along the line of his jaw, feeling the strong bone structure his mother dismissed so easily.
"That is what I like about you. From the start, you've always been my equal. Not my charity case. Not my fix-it project."
Sihwan’s breath hitches. His eyes are shining, wet with unshed frustration, but the dullness is cracking. He’s listening.
"You don't have to prove anything to me," I say, letting the words land with the weight of a promise.
Sihwan stares at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly against mine.
Sihwan lets out a wet, jagged scoff, the sound tearing through the fragile intimacy I just tried to build. He pulls back just enough to look me in the face, his expression twisting into that familiar, defensive sneer—the one he wears like armor when he feels exposed.
"Equal," he repeats, the word dripping with skepticism. He shakes his head, looking down at his shoes. "Don't bullshit me, Donghwa. I'm not an idiot. How the hell can I be your equal when I'm the one who always ends up on my knees? When I'm the one getting fucked?"
He spits the last word out like it tastes bad, like it confirms every terrible thing his father just implied about his lack of masculinity.
I arch a brow, unimpressed by his self-pity. "You think the position dictates the power?"
"Doesn't it?" he snaps, gesturing vaguely between us. "You're the one in control. I'm the one... yielding. That's not equality. That's losing."
I sigh, shifting my weight. This is the problem with being raised by people like the Ohs. They think power is a zero-sum game. If one person has it, the other must be weak. It’s a boring, two-dimensional way to view the world.
"You have it backwards," I say calmly.
I step into his space again, forcing him to look at me.
"Any weakling can try to dominate someone else. That’s easy.
That’s just aggression. But to submit?" I tilt my head, studying the flush rising on his neck.
"Especially when you are biologically wired to be a Dominant Alpha?
When every instinct in your body is screaming at you to fight and bite and claw for control? "
I shake my head slowly.
"To suppress that instinct and willingly give control to someone else... that takes a hell of a lot more confidence than just topping, Sihwan. You have to be incredibly secure in who you are to let someone else hold the reins."
Sihwan stares at me, his mouth slightly open. He looks like he wants to argue, but he can't find the logic to dismantle what I'm saying. So, naturally, he pivots to an attack.
He narrows his eyes, glaring up at me with renewed suspicion. "If it's so noble, then how come you never do it? How come you're always the one on top?"
"I have," I say breezily.
The silence that follows is absolute.
Sihwan’s eyes go perfectly round. His jaw actually drops this time. He stares at me like I just confessed to murder, or worse, to shopping at a discount outlet.
"You..." He stammers, blinking rapidly. "You what?"
I shrug, leaning a shoulder against the wall casually. "I have. During my gap year. I tried a lot of things. I wanted to know."
"You... bottomed?" He whispers the word, scandalous and horrified.
"I did."
"And?"
"And it wasn't my thing," I say simply. I don't look embarrassed because I'm not. It was an experience. I learned from it. "I didn't like giving up the control. It made me anxious. I couldn't relax into it."
I push off the wall, closing the small distance between us again.
"Which brings me back to my point," I murmur, reaching out to take his hand. His fingers are still twitching with nervous energy, but he lets me take them. "Perhaps you are more confident than even me in that respect. You have the security to let go. I don't."
Sihwan looks at me, searching my face for the lie, for the mockery. He doesn't find it. He looks down at our joined hands, his expression complicated—a mix of confusion and a grudging, blooming pride.
I lift his hand to my mouth.
I keep my eyes on his as I press a kiss to the center of his palm. He shivers, his breath hitching audibly. I can taste the salt on his skin, smell the spike in his scent—the spice returning, sweeter this time.
"Besides," I murmur against his skin. I shift my grip, catching the tip of his index finger between my teeth and nipping down, just hard enough to sting.
Sihwan gasps, his pupils blowing wide.
"I know how much you like it," I say, my voice dropping an octave, vibrating against his fingers. "And who am I to deprive you of what you want?"
Sihwan hisses, "Bastard," but there's no heat in it—just that raw edge of want sharpening his voice.
I laugh low against his palm, the sound rumbling through my chest as I release his finger. His lips part on a shaky exhale, eyes dark and hazy, and I can't resist anymore. I surge up, crashing my mouth into his.
He tastes amazing, all spice and surrender. His hands fist in my shirt, yanking me closer, and for a second he's all fire again—tongue battling mine, hips grinding forward like he wants to prove something. But I swallow the fight, turning it molten, until he sags against the wall with a whine.
Enough of this wall. I hook my arms under his thighs and hoist him up in one smooth motion—fuck, he's heavy, all that gym-rat muscle—but the way he locks his ankles behind my back makes it worth the strain.
His baggy suit pants bunch awkwardly at his knees, but I don't care.
I turn us, kicking his overnight bag aside, and dump him onto the couch like a claimed prize.
He bounces once, sprawling back against the cushions with his legs splayed wide, chest heaving. His hair's a wreck now, chestnut strands sticking to his forehead in sweaty spikes. Perfect.
I drop to my knees between his thighs, the carpet biting into my shins. My hands go straight for his belt—cool metal buckle, leather sliding free with a rasp. He lifts his hips without me asking, eager, and I yank the zipper down, shoving the fabric aside to fish his cock out.
It's already hard, thick and flushed, leaking a fat bead of precum that smears across my thumb when I give it a lazy stroke. Sihwan bucks, a strangled noise catching in his throat.
"You get the better end of this deal, when you think about it," I murmur, bending low enough that my breath ghosts over the tip.
I watch his abs clench beneath his shirt, the way his thighs tremble on either side of my shoulders.
"All you have to do is lie back and take whatever pleasure I give you. "
Sihwan opens his mouth—probably some snarky comeback about equality or pride—but the words die as I wrap my lips around him.
He cuts off with a sharp hiss of breath, head thudding back against the couch arm.
His cock twitches heavy on my tongue, salty and hot, and I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks as I suck.
One hand braces his hip, thumb digging into the sharp bone to hold him still when he jerks.
The other slides up his thigh, squeezing the meat of it until he spreads wider.
Fuck, the sounds he makes. That first broken moan vibrates straight down my throat, needy and wrecked, like I've already unraveled him.
I pull back just enough to swirl my tongue around the head, lapping up the fresh slick of precum, then sink down again—deeper this time, until my nose brushes his pubes and he chokes on a curse.
His fingers spear into my hair, gripping hard enough to sting, but he doesn't shove. He just holds on, panting my name like a prayer—or a plea.
I watch him unravel from inches away, humming low in my throat as the vibration makes his cock jump against my tongue.
Satisfaction coils tight in my gut—hot and vicious—as Sihwan tips his head back, throat working on a swallow, eyes hooding to heavy slits.
His chest heaves under that rumpled dress shirt, buttons straining, and fuck if he doesn't look wrecked already, lips parted on silent pleas.
Perfect.
I lick a slow, deliberate stripe up his length, tasting the salt-slick heat of him, the faint tang of his arousal mixing with the bitter edge of his anxiety from earlier.
He shudders, thighs clamping around my shoulders like a vice, and I dig my fingers into the meat of one, prying it wider. No hiding. No mercy.
Dipping low, I take him to the back of my throat in one smooth drag, sucking hard enough to hollow my cheeks.
The stretch burns just right, his thickness forcing my jaw wide, and I swallow around him—once, twice—milking the underside until his hips stutter up off the cushions.
He chokes out a ragged "fuck, Donghwa," fingers yanking my hair in sharp tugs that sting my scalp, but I don't let up.
I bob steady, relentless, tongue pressing flat against the vein pulsing under his skin, nose grinding into the coarse hair at his base every time I bottom out.