Chapter Twenty-Three #7
His breaths turn punchy, desperate—hitching gasps that fill the room, louder than the wet slide of my mouth.
Sweat beads on his throat, trickling down to soak his collar, and I can feel him swelling thicker, the telltale twitch that means he's close.
His free hand claws at the couch arm, knuckles bone-white, ass lifting like he can't help chasing the pressure.
I pull off just long enough to rasp, "Come on, hyung. Give it to me," before sealing my lips around the head and sucking like I'm starving.
That's it. Sihwan arches with a breathy groan—raw, broken, spilling straight down my throat in hot, pulsing spurts.
His hips stutter wild, thighs quaking around me, and I take it all, swallowing greedily until he's spent, twitching sensitive against my tongue.
Only then do I ease off, licking him clean with lazy swipes that make him hiss and squirm.
I lap up the last salty traces of him, swirling my tongue slow around the head until Sihwan's thighs quake and he shoves weakly at my shoulder with a hissed "enough, fuck."
Grinning against his skin, I pull off with a wet pop. His cock slaps back against his stomach, flushed and spent, twitching under the cool air. Perfect.
I grab the hem of my shirt—still half-buttoned from dinner—and yank it up over my head, jacket ripping free with it in one rough pull. The ink mural across my chest and shoulders flexes in the lamplight. Sihwan's eyes snag on it every time, like it's a new discovery.
My pants go next, kicked off with socks and belt in a tangle on the floor. I'm hard as steel, cock jutting heavy between my legs, already leaking. No patience left.
Sihwan's still dazed, sprawled boneless, pants bunched at his ankles, shirt gaping open over his pecs. I hook fingers in his waistband and strip him bare—pants, boxers, gone. His shirt follows, buttons pinging off the coffee table as I rip it wide and shrug it off his shoulders.
Naked now, both of us slick with sweat and spit, the air thick with our scents twisting together—winter bite clashing his scorched rum.
I snag his hips, muscles bunching under my palms, and flip us. Quick, controlled. Sihwan lands straddling my lap, knees bracketing my thighs on the couch, his spent cock smearing sticky against my abs.
He blinks down at me, chest heaving, confusion cutting through the post-orgasm haze. Hands braced on my shoulders, weight shifting uncertain. "What the—"
"Go on," I say, voice gravel-rough, hands settling loose on his hips. No guiding. No thrusting up. Just him, hovering over my cock, heat radiating inches away. "You have control."
Sihwan's eyes go dark, pupils swallowing the irises whole. That flicker of challenge ignites—raw Alpha pride warring with the haze of his recent orgasm—and he moves before I can blink.
His hand wraps around my cock, grip firm and sure, calluses from the gym rough against my skin.
Sihwan's hand moves with that same cocky confidence he does everything else—sure of himself even when he's out of his depth.
His grip is tight, and precum spills over my tip, slicking his palm as he drags the calloused pad of his thumb across the slit just to hear me hiss.
Once, twice—he guides me through the slick mess between his thighs, the head of my cock nudging at that fluttering rim like temptation incarnate.
The heat radiating off him is maddening, a hair's breadth away from taking me in, and every instinct in my body screams to snap my hips up and spear into that tight heat right fucking now.
But that’s not the game tonight.
So I dig my thumbs into the thick muscle of his waist instead, the same way I might steady a motorcycle leaning too far into a turn—firm, but letting him set the pace.
His skin is tacky with sweat under my palms, the ridges of his hips sharp enough to leave crescent marks if I press any harder.
"Your move," I rasp. My voice is shot to hell, throat still raw from earlier when I had him writhing against my tongue.
Predictably, Sihwan doesn’t hesitate—just arches one eyebrow like I’ve issued a challenge.
And then he sinks down.
Slow. Deliberate. Every inch a calculated flex of his thighs as he takes me, his body opening up in stages—first the tight resistance of his rim stretching around the crown, then the molten slide of him adjusting, swallowing me deeper with each shallow rock of his hips.
He’s still wet from earlier, loose enough that the glide burns just right without real sting, but the press of him is borderline suffocating, hot silk clamping down on me inch by greedy inch until I’m buried to the hilt and his ass is flush against my thighs.
"Fuck," he breathes, all punched-out and ruined before we’ve even really started.
I couldn’t agree more.
We both freeze. His breath punches out in a sharp hiss, thighs quaking against mine, forehead creased in that mix of strain and bliss he wears so well.
Sweat beads on his collarbone, trickling down the valley between his pecs.
I lie back fully, arms draped over the couch arms, watching every twitch of his face, every flex of his abs as he adjusts.
Christ. He's the most erotic thing I've ever seen.
Thick thighs bracketing mine, chest heaving under skin flushed red, that ridiculous chestnut hair falling into his eyes as he rolls his hips experimentally.
No frantic rut haze, no wrestling for dominance—just him, taking what he wants.
His cock—half-hard again—slaps heavy against my stomach with the first upward lift, smearing sticky trails.
Lust coils tight in my gut, hot and vicious. I don't thrust. Don't guide. Just hold him steady as he finds his rhythm—short grinds at first, testing, then longer rolls that drag my cock along his walls, brushing that spot inside him that makes his head tip back on a guttural moan.
"Fuck," he pants, hands splaying over my chest, nails scraping the tiger tattoo. "Feels—"
"Keep going," I grit out, pulse thundering. His ass clenches around me on the downstroke, milking, and stars burst behind my eyes.
He shifts higher, driving down with brutal force now—abandoning the slow, teasing pace for something desperate.
The couch groans beneath us, springs squealing their complaint with each punishing drop of his hips.
The sound of our bodies colliding fills the empty apartment—skin slapping skin, slick with sweat and precome, wet and filthy and perfect.
A bead of sweat slips from his chin, splashing hot against my collarbone. The salt of it lingers on my tongue when I drag my mouth up the column of his throat, nipping at his pulse point just to hear that hitch in his breath.
Between us, his cock jumps—hard and flushed, smearing sticky trails across my abdomen with every frantic bounce. He's chasing the friction now, rocking forward to rut against me on the downstroke, adding another layer of heat to this impossible fire.
I'm wrecked. Undone. Every nerve-ending burning white-hot where he clenches around me, thighs quivering with effort, lips parted around ragged curses. He looks fucking divine like this—lost in pleasure, brow furrowed, muscles taut—and I can't look away. Wouldn't if I could.
Sihwan feels it first—that electric current crackling up his spine, the tightening low in his belly that means there’s no turning back now. His grip on my shoulders turns desperate, nails biting into ink-stained skin as his eyes fly wide, pupils blown black with want.
"Fuck—" He slams down hard, grinding deep, ass clinging tight like he’s trying to force the inevitable. His breath comes in ragged bursts, lips parted around a moan that turns into a command—no, a plea. "Yes—fuck, knot me—"
That does it. Something primal snaps in me, drowning out thought, drowning out everything but the need to claim, to fill, to lodge myself so deep inside him he won’t forget where he belongs. I surge up, arms locking like steel bands around his waist, and we shatter together—messy, brutal, perfect.
His orgasm hits like a damn tsunami, whole body jerking as he spills hot across my chest, ropes of it streaking my tattoos white.
Mine rushes up just as vicious, pulsing thick into him—once, twice, a third time—forcing his thighs to quiver as my knot swells, stretching him obscenely wide, sealing us tight where we’re joined.
And then—collapse. He crumples slightly, swallowing shuddery breaths while aftershocks wrack his frame. Locked together. Full. Mine.
I stroke lazy circles down his spine, breathing him in—scorched rum and satisfaction. "Good boy," I murmur against his temple.
Sihwan huffs a laugh, wrecked and boneless. "Shut up."
Sihwan slumps forward like a puppet with cut strings, his forehead thudding against my shoulder, breath hot and ragged against my neck.
His weight pins me deeper into the couch cushions—dead weight, all muscle gone weak from the stretch of my knot still locked inside him.
Sweat slicks our skin where we’re fused, his chest heaving against mine, heart hammering a frantic rhythm I can feel in my ribs.
I slide a hand up his nape, fingers threading through the damp mess of his chestnut hair—finally free of that stiff gel, spiking wild in every direction. It’s soft, thicker than it looks. I brush it back from his temple, tucking the strands behind his ear.
“Was that better?” I murmur right against the shell of his ear, voice low and gravel-rough from holding back. “Did you like having control?”
He shakes his head—a small, stubborn jerk against my shoulder. A muffled grunt escapes him, face still buried in the crook of my neck like he’s hiding.
I smirk, even though he can’t see it. My free hand drifts down his spine, nails scraping lightly over the ridges of his vertebrae, dipping into the sweat-slick dimples at the base. “What do you want then?”
Nothing. Just another huff, warmer this time, lips brushing my collarbone.
“Tell me.” I nip his earlobe—sharp enough to sting. “Use your words, hyung.”
He squirms, knot tugging us both with the shift, and mumbles something into my skin. Too garbled, too quiet.
“Louder.”
“Fuck off,” he mutters, clearer but still muffled, breath ghosting hot.
I tighten my grip in his hair—not painful, just enough pull to tilt his head back an inch. “Say it.”
He resists for a beat, thighs clenching around my hips, then lifts his head with a glare that could strip paint.
Eyes narrowed, cheeks flushed red under the post-orgasm glow, lips still swollen from my mouth.
“No,” he snaps, voice hoarse and pissed.
“I prefer your body over mine. I like being fucked, okay?”
There it is.
I bark a laugh—low, genuine, rumbling up from my chest. His scowl deepens, but before he can spit more venom, I yank him down by the hair and crush our mouths together.
He fights it for half a second—teeth grazing my lip in retaliation—then melts, kissing back sloppy and desperate, tongue tangling with mine.
I break it just enough to rasp against his mouth, “Happy to oblige.”
“Asshole,” he growls, but it’s breathy, needy, already nipping at my jaw like he’s starving for round two.