Chapter Twenty-Four #2
I hit send and watch him like a hawk. A second later, I see him shift. He pulls his phone from his coat pocket, keeping it low under the desk.
He pauses. Then, he turns in his seat.
He doesn't look around the room confused.
He turns straight to the back row, locking eyes with me instantly.
One dark eyebrow ticks up, a slow, lazy arch that screams amusement.
The corner of his mouth quirks. He holds my gaze for a beat—long enough to make my face heat up—then turns back around and pockets the phone.
Bastard. He knows he won.
The next twenty minutes are torture. I don’t hear a word the professor says about market segmentation. I’m just watching the clock, watching Donghwa’s shoulders, and trying to keep my leg from shaking the entire desk apart.
The second the professor dismisses us, I’m moving.
"Sihwan, are you coming to lunch?" Seungchan asks, starting to pack his bag.
"No," I snap, slinging my backpack over one shoulder. "Forgot something in the... office. Catch you later."
I don't wait for an answer. I bolt.
I weave through the crowd of students shuffling toward the door, practically shoving people out of the way.
I hit the hallway and power-walk toward the Visual Design clubhouse.
It’s basically a glorified storage room with a couple of beat-up couches and a mini-fridge that the department uses for "meetings," but right now, it’s usually empty.
I shoulder my way into the clubhouse and slam the door, plunging the room into silence. It smells like a hundred procrastinated projects. I don't care. I cross the room in three strides and slap the light switch, killing the fluorescent hum.
Darkness swallows the beat-up couches and the stack of easels in the corner.
I stand there, chest heaving, adrenaline vibrating under my skin like a plucked wire.
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists, forcing myself to breathe, to get a grip.
I am the one calling the shots. I summoned him, and he’s coming to me.
The latch clicks.
I don't need to see him. The air in the room shifts instantly, the stale dust obliterated by a wave of cold winter air and sharp ink. It hits my nose like a drug, settling the frantic buzzing in my veins and replacing it with a heavy, molten heat that drops straight to my groin.
The door opens a crack, a slice of hallway light cutting across the floor.
I don't wait.
I lunge. I grab a fistful of that expensive black coat and yank him into the dark, kicking the door shut with my heel. He stumbles, just a step, but I’m already on him, slamming him back against the wood.
"You took your time," I snarl, but the words are swallowed as I crash my mouth onto his.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. I’m starving for it, devouring him, teeth clashing against teeth as I force his mouth open. He tastes like mint and I need more. I groan into his mouth, the sound pathetic and needy, my hands scrabbling frantically at his waist. I need skin. I need friction.
I rip at his belt, my fingers clumsy with haste, popping the button of his jeans.
"Fuck," I curse against his lips, tugging at the zipper. "Open, dammit."
Donghwa growls, a low, vibrating rumble in his chest that I feel against my own. He doesn't push me off. Instead, his hand snakes up, fingers tangling brutally in the hair at the back of my head. He yanks my head back, breaking the kiss with a wet pop, exposing my throat.
"Impatient," he rasps, his voice dark and amused.
He doesn't give me a second to retort. He slams his hips forward, grinding his hardening length against mine through the friction of denim. I gasp, my knees nearly buckling at the contact, my head falling back against his shoulder as the bond sings, wildly satisfied.
I break the kiss with a gasp, chest heaving, lips tingling from the scrape of his teeth. Donghwa's eyes bore into mine, dark and hungry, his fingers still knotted in my hair. My pulse thuds in my ears, cock throbbing painfully against my zipper. Fuck the pride. Fuck the agreement. I need him now.
Before he can smirk or say some smartass thing, I drop. Hard tile bites my knees through my jeans, but I don't care. My hands shaking just a little—fucking embarrassing—I yank his zipper down, shoving his jeans and boxers low enough to free him.
His cock springs out, thick and heavy, already leaking at the tip. It's bigger up close than I remember, veins pulsing under flushed skin. My mouth waters. I wrap my fingers around the base—hot, velvet over steel—and stroke once, roughly. Donghwa hisses, hips jerking forward.
"Shit, Sihwan—"
I don't let him finish. I swallow him down, lips stretching wide around the girth, tongue flattening against the underside as I take him deep.
Salty precum bursts over my taste buds, bitter and musky, flooding my senses.
His scent slams me harder up close, making my head spin and my own dick leak like a faucet.
Donghwa groans, low and breathy, fingers twisting viciously in my hair.
He doesn't guide, doesn't force—just holds on, knuckles white, thighs tensing under my palms. I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard on the upstroke, swirling my tongue around the head before plunging back down.
Gagging a little when he hits the back of my throat, but fuck if it doesn't make my balls ache.
"Goddamn," he rasps, voice shredded. His free hand braces the door above my head, biceps flexing.
I glance up—his head's thrown back, jaw clenched, tattoos peeking from his rolled sleeve like a dirty secret.
Mine. The thought hits feral, possessive.
I double down, bobbing faster, one hand pumping what I can't swallow, the wet gluck-gluck obscene in the quiet room.
He bucks, cursing under his breath, fingers tightening until my scalp stings. "That's it—fuck, hyung, your mouth—"
I hum around him, vibrations pulling another groan from his chest. My knees ache, jaw burning, but the power rush drowns it out. Me doing this to him. Me making the unflappable ice prince unravel. Saliva drips down my chin, mixing with his precum, but I don't stop. Won't stop. Not until he—
Donghwa yanks me off with a guttural curse, his cock popping free from my mouth with a wet schlick. Saliva strings between us. "Fuck—no—not like that."
I'm reeling, lips numb, when his hands clamp my biceps. He hauls me up like I weigh nothing, spinning me mid-air. My chest slams down onto the nearest table—cold laminate biting my pecs, papers scattering like confetti. The edge digs into my hips, pinning my half-hard cock trapped beneath me.
"Donghwa—shit—"
He doesn't answer. Just rips my zipper down, shoves my jeans and boxers to my thighs in one brutal yank. Cool air hits my ass, then his fingers spread me—rough, no patience. I feel the blunt head of his cock nudge my hole, slick from my own spit.
No warning. He thrusts in, balls-deep, splitting me wide.
I cry out—sharp, broken—nails scrabbling at the table edge. Wood groans under my grip, the whole thing creaking like it's about to snap. He's massive, stretching me burn-hot, every ridge dragging fire up my spine. My vision spots white, knees locking to keep me upright.
"Fuck—too much—"
His hand clamps over my mouth, palm salty from my own come.
"Quiet," he snarls, hips snapping forward.
Brutal. Frantic. No rhythm, just raw need pounding me into the table.
Each thrust jolts me forward, my trapped cock grinding against the rough surface—friction sparking lightning straight to my balls.
A strangled whimper tears from my throat, muffled against his palm as I clamp my teeth into the fleshy part near his thumb, biting down hard enough to leave marks.
The metallic tang of his skin floods my tongue as he hisses between gritted teeth—but instead of pulling away, he just drives into me harder like my defiance is fuel.
The table rattles violently beneath us, sending more papers cascading off in a chaotic flurry.
His arm snakes tighter around my waist, fingers digging into the ridges of my abs as he yanks me back, slamming my ass against his hips.
And fuck—his cock rams into me at just that angle, spearing my prostate with ruthless accuracy until stars burst behind my eyelids.
The pressure builds—coiling tighter than a spring, vicious and relentless.
Every drag of my oversensitive dick against the rough tabletop sends jolts of white-hot pleasure-pain shooting up my spine.
The friction burns, but I can't stop rutting against it like some desperate animal, leaving slick trails of precum smeared across the wood.
Then—snap.
I shatter completely, vision whiting out as my orgasm rips through me with brutal force.
Come blasts out in thick, pulsing ropes, soaking through my ruined shirt and splattering across the table in sticky streaks.
A broken keen escapes into Donghwa's palm, muffled but unmistakably wrecked.
My thighs tremble violently, muscles locking up as my ass clenches around him like a goddamn vice—instinctively trying to milk his cock even as my brain short-circuits from overstimulation.
The aftershocks roll through me in waves, leaving me twitching and gasping against his hand like some pathetic, overused toy. And the bastard just keeps grinding into me, drinking in every shudder.
He groans—deep, wrecked—and buries himself to the hilt, grinding deep as his knot threatens to swell.
Donghwa follows me over the edge a second later, groaning low and filthy as he pumps me full of come, hot spurts flooding deep without the telltale swell of his knot locking us in place for once.
No agonizing stretch, no hours trapped like this.
Just raw release, his hips stuttering erratic before he stills, chest heaving against my back, both of us slick with sweat and gasping into the stale clubhouse air.