Chapter Three #3
Hongjoong doesn’t flinch. He tilts his head slightly, considering me, and then says, “No. Because sex was the one thing you always seemed to be reserved about, even when you never balked at anything else.” He shrugs one shoulder.
“We did a lot of stupid shit together in high school. You were always the first one over the fence, the first one to pick the lock, the first one to tell a teacher to go to hell. But when the guys would start talking about hooking up, or when someone would try to set you up, you’d go quiet.
It seemed like the one thing you weren’t casual about. ”
I set my chopsticks down and fold my hands in my lap under the table where he can’t see them gripping each other. “Things change,” I say stiffly.
Hongjoong stares at me. His expression going from easy warmth and cooling into a more guarded stare, I can see him noting the wall I’ve thrown up between us, the way I’ve shut down every avenue of conversation that might lead somewhere real.
He holds my gaze for another second, then picks up his chopsticks again.
“I guess they do,” he says, the words landing quietly between us on the table alongside all the food he remembered I loved.
We eat the rest of the meal in relative quiet after that, the conversation retreating to safer ground.
Hongjoong asks me about my neighborhood, whether I still follow soccer, whether I’ve tried the new barbecue place that opened near the river.
I answer in short sentences and ask him nothing in return, which I can tell irritates him even though he doesn’t say so.
He just watches me with a steady, patient look between bites, like he’s taking notes on all the ways I’ve changed.
I keep my eyes on my plate and eat more than I should because the food really is incredible, and because chewing gives me an excuse not to talk.
When we’ve both slowed down and the serving dishes are mostly empty, Hongjoong pushes his chair back and stretches his arms overhead, his t-shirt riding up to expose a strip of tanned stomach.
I look away and stand, gathering my plate and his before he can protest, stacking them with the side dish bowls and carrying the whole pile to the kitchen sink.
I turn on the tap and rinse them under the warm water, scraping the leftover sauce and rice into the disposal with my fingers, the repetitive motion settling me.
It’s a habit I can’t break. Every client’s place I’ve ever been to, if there are dishes in the sink I end up washing them. Sungyoon says I have a compulsion.
I dry my hands on a towel hanging from the oven handle and walk back out into the living area.
Hongjoong is standing near the windows with his hands in his pockets, the city skyline glittering behind him through the glass.
Alto and Rennard have migrated from their beds to flank him on either side, their long bodies pressed against his legs, but his attention is on me.
He watches me come around the corner of the kitchen island with a watchful, predator-sharp awareness, his weight settled back on his heels, shoulders loose.
He looks every inch like an alpha who knows exactly what he’s waiting for and is content to wait as long as it takes.
I stop a few feet away from him and fold my arms.
“Can we start now?” I ask.
Hongjoong gives me another one of those pointed looks, the kind that says he has opinions about my eagerness to skip past every human interaction and get straight to the transactional part of the evening.
But he doesn’t voice them. He just lifts one hand from his pocket and makes an open-palmed gesture, a go-ahead, an as-you-like.
I reach for my top button.
Hongjoong’s hand comes up fast and smacks mine away from my collar.
Not hard, just a sharp tap across my knuckles that makes me flinch in surprise.
He steps forward into my space, close enough that I have to tip my chin up to keep eye contact because he’s got three inches on me and he’s using every one of them right now.
His pheromones wash over me at this distance, warm and thick, and my pulse kicks up.
“Not like that,” he says.
Annoyance flickers through me. I don’t step back. “What do you want, then?”
Hongjoong’s hand catches my waist. His fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt and he tugs me forward, pulling me flush against his body so that my chest presses flat against his and I can feel the heat of him through both our clothes. His other hand slides up to grip the back of my neck.
“Come here, damn it,” he mutters, and then he leans down and kisses me.
I melt into it.
His mouth is warm and sure against mine, his lips parting just enough to catch my lower lip between them, and the contact sends a cascade of heat rolling down through my body, leaving me utterly vulnerable.
His pheromones flood over me in a concentrated wave, heady and intoxicating, and my own body responds like a key turning in a lock.
My hands come up and grip the front of his t-shirt.
Hongjoong takes hold of my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face exactly where he wants it, angling my jaw up so he can deepen the kiss.
His tongue slides over mine in slow, unhurried strokes that make my knees soften and my weight sag forward into him.
I make a sound against his mouth and he swallows it and keeps going, kissing me with a thoroughness that suggests he has no intention of rushing this.
By the time he pulls back I’m breathing hard, my cock fully hard and throbbing where it’s pressed against his thigh through our pants, and I can feel the telltale slick dampening my hole, soaking into my underwear.
My face is flushed and my lips feel swollen and I know I look wrecked already, which is embarrassing given that all he did was kiss me.
Hongjoong’s thumb brushes along my jawline, his eyes moving over my face, reading the surprise and confusion that I know are written all over it because I can’t seem to get my expression under control.
“What?” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Weren’t expecting that?”
I shake my head. I don’t trust my voice.
Hongjoong snorts softly, his breath warm against my lips. “I’m not an asshole, Yoonjae. I’m not going to treat you like you’re just a warm hole to fuck.” His brow creases and for a second he looks genuinely offended. “God, what do you think of me?”
I hold his gaze. My heartbeat is still hammering but my voice comes out steady when I speak.
“Why not?” I say calmly. “All the other alphas did.”
Hongjoong’s eyes go hard. A brief flare of heat that isn’t arousal, it’s sharp and angry, directed not at me but at the faceless parade of alphas I’ve just conjured between us.
His jaw flexes. I watch him swallow it down, watch the effort it takes him to keep his expression even, and then his hands close around both my wrists and he turns me bodily toward the hallway.
“Come here,” he says again, quieter this time, and steers me toward the bedroom.
The dogs lift their heads as we pass but don’t follow.
Hongjoong guides me through a doorway into a large bedroom, dimly lit by a single lamp on the nightstand, and sits me down on the edge of the bed.
The mattress gives under me, softer than any hotel bed I’ve been on, and I start to reach for my buttons again out of reflex.
Hongjoong smacks my hands away. Again.
“Be still,” he says firmly, standing over me. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
I lean back on my hands and watch him.
He reaches for my collar himself, his fingers working the top button free, then the second, then the third.
He takes his time with each one, knuckles brushing against my skin as he works his way down, the patience of it is disorienting.
I’m used to alphas who tear at my clothes, who want me naked and presented as fast as possible.
Hongjoong peels my shirt open like he’s unwrapping me, pushing the fabric off my shoulders and down my arms until it pools behind me on the bed.
Then his hands go to my belt, and I hear the soft clink of the buckle as he undoes it, followed by the rasp of the zipper.
He hooks his fingers into my waistband and I lift my hips so he can work my pants down my legs, taking my underwear with them in one smooth pull.
I sit there bare on the edge of his bed and I don’t move.
Hongjoong straightens up and looks at me.
His eyes travel slowly from my face down my throat, across my chest and the flat plane of my stomach, over my hard cock where it curves up against my belly, down my thighs.
Then back up again, slower, and this time his hands follow the path his eyes traced.
His palms run from my shoulders down my chest, warm and broad, fingertips dragging over the lines of muscle beneath my skin.
When they reach a scar, a thin pale line curving along my left side, his fingers pause and trace it.
Then move on to the next one, a faded mark on my hip, and the next, a small raised ridge near my collarbone.
He marks them with his fingertips, and I shiver under the attention.
Then Hongjoong leans in and presses his nose to the curve of my throat, right against my scent gland, and inhales deep. The groan that comes out of him is deep and unguarded.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my skin. “Has anyone ever told you how good you smell?”
Yes. Plenty of times. But it’s never sounded like that before, like the words are a plea.