Chapter 9
Pop quiz time.
A dead-sexy man makes the first move, holds your hand, notices when something upsets you and tries to fix it, makes you orgasm so hard you have an out-of-body experience, and shamelessly calls you baby. But when he asks to date you, he tacks on a three-month expiration. Said man most likely:
A) Hates your guts and never wants to see you again.
B) Kind of likes you, but wants to see where it goes.
C) Really likes you, but is scared to commit.
D) None of the above.
And if you picked C, congrats—you’re about as smart as I am. Which also means you’re a moron, because I’m willingly stepping into another situationship.
Been there, done-and-was-left-shattered-and-broken that.
Morgan Asterman: the woman used for fun, but never in the long run. The catch phrase is still a work in progress.
But… Jiho Park has to be different, right?
The otherworldly chemistry between us doesn’t lie. I know it’s mainly physical chemistry at this point, but I also sincerely enjoy talking to the man. His words make me smile and laugh and feel a sense of long-forgotten confidence.
Just as the thought crosses my mind, Jiho sighs deeply in his sleep, his arm tightening its hold around my waist. It calms me, and for the first time in my life, when it comes to a man, I vow to stop overthinking.
Michelle always swears by expecting the worst and hoping for the best. And since Michelle is always…grumpy…
Okay, maybe my sister isn’t the best person to take advice from in this instance, but I’ll stick with it until I get a chance to talk to Elaine.
Jiho sleep-sighs again, nuzzling his face into my hair, his breath tickling my ear.
We fell asleep sometime after taking each other to the stars and back, and I would honestly sacrifice anything to stay like this forever.
Un-fucking-fortunately, however, I have plans tonight. Maybe I can sacrifice the people I have plans with? It’s just my family, after all.
Slowly, I reach over and grab my tablet from the nightstand, needing to check the time. But first… Picture, or it didn’t happen.
I flip straight to the camera, angling the tablet so it catches both me and the ridiculously beautiful, sleepy man curled up beside me. The lens takes its sweet time focusing, but the second it sharpens, my finger hits the shutter. Like a freaking bull horn, the obnoxiously loud camera sound blasts through the quiet, post-orgasmic, peaceful room.
Over the course of a single second, I jump, lose my grip on the tablet, which smacks me right in the noggin, and the word motherfluffer flies out of my mouth.
Surrendering to my fate, I quickly place the tablet back on the nightstand, waving it goodbye with my middle finger.
Jiho stirs, drawling into my ear as I rub my forehead, his voice oh-so low and guttural, “I love when you flip off inanimate objects. Let me see the photo.” Hell, if he sounds like sin after a nap, I can’t wait to hear him in the morning after a full night’s sleep.
I don’t bother arguing, grabbing the tablet again and typing in my passcode.
“Really, baby? You’re in tech, and your passcode is one, two, three, four?” He trails a hand along my thigh, adding, “You should know better.”
I push my ass back against him, smirking when I feel how hard he is already. “What can I say? I like breaking the rules sometimes.”
A growly purr rumbles through him, the one I’ve instantly grown to love. “Maybe I should’ve been calling you a bad girl this whole time.”
“Maybe you should’ve,” I murmur, his mouth finding my throat as I show him the photo.
“Mmm, I like that. Will you send it to me?” he whispers against my skin, his hand moving between my thighs, teasing and taunting. “Pretty please, Morgan.”
A moan leaves me, the tablet slipping from my fingers onto the mattress. “Later, I want you first.”
Jiho breathes into my ear, “You really are a bad girl,” each slow, deliberate syllable sending a morse code of tingles straight to my vagina:
.--. .-. . .--. .- .-. . / ..-. --- .-. / .--. .... .- .-.. .- -. --. . .- .-.. / .- -. -.. / -- --- -. ... - . .-. / -.-. --- -.-. -.- / . -. - .-. -.-- .-.-.-
Translation:
Prepare for phalangeal and monster cock entry.
“I guess I’ll need to teach you how to listen,” he adds, pressing the pad of his finger against my clit. I arch into him, my body begging him for more. “What was it you said? The longer you disobey, the longer this will take?” His finger circles my clit once, then stops. “Send me the fucking picture, Morgan.”
Groaning, I reach for the tablet one more goddamn time, and his finger moves again. By some miracle, I manage to send him the photo.
“See? You’re a good girl, after all,” Jiho praises, sliding a finger inside of me. “Show me how much you like to obey and fuck my fingers.”
No need to tell me twice.
Only when my legs shake and my soul begins to depart my body do I note the ding, ding, dings of my tablet. Drawing my attention from where I really fucking want it to be, to the several messages from Michelle that pepper the screen.
“Shit!” I shout, sitting upright and almost falling off the bed like one of those five stupid little monkeys.
Jiho scrambles with me, grabbing my face with nothing but concern in his eyes. “Fuck, Morgan, did I hurt you?”
“What? No.” I show him the screen. “I forgot about family game night. Actually, I remembered, but then you started growling and touching me with your magical fingers. That’s when I forgot.”
A pleased smile spreads across his face. “You’re cute, you know that?”
“So you’ve said,” I say, scowling. “Look, I understand if you want to bail. Meeting family is a lot, especially on dating day number one.”
His brows pinch before he takes the tablet and tosses it on the bed, then grabs my hand and guides me toward the bathroom. “Let’s take a shower.”
I dig my heels in. “But if you’re leaving, it’s probably best to shower at home. They’ll be here in—”
His tongue in my mouth cuts me off, hands backing me into the bathroom. He kicks the door shut and pins me against it, only breaking the kiss when I’m incapable of forming a coherent thought.
“I’m not leaving, baby. Exclusive rights, remember? Families come with the package. And,” he says, running a hand up my leg to my center, “we do have time for a shower. All we need is a good five minutes. Besides, I never bail.”
***
Apparently, when you haven’t dated in three years, one can expect a mother’s elation, a father’s skepticism, and an older sister’s overprotective nonsense.
One can also expect mortification when your mom says, “Please don’t break up with him, Morgan. I want my grandbabies to look just like that.”
Jiho, thankfully, laughs it off. “I’d rather our children look like Morgan.”
And if that doesn’t shock my unused reproductive organs back to life, I don’t know what will.
Now, we’re twenty-six minutes and seventeen horrendous seconds into Monopoly. I used to like the game—until it turned my beautiful, intelligent sister into a lying, scheming, trash-talking little weasel who revels in others’ misery.
Tonight, though, I love it, because Jiho’s kicking her ass and taking my dad’s cheating accusations like a champ.
“I’ll take Boardwalk, please, Mrs. Asterman,” Jiho says, forking over the money to my mom—the banker.
She places a delicate hand on her chest. “Oh my, what a gentleman. But please, call me Barbara.”
“You can call her Barbara,” my dad pipes up, his gray beard bobbing as he talks, “but I’ll always be Mr. Asterman to you.”
“Really, Ted…” my mom says, rolling her eyes as she waves one hand dismissively in the air and hands over the Boardwalk card to Jiho with the other.
“Can we focus on the game here?” Michelle frustratedly calls out. “Mom, double-check that money. You’re so distracted by Jiho’s face you might’ve missed if he shorted you.”
“Seriously, Michelle?” I challenge. “Just because you cheat all the time doesn’t mean anyone else does.”
“I do not cheat…often.”
“Michelle, honey, you actually did short me,” Mom admits, and I give my sister an are-you-fucking-serious look. “I just didn’t say anything, because we’re supposed to be having fun.”
“Exactly how is this fun, Barbara?” my dad grumbles from across the coffee table. “We have no chance of winning with Malicious Michelle on one side and Janky Jiho on the other.”
“Oh my God, Dad!” I look at Jiho, ready to apologize on behalf of my ludicrous father, but his head’s thrown all the way back, sweet, infectious laughter pouring out of him and filling the room. And that’s when I see it—a singular dimple on his right cheek. I’ve never noticed it before. But, then again, this is the first time he’s laughed this hard around me.
Maybe it’s his tell of genuine happiness. If so, I always want that dimple around.
Laughter from everyone else tears me from the thought, just in time to hear the timer ding from the kitchen. Sweet Jesus, I’m saved by the freaking bell.
“Pizza’s done,” I chime, standing to my feet.
“Let me help you, baby,” Jiho says.
But Michelle blocks him. “Oh no, you don’t, Janky Jiho. You’re staying here with Barbara and Mr. Asterman. I’ll help Morgan.”
Jiho raises his hands in surrender. “You make it sound like a punishment. I like their company.”
She mumbles, “Kiss ass,” linking arms with me.
As soon as we hit the kitchen tile, she eyes me. “You fucked him, didn’t you?”
I shrug. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“Yeah, right,” she says with a snort, releasing my arm and leaning against the counter. “You have that post-sex, oxytocin glow. Not to mention a giant hickey.”
Pursing my lips, I readjust my hair, draping it over my shoulder to hide Jiho’s mark.
My sister chuckles. “Don’t worry. I didn’t see it until now, which means our parents are still blissfully unaware. So, fear of STDs and axe murderers aside, how was it?”
Taking the pizzas—one regular and one cauliflower for me—out of the oven, I look over my shoulder at her and smirk. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t touch that counter if I were you.”
“Ew! Are you serious?” Michelle shrieks, running to the sink and fervently washing her hands.” Do I need to start bringing surgical gloves when I come over?”
I can’t help but laugh. Yes, I already sanitized the counter and cabinets underneath, but I’m sure as hell not going to tell my sister that.
Instead, I cut up the pizzas, and on the last run-through with the cutter, I call out, “Pizza’s ready!”
“Not now, sweetheart,” Mom shouts back. “Jiho and your dad are in the thick of it.”
Michelle and I look at each other at the same time, then race to the living room, where we find two ridiculous men doing… I have no freaking clue.
I brace my hands on my hips. “What in the world are you doing?”
“They’ve moved on from arm wrestling to…whatever this is,” my mom says, gesturing to where Jiho and my dad lay shoulder-to-hip in opposite directions, their right legs hooked around each other at the knee.
“Leg-wrestling, baby,” Jiho grunts out.
“And who’s winning?” I ask.
My mom deadpans, “I’ll give you a hint. It’s not your father.”
“Can it, Barbara,” my dad shout-wheezes, trying to keep his ass on the floor. “I’ve got an extremely solid lower body—”
Before my dad can finish that entirely false claim, Jiho slams his leg to the floor, and my father tumbles backward across the room, ass-first into my front door.
My new boyfriend beams, fist-pumping the air, and I watch—or drool over—his arm muscles when he stands in slow motion.
“Ted made me promise not to go easy on him,” Jiho says, offering my dad a hand and pulling him to his feet.
“Damn straight, I did.”
Michelle sighs. “Dad, straining isn’t good for your hemorrhoids. You’re only supposed to take walks and do pelvic floor exercises.”
Jiho’s smile drops instantly, scrubbing at his hands like he’s trying to erase some ill-placed guilt. “Shit. She’s right, Mr. Asterman. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I’d known.”
Mom, to the rescue, waves it off with a breezy tone. “Don’t worry, Jiho, dear. My husband’s as stubborn as a fat, happy mule. He wouldn’t have listened anyway.”
But it misses the mark, Jiho rubbing his hands even harder. They’re blazing red now, so I reach over, wiggling my fingers in between them. His concerned eyes flick to mine, his hands stilling and lacing our fingers together.
“My mom’s right,” I mutter, smiling up at him. “Don’t worry about it.”
My sister nods in agreement. “Exactly. If he won’t listen to his doctor daughter, then he won’t listen to anyone.”
“For crying out loud,” my dad huffs, folding his arms across his chest. “You women folk really know how to bust a man’s balls.”
Jiho chuckles, and I happily note his relaxing shoulders. “How about this, Mr. Asterman? After your condition clears, we’ll have a rematch. Hell, I’ll even wear a weighted vest to give you a fair chance.”
My dad’s eyes narrow, contemplating, and then a laugh rumbles from him, extending his right hand to Jiho. Jiho, of course, takes it and shakes it.
“Deal,” Dad says before turning to me. “Morgan, bring him to game night again. Next time, it’s Pictionary.” He eyes my sister. “And it’s hard to cheat when you can’t draw for shit.”
Michelle sighs and shakes her head. “Come on, family. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
***
An hour and two servings of—surprisingly delicious—cauliflower pizza later, Jiho has managed to win everyone over, even Malicious Michelle.
All it took was asking about her migraine-versus-boob-size medical research. We, of course, have heard it all before, but Jiho found it fascinating.
And so here we are, still listening to her talk about it.
“I should put you in contact with my friend in Seoul,” Jiho says. “I think you’re in the same field. Dr. Minjae Kim?”
Michelle chokes on her beer, some of it even coming out of her nose. Classy.
She asks between coughs and chest thuds, “You know the world-renowned Minjae Kim?”
Jiho nods. “We went to university together and had a lot of the same classes for a while. Morgan can give you my number, and you can text me your email. I’ll reach out and copy you.”
Michelle sits back in her chair and looks at me. “I knew I liked him.”
“Of course you do, Sis.”
“Enough about us,” my mom chimes sweetly. “What do you do, Jiho?”
He takes a sip of the gross, low-calorie wine he insisted on drinking with me. “I own Pulse Fitness.”
“Which one?” Michelle asks. “They’re all over the city. And country, I think.”
Jiho shrugs. “All of them. I own the entire Pulse Fitness company.”
Now, it’s my turn to shoot booze out of my nasal cavity. Karma’s a bitch. “I’m sorry, what?” I cough out.
Jiho only winks at me as my father says, puffing his chest, “Impressive. What do you attribute mostly to your success?”
“Oh my God,” I mumble under my breath. “Jiho, you don’t have to answer that.”
Jiho gives my thigh a reassuring squeeze under the table, then casually explains, “Success for sons—especially first-borns—is mandatory for us Koreans. I didn’t really have a choice.” Glancing at his phone and spying the late time, he adds, “But speaking of work, I have an 8:00 AM conference call tomorrow with some investors. I should probably get going. I need to wake up early to review everything.”
My mother and sister collectively whine.
“Let the man leave, girls,” my dad huffs. “He’s got a business to run. Morgan, walk him out.”
“I was going to, Dad, considering this is my house and all.”
After much too exaggerated goodbyes on my family’s part, Jiho and I walk out the door to his car, hands laced tightly together.
“So,” I say playfully, “you’re not a trust-fund-baby, hot K-drama man, but a self-made, hot K-drama man.”
He smiles brighter than the one stubborn star, peeking through the city’s light pollution. “Was that the racist thing you wanted to say earlier?”
“Exactly why I didn’t say it.”
He throws a laugh into the air and pulls me close, wrapping his arms around my waist. As soon as I feel his hard body against mine, I want to drag his fine ass back inside, kick my family’s flabby asses to the curb, and have my way with him again.
But first, I put my hands on his chest, tilting my head up to look at his handsome face. “Are you okay? You seemed a little upset with the leg wrestling and my dad…”
Jiho’s mouth tightens as he briefly looks up to the sky before settling his furrowed gaze back on me. “It’s nothing, baby.”
Playfully, I poke him right between his pinched brows. “Exclusive rights, Jiho, means knowing everything in that head of yours. And vice versa.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I rush on, “And just like you said to me, you can tell me anything. I actually promise not to laugh.”
“Believe it or not, I meant it at the time.”
“I know,” I say sweetly, pushing up on my toes to brush a soft kiss against his lips. I can feel the tension radiating from him, his hesitation to fully open up almost palpable. Settling back on my heels and lacing my fingers behind his neck, I add, “Spill the beans, Mr. Park.”
Finally, he gives in to my wiles. “I’ve always prided myself in being observant in my life—it was how I was raised. It’s what I value in my profession, as well. Working around people’s injuries and helping them recover. The fact that I may have injured your father further… It got to me.”
My head tilts, trying to really listen, because I have a feeling no one really listens to Jiho. “There’s no way you could’ve known. Asking your new girlfriend’s father if he has hemorrhoids isn’t normally part of meeting the parents.”
Jiho cracks a smile. “No, I guess it’s not. Well, whatever the fuck I felt back there, you pulled me out of it.”
“And I always will,” I say, smiling up at him. “At least for three—”
“Don’t fucking finish that sentence,” he interjects, drawing me in for a kiss that leaves me absolutely breathless.
When his tongue asks for permission, I part my lips wider for him to explore, explore, explore like Marco freaking Polo.
His hands join in on the mission, journeying over my waist and through the woods, to around my throat we go.
Soft lips find my ear, and Mr. O’Malley is back, purring, “Be a good girl and go inside, Morgan, before I fuck you on the hood of my car.”
I open my mouth to say please fuck me on the hood of your car, but his fingers tighten just a little bit more around my neck. I’ve never had—what’s this called…throat play?—happen to me before, but oh my God, I never want it to end.
My eyes track Jiho’s tongue as it glides over his lips before he adds, “Remember how I rewarded you for being good? If you’re good again, I’ll reward you even more tomorrow.”
And that has my mouth going silent and my Duchess meowing to the moon.
I’m about to ask how he plans to punish me if I give in to the dark side when I hear a door creak open and the familiar shuffle of short, uneven footsteps.
“Morgan? Is that you, dear?”
Darleen—the little old lady next door.
Jiho flashes me a devilish grin, the kind that promises we’ll pick up exactly where we left off. His hand gives one last squeeze before slipping from my throat.
“Yes, Darleen,” I call out, turning to see her lighting a cigarette on her porch. Did I mention she smokes like a chimney and has a voice as husky as a dried corn cob?
She squints. “What’d you say, dear?”
My eyes pinch shut. As much as I adore sweet old Darleen, I wish she were as blind as she is deaf right about now.
I suck in a breath and shout, “YES, IT’S MORGAN!”
“Oh, that’s what I thought. Who’s that with you?”
I glance over my shoulder to find Jiho looking entirely too amused, his hand making a shooing motion, urging me to go on.
I roll my eyes. “He’s my boyfriend, Darleen.”
“What?”
“Lord have mercy,” I mumble quietly, before yelling again, “HE’S MY BOYFRIEND!”
“Oh, I see,” Darleen drawls, her lifelong Texan accent as thick as her voice is husky. “He looks tall. Is he handsome?”
I glance back at Jiho, and that cocky grin makes me want to lie and say something like, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.
But I also adore that grin, so I shout the absolute truth, “YES, DARLEEN! HE’S VERY HANDSOME!”
“Good for you, dear. Don’t let me interrupt. You kids have a good night.” She stubs out her cigarette in a flower-shaped ashtray and slowly shuffles back inside.
Oh, the irony. “GOODNIGHT, DARLEEN!”
When I turn back to Jiho, a knee-wobbling, heart-melting expression replaces his grin. “What?” I ask, because of course my insecurity wants a front-row seat.
His eyes rake over my face for a moment longer, then he opens his car door. “Be ready by six tomorrow.”
My head cants to the side. “What for?”
With one foot in the car, he smiles like that one stubborn star again and cups a hand around his mouth. “I’M TAKING MY GORGEOUS GIRLFRIEND ON A DATE!”
I lunge toward him. “Oh my God, Jiho, shhh!” But before I can clamp my hands over his loud, beautiful mouth, he’s already in the car with the door shut.
The window rolls down, and I lean on it, arms folded on the ledge. “You’re an insufferable asshole, you know that?”
“But I’m your insufferable asshole,” he says, craning his neck to brush one last kiss against my lips, then adds with a smirk, “And you’re my little racist.”
I scoff and step back, but I don’t even try to hide my smile. “What should I wear tomorrow?”
“It’s a casual place, but I’m partial to sundresses.” He digs into his pocket, then holds something up, dangling it from his finger. “Especially if you wear something like this underneath.”
It takes me a second to register the lacy black fabric fluttering in the breeze. My thong. No wonder I couldn’t find it.
I gasp and take a step forward, but Jiho’s already peeling out of my driveway, thong waving like a victory flag. Or maybe a hostage?
Either way, I don’t mind him keeping it. I’ll get it back in three months.
And I hate that…
But I hate what it does to my heart even more.