Chapter 16 ~ Minho #2
We set up on the coffee table in front of the TV, sitting cross-legged on opposite sides of the carpet.
For the next five minutes, Bellamy teaches me how to play the game and when we begin, the first few moves are tentative, as if we are feeling each other out, but as the game progresses, the tension between us builds.
And I fear I am no good at this game, worse than expected, while Bells is patient, always thinking three moves ahead.
“You’re terrible at this,” he says, capturing my bishop with a knight with a boyish grin on his perfect face.
“Happy? You’re finally better than me at something,” I grumble.
He chuckles. “I’ve had practice.” His smile fades, and I wonder if what I said upset him. I shouldn’t care, but surprisingly, I do. “My dad used to make me play with him every Friday.” He moves his rook, and I see the trap too late. “Check.”
It's the first time he’s mentioned his dad to me since I got between them, and I wonder if that’s where Bells’ mind goes when he locks eyes with me.
I look away first, studying the board, running through potential outcomes where I can beat him. My king is cornered, but there is one move I can make, a sacrifice that would leave him exposed. I move my queen, and Bellamy raises a brow.
“Bold.”
I smile. “Gotta keep you on your toes somehow.”
He laughs, and the sound does something to my chest. Bells moves, capturing my queen and the game shifts. I have one last piece to play, but I know I am going to lose. And for some reason, the thought doesn’t bother me as much as it should have.
“I think we are done here,” I say, leaning back.
“Don’t give up yet.” He leans forward, and he is so much closer than I remember him being, his knee brushing mine. “You’ve still got your king.”
“And you have three pieces bearing down on it.”
He grins. “Semantics.”
I look at him, at the way the light catches his eyes, at the faint smile that softens the hard line of his jaw and something in me shifts.
“Bells,” I whisper against his lips.
“If you kiss me, I won’t stop what happens next.”
“I know.”
The game doesn't matter to me anymore; none of it matters as I lean forward, closing the small distance between us, pressing my lips to his before I can rethink what I am doing as he meets me halfway.
The kiss is soft, all exploring as our tongues tangle together, and nothing is like the one from the other day. This one is meaningful, intense in its own way and one I should be fucking terrified of for being the one who initiated it.
But I’m not.
We break the kiss laughing, breathless, and then I am moving, climbing onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Bellamy's hands find my hip, steadying me, and I feel the heat of him mingling with my own through his clothes.
The chessboard clatters to the side, pieces scattering onto the floor when I accidentally bump into it, but neither of us seems to care for the forgotten game.
“Minho...” His voice is rough and strained as his words trail off.
I hate how much I fucking love it.
“Just shut up.” I kiss him again, deeper this time, fingers tangling in his hair. He groans against my mouth, and I feel his cock harden beneath me, pressing against my thigh. I rock my hips, and his breath catches.
“Fuck—”
I do it again, harder, and his hands grip my hips, fingers digging in. The friction is maddening, and yet not enough.
“Bellamy.” I breathe against his mouth, and the sound of his name seems to break something in him as his hips buck up, grinding against mine, meeting me thrust for thrust until he shudders and I feel the wet heat spread through his shorts.
He comes with a groan that is half whimper, his forehead pressing to my shoulder, his breath hot on my neck.
The room is quiet except for our synced breathing, and I pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are dark and dazed, and there is a flush spreading across his cheeks.
“Jesus, that was—” He swallows, licks his lips. “You did that on fucking purpose.”
I laugh and slide off his lap, settling beside him on the carpet and making sure not to sit on any of the chess pieces. “You owe me a rematch.” I pick up one of the pawns and toss it at his chest, causing him to laugh with me.
“I will give you whatever you want.” His words sound so sincere; I feel the weight of them in my chest like a second heartbeat.
I don’t know why I did that.
Kissed him, I mean.
Making him come in his shorts wasn’t planned either. I just wanted to make him feel good for some reason, and now that I have, I don't know why, but I want to kiss him again.
Shit.
What the fuck am I saying?
I look at him, at the mess of his cum spreading a dark stain against his light grey shorts, at the vulnerability in his eyes, and I know he’s not even trying to hide what he wants, so I make a decision I will surely regret tomorrow.
I lean in, kiss him again, and feel the moment he gives in to me without hesitation as his hands come up to cup my face.
“I believe I owe you one as well.” The words are quiet, but they are clear, and I see the flash of surprise in his eyes before it softens into something else—something I am not ready to name.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” I cut off his protest, kissing along his neck, nipping at the lobe of his ear, bringing out a groan from him. “I want to.”
He searches my face for a long moment, and then he nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. “What happened to this not happening again?”
“I mean...” I purposely trail off, letting the quiet between us stretch before making a move to get up when he places a hand on mine. “If you don’t want to, I can entertain myself tonight.”
“Fuck it.” He bites his lower lip, eyes scanning mine one last time. “Okay, but no regrets and if I do something you do not like, tell me and I will stop.”
“Okay.”
I don’t know why, but I don’t think I will be regretting this tomorrow either. Especially since I don’t regret what happened in the locker room—I should, but I don’t. I meant what I told him. I don’t hate him, and I want to move on. But I still want to win, to be the one who comes out on top.
Not because I think I am better than him, but because without the rivalry, the scheming, the one-upping, what is stopping me from wanting him?
I have worked so hard to be invisible. To know when and what to want and need. I don’t want to take up space in anyone's life only for them to leave. There’s nothing scarier than wanting someone, then giving yourself over to them, only for them to discard you like you mean nothing.
I will never admit it, but I do want Bellamy.
It’s irrational, highly stupid, and let's not forget that our parents being married complicates things.
Wanting him would bring on more pain and suffering in the end; I know it, and yet I can feel myself no longer wanting to fight him, feel myself slipping into that dangerous territory of giving in to him.
I don’t know when things changed, whether it was the moment he came into Bennett and Ink, stole my book, transferred into my program, or trapped me in this apartment with him. It could have even been when joining his hockey team or any of the little moments in between.
But somewhere in the chaos of what is clearly a one-sided feud now, I stopped hating him, started wondering about all the ‘what ifs’, and that scares me. And it sucks because Armani’s flash drive in my pocket now feels like a poisonous pill I no longer want to force-feed to Bellamy.
Jesus Christ.
His delusions are infectious.
He’s infectious.
“Minho?”
I shake my head. “No talking.” I push him back onto the carpet, my knees bracketing his hips, and I set about exploring him with the same care he’d shown me in the locker room, taking his shirt off first, then my hoodie, followed by my shirt.
I trace the lines of his chest and his tattoos with my fingertips.
I no longer ignore the fact that each tattoo is a checkpoint on a map. Each one is a destination; every single one carries its own meaning, and they all lead back to me.
My fingers stop at the well-hidden scar behind one of his tattoos, and my jaw tightens thinking of the fucker who gave it to him.
I swear if I ever see his dad...
No, I won't think of him now. Right now it's about Bellamy. And I don’t want to sour the mood thinking of someone who is sick and no longer our mayor.
“Is this okay?” I ask, pressing a kiss to his sternum.
“Everything you do to me feels good.” His words come out so soft, they send a spike of need through me.
I trail my kisses lower, down his stomach, feeling the muscles tense under my lips. The strings of his shorts are already undone, the waistband loose, and I pull them off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers.
I hook my finger in the waistband, pulling them down too, and his cock springs free, still half hard, slick with the remnants of his orgasm.
I take his cock and stroke gently before wrapping my lips around the head as I take him slowly and teasingly, and I hear him gasp above me. His hand finds my hair, not pulling, just resting there as I work him with my tongue, remembering what he did to me.
I wanted to give him the same care.
“Minho—” His voice is strained, and I feel him harden against my tongue. I take him deeper, feeling the back of my throat open, and I hear him moan and whimper for me.
God, I could listen to him come undone for me for hours.
Bells lets me work for a long time, his breathing ragged above me, his hips twitching with each teasing stroke. I am so lost in the taste of him, in the sound of his pleasure, and I feel my own arousal building, a hot pressure at the base of my spine.
“Baby,” he breathes, and I chuckle around him, making him squirm a little. “Ooh m-my God, I'm so close, stop.” His voice is a command, and I freeze, pulling back to look at him. Bell's eyes are dark with lust, chest heaving, and he reaches down, grabbing my chin with two fingers. “Open.”