Chapter 32 #2
She surrenders completely as I alternate between wine-enhanced touches and her natural essence.
I spread her apart, and she covers my hand with hers.
“Hold up,” she pants, her lawyer voice breaking through the haze.
“Wipe that off. Wine’s acidic. You’ll mess up my pH balance.
I’m already pushing it with you drinking it off of me. ”
It’s such a Minji interruption that I can’t help but laugh. I glance up to find her staring down at me, one eyebrow arched imperiously despite her flushed cheeks.
“Should I go wash up?” I ask, nipping at her inner thigh just hard enough to leave a mark. Her hips jerk in response.
Minji grabs my wrist, pulling my wine-stained fingers away. “Just use your napkin. I’d rather not pause for a full hygiene break.”
I obey, wiping my hand on the crisp white cloth before tossing it aside.
“Better?” I growl, my breath ghosting over her center.
Her thighs fall open wider. “Perfect,” she whispers.
I ease a finger inside, curling just so.
Her entire body flexing toward the edge of the table.
I grab the wine glass and hand it to her.
“Pour it down your pussy so I can have something to drink while eating you. I’ll have to Google ways to keep your pH balance intact, but right now I want to do filthy things to you. ”
Her hand trembles slightly as she takes the glass from me. “You’re serious,” she whispers, not quite a question.
“Dead serious.” I lick my lips.
She pauses—just long enough for me to see her calculating all possible pH disasters—before tilting the glass. The wine cascades in a crimson thread, finding its way to her center. The image sears itself into my brain, and my hands fly to her hips.
“Holy…” I can barely speak. The red liquid traces her contours like an artist’s brush, gathering where she’s already wet.
I follow with my tongue, collecting every drop, consuming her as though she’s the only sustenance I’ve ever known.
Her legs lock around my shoulders, her voice dissolving into a series of pleas.
I could stay here forever, determined to draw every last shudder from her body. She brings the glass to her mouth, takes a sip, then drains it completely in one defiant swallow.
“More?” I ask against heated skin.
“No… please… please just put it in.” She whimpers.
I stand, blood pounding in my ears, and reach for my belt. The hunger in Minji’s eyes as she watches my hands work the buckle nearly finishes me. Her dress is bunched around her waist, her skin flushed and glistening in the low light. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her right now.
“Condom,” she reminds me.
I retrieve one from my wallet. She takes it from my fingers, her gaze locked on mine as she rolls it down my erection.
“Now,” she commands as she pulls me between her legs. “I need you inside me.”
I thrust into her completely, and she arches her spine as her fingers clutch the table edge. She’s still pulsing from before, clenching around me with each stroke.
“Honeybee,” I mumble against her throat, struggling to maintain control. “You’re incredible.”
Her legs wrap around my waist, drawing me in deeper. The table creaks beneath us. I should be concerned about the noise, about someone walking in despite the locked door, but all I can focus on is Minji, the way her breath catches with each stroke, how her fingers dig into my shoulders.
“Harder,” her lips brushing my ear. “I need you to fuck me harder.”
I adjust my grip on her hips, finding that angle that makes her eyelids flutter. The table shifts with our rhythm, sending wine glasses tumbling one after another.
“Someone’s going to hear,” I warn, though I make no move to slow down.
“I don’t care. Don’t. Fucking. Stop.”
I bury my face in her neck, inhaling her scent. My restraint unravels with every sound she makes. The pressure builds too quickly, but I want her there first. I slip my hand between us, finding her still-sensitive clit. Her entire body jolts at the contact.
“Too much?” I pause.
“Keep going,” her gaze unfocused with pleasure.
I work in slow circles with my thumb, matching the cadence of our bodies. I feel her tightening around me, that telltale flutter signaling she’s close. Her head tips back, throat a pale arch in the dim light. “Open your dress. I want to see you.”
Her trembling fingers struggle with each button.
I cover her hands with mine, guiding them down the seam until the fabric falls away.
No bra—I treasure the intimacy, how she trusts me enough to come undressed beneath her clothes when I’m with her.
Her nipples darkened with arousal. My mouth finds one, then traces, then I bite down hard enough she’ll remember tomorrow.
The way she clutches my hair, the wild buck of her hips against mine, this is how I know she wants to be consumed.
“Look at you,” I breathe, pulling back so I can see all of her. She’s barely sitting on the edge of the table, dress wide open, breasts exposed, sweat sliding down her neck and between her cleavage.
“I want you to come inside me.” Her voice is scratchy, throat-raw from moaning.
She maintains eye contact as I begin to move within her again, this time slower, rotating my hips so the head of my cock hits that perfect spot with each thrust. Her legs quiver, spread wide off the end of the table.
I circle her clit with my thumb, feeling her tense and shudder, gripping me so tightly I nearly lose control.
“You sure always want my babies while intoxicated. I think you have a kink that comes out of you when you’re inebriated. That, or you just really want my children, Honeybee.” I smirk, fucking her harder.
“No one’s ever made me…” she starts, but her voice breaks into a ragged cry. “Aaron, oh, God—”
“Let go,” I demand, and watch as the words send her over the edge.
She comes like a wave starting in her hips and crashing through her whole body.
Her hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to sting.
I watch the pleasure consume her, her face wild and unguarded.
Her body grips me so tightly there’s no hope of holding back.
I push in as deep as the table allows and explode—a blinding, pulsing release, the whole room narrowing to the sensation of her body drawing everything out of me.
She’s still arching into me, still whispering yes, yes, yes.
I pour myself into her until there’s nothing left in me.
When it finally subsides, I fold over her, my cheek pressed to her collarbone, body trembling as her legs wrap around my waist. I don’t want to move—not ever—so I don’t.
The world could be on fire outside, and I’d still hold her there, savoring every second for as long as I’m allowed.
Neither of us speaks until her body stops shivering and my hands stop shaking.
I withdraw myself, disposing of the condom before adjusting my clothes. Minji lies across the table like an artwork vandalized by passion. Our gazes meet, and I see in hers the dazed satisfaction of someone beautifully wrecked.
“I might become a wine enthusiast,” I say softly, “if this is what comes with the tasting.”
Exhaustion can’t suppress her smile. “My vagina disagrees,” she whispers hoarsely. “Not the most medically sound practice.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Ever the pragmatist.” I offer support as she eases off the table, wobbly-legged.
When her fingers struggle with her dress, I gently move them away.
“Allow me.” I fasten each button, using every moment to brush against her still-electric skin.
She trembles slightly but remains motionless, catching her bottom lip between her teeth while I reconstruct her public self, one button at a time.
“We should attempt to clean up,” Minji says, looking at the messy table and wine spilled on the floor.
We try our best, which is to say we attempt to make the scene look less like a crime of passion and more like a clumsy wine tasting gone sideways.
There are wine-drenched napkins everywhere, several broken toothpicks from the cheese plate, and broken wine glasses.
The evidence is overwhelming. I dab at the grape-colored stain spreading across the table’s edge, but it’s hopeless.
Some damage, once done, can’t just be erased, no matter how many napkins you throw at it.
Minji watches me throughout, legs crossed at the ankle, chin resting in her hand like a judge appraising my cleanup skills.
She offers no help, just refills her glass with water—hydration, she insists, is the secret to surviving morning meetings—and simply observes.
She looks both decadent and royal, a queen surveying her ruined kingdom and finding it perfectly to her liking.
I surrender to the wine-stained table and find the small sink tucked in the corner.
The water runs ice-cold over my hands, sending goosebumps up my arms that mirror the ones Minji left on my skin minutes ago.
When I turn, she’s at the antique mirror beside the wine racks, fingers working to tame her disheveled hair, her critical gaze assessing the damage our passion has wrought.
I gather our evidence and dispose of it before joining her reflection.
Her eyes find mine in the mirror, then she turns, looking up through those lashes that undid me an hour ago.
I brush back a rebellious strand of her hair, and instead of pulling away, she places her palm against my chest, feeling the drumbeat that still pounds her name beneath my ribs.
“Earlier,” I remind her, “you said you’d be surprised if we lasted six months. I should probably warn you—I’m planning to break that record by a wide margin.”
She lifts a single eyebrow, as if to say prove it, but her lips soften into the hint of a smile.
Six months, a year, a lifetime—whatever the bar, I’ll raise it. I know better than to think she’d make it easy for me. That’s the fun of it, really, the challenge she poses every time she throws down another gauntlet.
I’m already plotting the next move.