Chapter 9: Silk and Suffering
The door to the suite clicked shut, and the world outside—the music, the laughter, the lingering congratulations—vanished into a muffled silence. The only sound was their own breathing, slightly ragged from the sprint down the hall, and the distant, watery sigh of the city twenty floors below.
Donghae still had him pinned against the heavy door, his body a solid, warm line against Hyukjae’s back. He nuzzled the sensitive space behind Hyukjae’s ear, his lips brushing the skin there. “Finally,” he murmured, the word vibrating through Hyukjae’s spine.
Hyukjae let his head fall back against Donghae’s shoulder, his eyes closing. The adrenaline of the day was crystallizing into a sharp, singular need. He could smell the starch of his own collar, the faint floral residue from his mother’s handkerchief, and beneath it, the clear, clean scent of Donghae’s sweat. “I thought the toasts would never end.”
“Your uncle is a very passionate man about open bars.” Donghae’s hands came up to Hyukjae’s shoulders, turning him slowly. The golden light from the single sconce cut across his face, painting his familiar features in new, dramatic shadows. He looked at Hyukjae—really looked—his gaze traveling from his disheveled hair down to his loosened tie and the first undone button of his shirt. His expression was one of pure, unhurried possession. “You’re a mess.”
“You did this,” Hyukjae said, but there was no heat in it.
“I’m just getting started.”
Donghae’s fingers went to the knot of Hyukjae’s tie. He didn’t pull it. He slid the silk free with a slow, deliberate whisper of fabric, his knuckles grazing Hyukjae’s throat. He let the tie drop to the floor. Then his hands were on the buttons of Hyukjae’s shirt, one after another, each tiny pop feeling like a release of pressure. The jacket had been lost somewhere between the elevator and the door. Now the shirt was parted, pushed back over his shoulders. It caught at his wrists, still buttoned at the cuffs.
“Impatient,” Hyukjae breathed, even as he arched into the touch.
“Meticulous,” Donghae corrected again, a ghost of their earlier conversation on the dance floor. He worked the cufflinks, his fingers deft and sure. He knelt to ease Hyukjae’s shoes and socks off, then stood again, making quick work of his belt and trousers. The fine wool puddled around Hyukjae’s ankles, leaving him in just his underwear, shivering slightly in the air-conditioned room.
Donghae took a half-step back, his eyes raking over him. The look was so raw, so appreciative, it made Hyukjae’s skin flush. “Fuck,” Donghae said, the word soft, almost reverent.
Then he closed the distance and kissed him, a deep, consuming kiss that tasted of champagne and desire. He walked Hyukjae backward, step by step, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. Hyukjae tumbled down onto the silk duvet, the material cool against his heated skin. He watched as Donghae stripped, his own movements economical, focused. The sight of him—the defined muscle of his chest, the dark trail of hair leading down—never failed to steal Hyukjae’s breath.
Donghae joined him on the bed, crawling over him, caging him in. He didn’t rush. He leaned down and licked a slow stripe up the center of Hyukjae’s chest, pausing to swirl his tongue around a nipple, to bite gently at the tight nub until Hyukjae gasped and twisted his fingers in the sheets.
“Donghae…”
“Hmm?” He moved to the other side, blowing a cool stream of air over the wet skin, watching it peak even further.
“Stop teasing.” Hyukjae’s voice was strained.
“Or what?” Donghae lifted his head, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes. He rocked his hips down, the hard line of his erection dragging against Hyukjae’s through the thin layer of cotton. The friction was maddening.
Hyukjae’s composure snapped. He bucked up, using a surge of strength to roll them over, reversing their positions. He stared down at Donghae, breathing heavily. “Or I’ll flip you over and ride you until you forget your own name.”
A slow, delighted smile spread across Donghae’s face. He lifted his hands, framing Hyukjae’s face, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “There he is.” His voice was thick with affection and want. “Do it, then. Show me.”
For a long moment, they just looked at each other, the challenge and the promise hanging in the air. Then Hyukjae let out a shaky breath, the fight leaving him as suddenly as it came. He lowered his forehead to Donghae’s. “No,” he whispered. “I don’t want to be in charge.Not tonight. I just want you. I need you to… just take me apart. Please.”
The last word was a bare exhale. It was all the permission Donghae ever needed.
He rolled them again, reclaiming his position, his weight a comforting anchor. “I’ve got you,” he said, and this time, there was no teasing left. His kiss was deep, claiming. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Hyukjae’s underwear and pulled them down, freeing his cock, which lay hard and flushed against his stomach. Donghae wrapped a firm hand around him, stroking once, twice, a rough, perfect friction that made Hyukjae cry out into his mouth.
Then he was moving down, his lips and tongue tracing a path down Hyukjae’s sternum, his navel, the sharp jut of his hipbones. He took him into his mouth without hesitation, sinking down until his nose was buried in the crisp hair at the base.
“Oh, god,” Hyukjae choked out, his hands flying to Donghae’s hair, not to push or guide, just to hold on. The wet heat was exquisite, the suction relentless. Donghae knew him, knew every rhythm that made him tremble, every flick of the tongue that made his thighs shake. He worked him with a filthy, dedicated expertise, humming softly as Hyukjae’s hips began to stutter off the bed.
The coil of pleasure tightened, too fast, too soon. “Donghae, stop, I’m gonna—” Hyukjae tugged at his hair.
Donghae released him with a slick pop, smiling up the length of his body. His lips were swollen, wet. “Not yet.” He reached over to the nightstand, fumbling for the bottle they’d left there that morning. He slicked his fingers, watching Hyukjae watch him.
He pressed one finger against him, circling, before pushing slowly inside. Hyukjae gasped, his body arching, accepting. It had been days, a week maybe, with the chaos of the move and the wedding preparations. The stretch burned, a familiar, welcome ache. Donghae worked him open with a relentless, tender patience, curling his finger, scissoring, adding a second when Hyukjae’s breath hitched not in pain but in want.
“More,” Hyukjae demanded, his voice ragged. “Come on, don’t fucking pamper me now.”
Donghae added a third finger, crooking them just so, and Hyukjae saw stars. A broken shout was torn from his throat. “There! Right there, fuck, don’t stop—”
“I know,” Donghae whispered, his own control fraying. He withdrew his fingers, and the emptiness was a brief torment. He coated himself with more lube, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He positioned himself, the blunt head pressing against Hyukjae’s entrance. He looked down, meeting Hyukjae’s blown-wide eyes. “Look at me.”
Hyukjae did. He held that gaze as Donghae pushed inside, a slow, inexorable invasion that filled him completely, stretched him to the brink. The feeling was overwhelming—the profound fullness, the pinprick of pain swallowed by a flood of rightness. He was panting, his nails digging into Donghae’s biceps.
Donghae paused, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of stillness. A sheen of sweat gleamed on his chest. “Okay?” The word was gritted out.
Hyukjae answered by locking his legs around Donghae’s waist, pulling him deeper. “Move. Please, move.”
Donghae began to move. Slow, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive nerve inside him. Each thrust was a promise, a claiming. The bedframe began a soft, rhythmic creak in time with their bodies.
“You feel so goddamn good,” Donghae groaned, his forehead dropping to Hyukjae’s shoulder. “Tighter every time. Taking me so perfect. My husband.”
The word, spoken in that gruff, wrecked voice, unraveled something in Hyukjae. He clenched around him, earning a sharp, choked-off moan. “Yours,” he agreed, the word a sob. “Always. Fuck me harder. I need to feel it tomorrow.”
Donghae’s rhythm broke, became faster, harder, less controlled. The smooth, worshipful strokes gave way to a frantic, driving need. The slapping of skin on skin filled the room, a raw counterpoint to their ragged breathing and choked-off curses.
Hyukjae was hurtling toward the edge, each punishing drag of Donghae’s cock pushing him closer. He reached between them, fisting his own leaking length, stroking in time with Donghae’s thrusts.
“That’s it,” Donghae urged, his breath hot against Hyukjae’s ear. “Come for me. Let me see it.”
The command, the sheer filthy dominance of it, was the final trigger. Hyukjae came with a shattered cry, his body seizing, stripes of white painting his stomach and chest. The intense, pulsing clench of his orgasm dragged Donghae over with him. Donghae drove in one last, deep time, burying himself as he came with a guttural shout, his whole body locking, his release flooding hot inside.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their gasping breaths. Donghae collapsed atop him, careful to keep most of his weight on his elbows. He nuzzled into Hyukjae’s neck, pressing soft, absent kisses to the damp skin there.
Slowly, reality seeped back in. The feel of the cooling come on his stomach. The deep, pleasant ache between his legs. The heavy, satiated weight of the man on top of him.
Donghae shifted off eventually, but immediately pulled Hyukjae against his side, tucking him close. He reached for the discarded handkerchief from the nightstand—Hyukjae’s mother’s handkerchief, now irreparably stained—and wiped him clean with a tenderness that contrasted violently with their previous urgency.
Hyukjae laughed, a weak, breathless sound. “She’s going to ask about that.”
“We’ll tell her it’s safely preserved,” Donghae mumbled, tossing the cloth toward the floor. He pulled the duvet over them both. In the dim light, on the pillow beside them, the two small wooden ducks watched over the scene, their painted eyes gleaming.
Hyukjae traced a finger over the new ring on Donghae’s hand where it rested on his chest. The metal was warm from their skin. The loft, the move, the wedding, the future—it was all a vast, beautiful uncertainty. But this, the firm beat of Donghae’s heart under his ear, the solid arm around him, this was a fact. A conclusive result.
“The data is still solid,” he murmured, already half asleep.
He felt Donghae’s smile against his hair. “Told you.”