Chapter 16: The Gala Prelude w
The closet was a cathedral of wealth, silent and imposing. Rows of dark suits stood like sentinels, their fabrics a spectrum of charcoal, midnight, and a black so deep it swallowed the light. The air tasted of cedar shelves and the crisp, citrus-pine bite of Donghae’s cologne. Hyukjae stood motionless in the center, feeling profoundly out of place.
Donghae moved with a curator’s precision, his fingers brushing over sleeves. “This one,” he said, extracting a suit the color of a winter sky just before snowfall. He held it against Hyukjae’s front, his eyes critical. “Yes. The cut will make your shoulders look fucking insane.”
“It’s a suit,” Hyukjae muttered, his skin prickling under the intensity of Donghae’s gaze.
“It’s armor.” Donghae’s smile was a quick, sharp thing. “Put it on.”
The fabric was cooler and heavier than anything Hyukjae had ever worn. It whispered as he slid his arms into the jacket, settling onto his frame with a tailor-made weight that was both alien and disconcertingly perfect. He faced the full-length mirror embedded in the door. A stranger stared back—sharp, polished, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with hockey pads.
Donghae appeared behind him in the glass, a phantom in his own pristine white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hands came to rest on Hyukjae’s shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle. His gaze in the reflection was not on the suit, but on Hyukjae’s face.
“You look like you’re going to your execution,” he murmured, his breath warm against Hyukjae’s ear.
“Feels like it.”
The hands on his shoulders tightened, then slid down his chest, over the fine wool, mapping the tense plane of his torso. They didn’t stop at his waist. Donghae’s palms smoothed over his hips, then around to the front, fingers deftly finding the button of the trousers.
Hyukjae’s breath hitched. “What are you doing?”
“What does it feel like I’m doing?” Donghae’s voice had dropped, lost all its playful charm. It was pure, dark hunger. The button came undone. The zipper hissed down.
Cold air kissed Hyukjae’s stomach. Then Donghae’s hands were inside, pushing the trousers and his briefs down over his hips in one rough motion. His half-hard cock sprang free, already thickening under the blatant scrutiny.
“Donghae,” Hyukjae warned, but it was weak, a protest that died in his throat.
“I need to make sure you remember,” Donghae said, his voice a gravelly growl against the side of Hyukjae’s neck. His hands gripped Hyukjae’s bare hips, yanking him back until his ass pressed against the hard line of Donghae’s own erection. “Before we go out there and you have to be all perfect and polite for my parents and the cameras, I need you to remember who you belong to. Who you come home with.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, he spun Hyukjae around and pushed. Hyukjae’s back hit the cool, hard surface of the mirrored door with a dull thud. The impact shuddered through him. Donghae was on him instantly, a knee nudging his legs apart, a hand pinning his shoulder to the glass. His other hand wrapped around Hyukjae’s cock, giving it two rough, dry pumps that made Hyukjae’s vision blur.
Then Donghae dropped to his knees.
The sight was obscene. Donghae, in his thousand-dollar shirt, on his knees amidst the polished loafers, his eyes locked on Hyukjae’s as he leaned forward. He didn’t tease. He took the head into his mouth, his tongue flattening against the slit, and sucked. Hard.
A punched-out grunt escaped Hyukjae. His head fell back against the mirror with a crack. The sensations were too much, too raw—the hot, wet suction, the faint scrape of teeth, the hum of satisfaction that vibrated through Donghae’s throat and into his very core. He looked down. Donghae’s lips were stretched obscenely around his girth, his cheeks hollowed. He pulled back, saliva shining on his lower lip, and swirled his tongue around the crown, lapping at the bead of pre-come already gathered there.
“Fuck,” Hyukjae breathed, his fingers finding Donghae’s hair, tangling in the soft strands.
Donghae took him in again, deeper this time, his throat working open. He pushed forward until his nose was buried in the coarse hair at the base, his throat convulsing around the intrusion. He held there, eyes watering but open, staring up as he swallowed rhythmically. The tight, milking pressure was unreal. Hyukjae could see his own reflection—disheveled, suit jacket open, face a mask of stunned pleasure—over Donghae’s head.
Donghae pulled off with a wet, filthy sound. A string of spit connected his lips to Hyukjae’s glistening cock. “Come for me, princess,” he commanded, his voice wrecked. “I want you thinking about this all night. About my mouth on you. About how I taste you.” His hand found Hyukjae’s balls, rolling them gently, then his fingers pressed firmly into the sensitive skin of his perineum, seeking the hidden ridge of his prostate through the flesh.
The dual stimulation was a lightning strike. Donghae took him back into that devastating heat, sucking with a relentless, brutal rhythm, his fingers applying that perfect, maddening pressure.
Hyukjae shattered.
His orgasm ripped through him without warning, a white-hot seizure of pleasure. He cried out, a raw, broken sound, as his release pulsed down Donghae’s throat. He felt every convulsive spurt, saw Donghae’s throat work to swallow, felt the vibration of a groan against his oversensitive flesh. Donghae didn’t pull away until he was soft and spent, licking him clean with rough, thorough passes of his tongue that made Hyukjae twitch and shudder.
Slowly, Donghae stood. His knees popped. He looked utterly debauched, lips swollen and wet, eyes dark with satisfaction. He licked his lips deliberately, catching a stray drop. “Now you’re ready,” he said, his voice hoarse.
He tucked Hyukjae, limp and compliant, back into his briefs and zipped the trousers with a gentleness that contradicted everything that had just happened. He smoothed the suit jacket, fixed the collar. In the mirror, Hyukjae looked perfect again. Except for the wildness in his eyes, the flush high on his cheeks.
Donghae turned him away from the mirror, cupping his face. “Look at me.”
Hyukjae did.
“No matter what happens out there, no matter who talks to you or what they say, you come back to me. This,” he pressed a kiss to Hyukjae’s mouth, tasting of salt and sex, “is the only thing that’s real. Everything else is just noise.”
Downstairs, the city lights began to sparkle like scattered diamonds against the deepening violet sky. A black car waited at the curb. Hyukjae adjusted his cufflinks, his fingers still trembling slightly. The phantom heat of Donghae’s mouth was a brand on his skin, a secret held beneath the fine wool.
Donghae slipped a hand into his, their fingers lacing together. “Ready?”
Hyukjae took a last look at their reflection in the penthouse’s dark glass—the heir and the hockey player, a picture of polished dichotomy. He squeezed Donghae’s hand, the anchor point in a rising sea of dread.
“Yeah,” he said, the word solid. “Let’s get this over with.”
The door closed behind them with a final, soft click, locking away the sanctuary of sweat and seed and whispered claims. The elevator descended, carrying them toward the glittering, judgmental world.
The elevator descended, carrying them toward the glittering, judgmental world. Hyukjae watched the floor numbers blink downward, feeling the ghost of Donghae’s throat on his cock like a phantom limb. The silence between them was thick, charged with the aftermath.
The gala was a symphony of sterile light and sharper whispers. Crystal glasses chimed. Hyukjae stood stiffly beside Donghae, a fixed, polite smile etched onto his face. He sipped champagne that tasted like cold metal. Every handshake felt like a contamination. He could feel the scrutiny, the unasked questions hanging in the perfumed air.
“The prodigy and his project,” an investor chuckled, clapping Donghae’s shoulder. Donghae’s laugh was smooth, effortless. His hand found the small of Hyukjae’s back, a possessive anchor. The touch burned through the wool suit, a brand that said mine.
Hyukjae’s jaw ached from clenching. He watched Donghae navigate the room, a shark in a sea of tuxedos. The charm was a weapon. Every smile was a calculated deflection. It was a different kind of game, one Hyukjae hated. He felt like a trophy on display, the rugged hockey player polished up for the heir’s collection.
During a lull, Donghae leaned in, his lips brushing Hyukjae’s ear. “You’re doing great. Just keep thinking about the closet.” His breath was warm. Hyukjae shivered, the memory a live wire down his spine. It was the only thing that felt real in the whole goddamn museum of vanity.
They left early. Donghae made excuses about morning practice, his hand never leaving Hyukjae’s arm. The ride back up in the elevator was silent. The tension was different now, a coiled spring waiting for release. Hyukjae felt stripped raw, every false smile and hollow compliment sitting like grime on his skin. He needed to scour it off. He needed something real, something furious and honest.
The penthouse was dark, quiet. Donghae tossed his keys onto the sideboard with a clatter. “Fucking vultures,” he muttered, loosening his tie. He turned, expecting to see Hyukjae already shedding his own armor, ready for a bruising, familiar collision.
The living room was empty.
“Hyukjae?”
A sliver of light bled from beneath Donghae’s bedroom door. He approached, a frown creasing his brow. He pushed the door open.
And stopped.
The room was lit by a single low lamp. Hyukjae stood by the bed, facing him. But it wasn’t Hyukjae. Not the Hyukjae he knew.
The sharp, angular captain was gone. In his place was a vision of deliberate, shocking contradiction. A sleek black gown of liquid satin hugged the narrow waist and flared over the hips, falling to the floor in a soft pool. Thin spaghetti straps held it up, revealing the sharp, familiar lines of his shoulders and collarbones. The fabric plunged in a deep V, held together by a delicate lace panel that did nothing to hide the flat, smooth plane of his chest.
But it was the details that stole the air from Donghae’s lungs. The subtle sweep of dark liner around Hyukjae’s guarded eyes. The gloss on his usually sneering mouth. And beneath the gown’s hem, a flash of sheer black stocking, secured by a lace garter.
Hyukjae didn’t smile. His expression was fierce, challenging, a dare etched in kohl and silk. It was the look he’d given Donghae across the ice right before a brutal check. This was no submissive offering. This was an ambush.
“What the hell?” Donghae breathed, the words barely audible.
“You like your things polished and pretty.” Hyukjae’s voice was low, unchanged, a gravelly rasp that clashed violently with the satin. “You like to put me in your armor.” He took a single step forward, the gown whispering. “So here I am. Unpacked.”
Donghae moved then, a predator closing distance. He stopped inches away, his eyes raking down the gown, then back up. His fingers, trembling slightly, touched the strap on Hyukjae’s shoulder. He traced it to the lace, his knuckles brushing the faint shadow of a nipple beneath. Hyukjae held his ground, his breath hitching.
“You did this?” Donghae asked, his voice rough.
“Who else?” Hyukjae’s chin lifted. “Waiting for you to come home and debauch me. Sir.”
The word, delivered in that tone, was a detonation. Donghae’s control snapped. He gripped the neckline of the gown and pulled. The delicate satin tore with a long, rending sound, baring Hyukjae to the waist. Underneath was more lace, a complicated harness of black that cinched his waist and framed his cock, already hard and curving up against the sheer fabric.
“Fuck,” Donghae snarled. He shoved Hyukjae backward onto the bed. Hyukjae landed with a gasp, the ruined gown pooling around him, the stockings and garters a stark black against the pale sheets. Donghae followed him down, knees on either side of his hips, hands ripping at the remaining lace. He tore it away, exposing all of him.
He didn’t kiss him. He stared, his eyes black with a frenzy Hyukjae had never seen. He palmed Hyukjae’s cock, his grip punishing. “You wear this,” he rasped, “you put this on for me, and you think this ends with gentle?” He spat into his own hand, slicking his length, then notched the head against Hyukjae’s hole. It was still loose and slick from the morning, from the memory in the closet.
Hyukjae spread his legs wider, hooking his stocking-clad heels behind Donghae’s thighs. “I didn’t ask for gentle,” he gritted out.
Donghae drove into him in one brutal, deep thrust. The force knocked a cry from Hyukjae’s throat. There was no more patience, no careful stretching. This was possession, raw and immediate. Donghae fucked him with a driving, desperate rhythm, the bed slamming against the wall. Each thrust made the torn satin rustle, made the garter straps bite into Hyukjae’s thighs.
“Look at you,” Donghae panted, his hands grabbing fistfuls of the gown and lace, using it to hold Hyukjae down as he plowed into him. “My fucking gorgeous, filthy princess. Ruining my bed in your pretty dress.” He leaned down, licking the gloss from Hyukjae’s mouth, biting his lower lip. “You win. You fucking win. I’m never letting you wear anything else.”
The obscenity of it, the clash of rough hands and delicate fabric, of growled words and shredded satin, coiled a spring deep in Hyukjae’s gut. His cock, trapped and leaking between their bodies, jerked. Donghae saw it. He wrapped a hand around him, his strokes rough and out of sync with his pounding hips, a chaotic overload of sensation.
“Come,” Donghae commanded, his voice breaking. “Come all over this ruined fucking dress.”
Hyukjae’s body arched, the orgasm tearing through him with a violence that matched Donghae’s thrusts. He came with a choked shout, streaks of white splattering the black satin across his stomach, onto the torn lace. The clenching of his body around Donghae’s cock was the final trigger.
Donghae buried himself to the hilt, his own cry raw and guttural as he emptied into Hyukjae, pulse after hot, claiming pulse. He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his elbows, his forehead pressed against Hyukjae’s shoulder. They lay there, wrecked and sticky, the scent of sex and torn fabric thick in the air.
Donghae turned his head, his lips moving against Hyukjae’s skin. “Marry me.”
The words were muffled, slurred with exhaustion and endorphins. Hyukjae, still floating in the aftermath, his body humming, felt the world tilt. He didn’t answer. He just tightened the leg still hooked around Donghae’s thigh, a silent, answering claim in the ruins of satin and lace.
He just tightened the leg still hooked around Donghae’s thigh, a silent, answering claim in the ruins of satin and lace.
The word, when it came, was scraped raw from a place Hyukjae didn’t know he could access. “Yes.”
Donghae went utterly still above him. He lifted his head, his eyes searching Hyukjae’s face for the joke, the lie. He found only a fierce, exhausted truth. The polished gala smile was gone. The hockey captain’s scowl was gone. All that remained was this naked want, reflected in the gloss smeared across his mouth.
“Say it again,” Donghae whispered, his voice cracking.
“Yes,” Hyukjae repeated, and it was easier the second time. He shoved at Donghae’s shoulder. “Now move. I’m not done.”
A wild, disbelieving laugh burst from Donghae. He rolled onto his back, his cock, still wet and half-hard, slapping against his stomach. Hyukjae didn’t give him a second to think. He straddled him, the torn satin of the gown bunching around his waist, the ruined lace harness dangling. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, slicked himself with two hurried strokes, and positioned himself over Donghae.
He didn’t sink down slowly. He impaled himself in one punishing drop, taking every inch in a single, breath-stealing plunge. His head fell back, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as he was filled, stretched, claimed all over again from the inside. The stretch burned beautifully.
“Fuck,” Donghae groaned, his hands flying to Hyukjae’s hips, fingers digging into the bone. “Jesus Christ, you feel—“
“Shut up.” Hyukjae planted his hands on Donghae’s chest for leverage. He began to move, a hard, grinding rhythm that was less about pleasure and more about consumption. He rode him with a punishing intensity, using his body like a weapon, driving Donghae deeper with every downward slam of his hips. The stockings rasped against Donghae’s thighs.
Sweat dripped from Hyukjae’s chin onto Donghae’s sternum. His body was a tight, aching bowstring. He looked down, his dark eyes blazing. “Suck my nips, baby.”
The filthy, commanding words in Hyukjae’s gravel voice short-circuited Donghae’s brain. He obeyed instantly, surging up to capture one peaked brown nipple in his mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking the bead, then bit down with just enough pressure to make Hyukjae cry out and clench around him. He switched to the other, lavishing it with the same rough, wet attention.
Hyukjae’s rhythm faltered, becoming more erratic, more desperate. The dual sensations—the deep, internal pounding and the sharp, electric pull on his nipples—were obliterating him. “Harder,” he panted, one hand fisting in Donghae’s hair, holding him to his chest. “Suck them harder, you bastard.”
Donghae did, sucking and biting until the skin was red and tender. He fell back onto the pillow, his lips wet and swollen, watching Hyukjae come apart above him. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he rasped. “My fiancé. Riding my cock in a torn dress. You own me. You know that?”
Hyukjae didn’t answer with words. His orgasm was building again, a tighter, sharper coil than before. He rode Donghae faster, his strokes becoming shorter, more frantic. The slapping of their flesh was loud in the quiet room. Donghae’s hands moved from his hips to grip his ass, spreading him open, helping him piston up and down.
“I’m gonna come,” Hyukjae warned, his voice broken.
“Do it,” Donghae growled, his own climax coiling at the base of his spine. “Come all over me. Mark me.”
With a final, shattered cry, Hyukjae did. His body locked, back arched, as his cock jerked, spilling streaks of white across Donghae’s stomach and chest. The violent clenching of his insides was all it took. Donghae shouted, his hips bucking off the bed as he emptied himself deep inside Hyukjae, his release hot and seemingly endless.
Hyukjae collapsed forward, his spent body draping over Donghae’s. They were a mess of sweat, come, and ruined fabric. Hyukjae’s cheek pressed against Donghae’s pounding heart. The scent of sex and Donghae’s cologne and torn threads was overwhelming.
For a long time, the only sound was their ragged breathing slowly synchronizing. The city’s lights painted shifting patterns on the ceiling.
Donghae’s hand came up, tracing the line of Hyukjae’s spine where the gown had torn completely open. “You meant it?” he asked, the vulnerability in his tone so stark it was painful.
Hyukjae turned his head, his lips brushing Donghae’s skin. “Yes.” He said it a third time, just to feel the shape of it. “But if you ever buy me a ring, I’m shoving it so far up your—“
Donghae’s laughter cut him off, a real, unvarnished sound that vibrated through both of them. He held Hyukjae tighter. “Noted.”
Outside, dawn was still hours away. The gala was a distant, hateful dream. Here, in the wreckage of silk and promise, something new and terrifyingly solid had clicked into place. Hyukjae closed his eyes. He could feel Donghae’s cock, soft now, still nestled inside him. A possessive anchor. His.