Chapter 19: Penthouse Surrender
The silence in Donghae’s penthouse was a living thing, thick and humming, broken only by the click of the door and the frantic scrape of their boots on the polished floor. Hyukjae didn’t let go of Donghae’s jacket, propelling him backwards until his legs hit the low edge of the sprawling white leather sofa. Donghae’s smirk was already forming, a reflexive mask, but Hyukjae saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Good.
Hyukjae didn’t speak. Words had abandoned him the moment they’d left the sterile glare of the arena, replaced by a scrambling, feverish need. He needed to obliterate the weight of the teammates’ stares, the phantom scent of bleach and cum, the echoing doubt in his sister’s voice. He needed the one thing that made sense, the one brutal, perfect truth they’d forged with their bodies.
He shoved Donghae down onto the couch and dropped to his knees between his spread legs.
“Hyukjae—” Donghae’s attempt at control, at a question, died in a sharp gasp as Hyukjae’s fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, then the button of his jeans. He didn’t tease. He yanked the fabric down, freeing Donghae’s cock, which was already half-hard, responding to the violence in Hyukjae’s touch.
Hyukjae leaned forward and took him into his mouth in one fluid, desperate motion.
The taste was familiar—salt, skin, a faint echo of soap. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard, his tongue pressing insistently along the underside. He heard Donghae groan above him, a raw, unfiltered sound. Fingers tunneled into his hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“Fuck,” Donghae breathed, his hips lifting off the couch. “You come in here like a storm and just… god…”
Hyukjae ignored him, losing himself in the rhythm. He bobbed his head, taking him deeper with each pass, ignoring the ache in his jaw, the tears that welled in his eyes as he pushed past his own limit. This wasn’t about pleasure, not really. It was about consumption. It was about claiming. If he could swallow this man whole, he could quiet everything else.
He gagged, pulled back with a wet sound, and gasped for air, spit-slick and messy. He didn’t pause. He looked up, meeting Donghae’s burning, dark gaze. “I missed you,” he choked out, the words ragged and utterly sincere. He hadn’t missed him; they’d just been together. But he’d missed this—the obliterating focus, the territory where no one else existed.
Before Donghae could answer, Hyukjae dove back down, taking him to the root. Donghae’s entire body tightened. His thighs tensed against Hyukjae’s shoulders.
“I’m gonna—” Donghae’s warning was a strangled thread. His hand fisted in Hyukjae’s hair, holding him still as his hips stuttered up. Hyukjae felt the first hot pulse hit the back of his throat. He swallowed, once, twice, until Donghae was spent, softening in his mouth.
He stayed there for a moment, forehead resting against Donghae’s thigh, breathing heavily. The room came back in pieces: the vast cityscape twinkling beyond the glass, the low hum of the refrigerator, the ragged sound of Donghae’s breathing.
Gentle fingers touched his chin, guiding his face up. Donghae looked wrecked, his lips parted, his eyes soft with something terrifying. Hyukjae braced for a smirk, a cocky remark.
It didn’t come.
“I’m sorry,” Hyukjae whispered, the confession torn from a place he usually kept boarded up.
Donghae’s expression didn’t change. He just leaned down, cupped Hyukjae’s face, and kissed him. It was deep and slow, a tasting. Hyukjae could taste himself on Donghae’s tongue, the bitter tang of his own desperation. When Donghae pulled back, he swiped his thumb over Hyukjae’s swollen bottom lip.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Donghae said, his voice low. “But I’m not done with you.”
In one fluid movement, he stood, pulling Hyukjae up with him. He spun him around, facing the back of the sofa. Hyukjae’s hands landed on the cool leather. He heard the tear of a foil packet, the slick sound of lube. Then Donghae’s hands were on his hips, yanking his jeans and briefs down to his thighs in one rough pull. The cold air kissed his skin.
Donghae didn’t prepare him. He positioned himself, the broad, slick head of his cock nudging against Hyukjae’s entrance.
“Breathe out,” Donghae murmured, his mouth against the shell of Hyukjae’s ear.
Hyukjae exhaled, and Donghae pushed in.
It was a sharp, breathtaking stretch. Hyukjae gritted his teeth, a low groan ripped from his chest as he was filled, inch by relentless inch. There was no gentleness, only a profound, overwhelming possession. When Donghae was fully sheathed, he went perfectly still, his body a hot, solid line against Hyukjae’s back.
“Tell me,” Donghae whispered, his breath hot. “Tell me who you belong to.”
Hyukjae’s fingers curled into the leather. “You.” The word was a surrender and a victory.
Donghae pulled out almost completely and slammed back in. The force drove Hyukjae forward, his cheek pressed against the couch. Donghae set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a jolt that traveled up Hyukjae’s spine. The sound was obscene: skin slapping against skin, their combined grunts, the creak of the sofa frame.
One of Donghae’s hands snaked around Hyukjae’s front, wrapping around his aching cock. His strokes were ruthless, perfectly timed with the deep drive of his hips. Pleasure coiled, tight and urgent, at the base of Hyukjae’s spine.
“You feel that?” Donghae growled, his teeth grazing Hyukjae’s shoulder blade. “You feel how deep I am in you? This is where I live. This tight, perfect heat. My home.” He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand. “You’re mine. In that fucking locker room, in this apartment, on the ice. Mine.”
The words, the claiming, the brutal, physical proof of it, shattered the last of Hyukjae’s control. His orgasm tore through him with a silent, seismic violence. He came over Donghae’s fist, his body clamping down hard around the cock still pistoning inside him. The waves seemed endless, wracking him, leaving him trembling and blind.
Donghae hissed, his rhythm faltering. “Yeah, take it, take all of it,” he chanted, his thrusts turning shallow, frantic. With a final, deep grind, he stilled, his body bowing over Hyukjae’s as he emptied himself, a hot flood that made Hyukjae feel impossibly full.
They collapsed together onto the sofa, a tangled, sweating heap. Hyukjae’s jeans were trapped around his knees, Donghae’s were down his thighs, and neither moved to fix it. Donghae’s arm was a heavy weight across Hyukjae’s stomach, his face buried in the crook of his neck. Their breathing slowly synced.
The city lights blurred outside the window.
“My sister called while you were driving,” Hyukjae said into the quiet. His voice was hoarse.
Donghae went still. “And?”
“She asked if I was sure.” Hyukjae closed his eyes. “She asked if you were good to me.”
Donghae lifted his head. He looked young, his hair mussed, his lips kiss-swollen. The predator was gone, replaced by something painfully open. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her you were a selfish, obsessive bastard.” Hyukjae turned his head, meeting his gaze. “And that you’re the only thing that has ever felt completely right.”
Donghae’s breath hitched. He leaned in and kissed him, a soft, lingering press of lips that tasted of sweat and salt and truth. When he pulled back, his eyes were shining. “We’ll have her over. Dinner. I’ll cook. I’ll be… charming.”
“You’re always charming.”
“I’ll be sincere,” Donghae corrected, his thumb tracing Hyukjae’s jaw. “For you.”
Hyukjae nodded, a strange, fragile hope unfolding in his chest. Then a darker thought surfaced. “The team… they know.”
“Let them.” Donghae’s voice gained its edge again. “I’m tired of pretending you’re just another player to me.”
“It changes things.”
“Everything already changed,” Donghae said simply. He shifted, pulling Hyukjae more firmly against him. “Now we just stop hiding it.”
Outside, a siren wailed, distant and fading. Hyukjae watched a plane’s light crawl across the night sky. The world was still out there, with its judgments and its rules. But here, in the wreckage of this leather couch, sticky with the proof of their collision, it held no power. Donghae’s breathing evened out into sleep. Hyukjae stayed awake, listening to it, mapping the weight of the arm around him.
He had skated on a razor’s edge his whole life—control versus chaos, duty versus desire. He had just let himself fall, fully, into the chaos. And for the first time, the air didn’t feel like a void beneath him.
It felt like something solid. It felt like arms.