Chapter 17: Strawberry-Stained Submission
The aphrodisiac left a metallic taste in his mouth for two days. A phantom buzz lingered in his nerves, a ghost of the hyper-sensation that had left him drained and strangely empty even as he’d satisfied her. Gabby had been languid, satiated, smiling in her sleep. Hyukjae had stared at the ceiling, his hand on her belly, feeling the kick against his palm like a distant echo.
Now, a week later, the memory was a smudge on the lens, blurred by routine and his own quiet determination to outrun it. Practice was brutal, a salvation of sweat and screaming muscles. He welcomed the burn in his lungs, the familiar sting of his shins, the coach’s yelled critiques. Here, everything was clear. Pass, move, shoot. Simple.
He arrived at her penthouse sweaty and tired, the city lights below the elevator already painting the sky a deep indigo. The scent hit him first as the doors opened: jasmine, vanilla, something rich and buttery. Not her usual perfume. Something… edible.
The dining room was a scene from a magazine, or a dream. The long mahogany table, usually pristine and empty, was set for a siege. Crystal glasses caught the low light of the chandelier. Silver gleamed. And in the center, on a vast platter, a mountain of whipped cream crowned with a cascade of perfect, glistening red strawberries.
Gabby stood at the head of the table, wearing only the light from the windows. Her pregnant body was a sublime curve against the urban glow, her skin luminous. She held two strawberries, their stems between her fingers like decadent jewels.
“You’re late,” she said, but her smile was slow, inviting.
“Practice ran long,” he said, dropping his bag by the door. He felt underdressed in his grimy training gear, an intruder in this scene of opulence.
“Take a shower,” she instructed, nodding toward the hallway. “Then come back. I have a present for you.”
The present, he thought, was clearly her. But the shower washed away the day’s grime, not the low hum of anxiety. He returned wearing just a pair of soft cotton pants, his hair damp.
The table had been transformed. The platter was now centered directly under the chandelier. Gabby was seated on the edge, one leg hooked over the polished wood. She had dipped a strawberry into the whipped cream and was slowly, deliberately, dragging it down the slope of her breast.
“Come here, Hyukjae,” she said, her voice a throaty command.
He obeyed, drawn across the Persian rug. Up close, the cream was stark against her skin, beading in the fine hairs. She lifted the strawberry to his mouth. He took it, the sweet tartness bursting on his tongue, the cream cold and rich.
“Good?” she murmured.
He nodded, swallowing.
“My turn.” She picked up another berry, loaded it with cream, and placed it between her own teeth, leaning forward. He met her halfway, his lips closing over the fruit and her mouth simultaneously. The kiss was sticky, sweet, charged.
When they parted, she lay back on the table. The wood was cool and smooth against her skin. “Sit,” she said, pointing to the chair at the head of the table.
He sat. His view was unobstructed. The entire length of her body was before him, a feast under the golden light. Her thighs were parted, a dark, inviting shadow at their apex. She took the bowl of whipped cream and, without ceremony, upended it over her lower belly and pelvis.
He inhaled sharply. The cream was shockingly white against her skin and the dark thatch of her pubic hair. It pooled in the hollows of her hips, clung to her curls, a decadent, melting mess.
“Happy birthday,” she whispered, her eyes locked on his.
“It’s not my birthday,” he said, his voice rough.
“It is today.” She spread her legs wider, the cream oozing. “Now eat your present.”
The command seared through him. All thought, all hesitation, was incinerated in a flash of pure, desperate want. He pushed the chair back, the legs scraping loudly on the hardwood, and dropped to his knees before the table.
He didn’t start gently. He buried his face between her thighs, his tongue carving a wide, urgent path through the cold sweetness. The cream was cloying, the salt of her skin beneath it intoxicating. He licked and sucked, cleaning her belly, her hips, his movements frantic. He found a stray strawberry caught in her curls and crushed it with his teeth, the juice mixing with the cream.
She was panting, her hands fisting in his hair. “Yes,” she hissed. “Like that. Get it all.”
He pushed deeper, his nose nudging through the sticky mess to find her core. Her scent, musky and utterly her, cut through the cloying sweetness. He zeroed in on it, his tongue flattening against her slit, lapping away the last of the cream to reveal her glistening, swollen flesh.
“Fuck,” she groaned, her back arching off the table. “Your tongue…”
He needed more. He hooked his arms under her thighs, pulling her body to the very edge of the table, her ass half-off the wood. He dove in. His mouth sealed over her cunt, his tongue spearing inside her. She was soaked, hotter than any bath, and she clenched around the intrusion with a desperate, pulsing rhythm.
“Deeper,” she begged, her heels digging into his back. “God, fuck, eat me like you’re starving.”
He was. He felt ravenous, a hollowed-out thing only she could fill. He fucked her with his tongue, hard and deep, the obscene, wet sounds filling the quiet, elegant room. He found her clit, a hard, desperate pearl, and sucked it fiercely.
Her cry was raw, shattered. “There! Right there, don’t stop, I’m gonna—”
He didn’t stop. He redoubled his efforts, his jaw aching, his world narrowing to the taste of her, the feel of her climax tightening around his tongue, the high, broken sounds she made. Her orgasm broke over her in violent waves, her body bucking against his face, her cream mingling with his saliva and the last remnants of the dessert.
Still, he didn’t let up. He drank her down, gentling his mouth to lap softly at her oversensitive flesh as she shuddered and whimpered above him.
Slowly, her grip on his hair loosened. Her breathing began to slow. He rested his forehead against her inner thigh, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. The taste of her and the strawberries was a mad, heady mix on his lips.
She lifted her head, looking down at him. Her eyes were dark, sated. “Stand up,” she breathed.
He stood, his knees protesting. His erection strained painfully against his pants. She reached for him, her fingers deftly untying the drawstring, freeing him. He was throbbing, flushed.
“My turn,” she said again, but this time her voice held a different weight. She slid off the table, her body slick and gleaming. She turned her back to him, bending forward, bracing her hands on the mahogany surface. “Fuck me from behind. I want to see the city.”
The view was devastating. The perfect, creamy curve of her ass, still streaked with whipped cream, offered up to him. The neon skyline sprawled beyond the windows, a silent audience. He stepped forward, his hand guiding himself to her entrance. She was so wet, so open from his mouth and her climax. He pushed in with one slow, inexorable stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
They both groaned, a unified sound of relief and raw need. He gripped her hips, his fingers pressing into her flesh, and began to move. The pace was deep, driving, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin. The table rocked slightly with their momentum.
“Harder,” she demanded, pushing back against him. “Give it all to me.”
He obeyed, his hips pistoning, the force of his drives pushing her hands to slide on the polished wood. He was chasing his own peak now, the tight, hot clutch of her pushing him toward the edge. The cream on her skin smeared between them, a lewd lubricant.
“You feel so fucking good,” he grunted, the words torn from him. “So perfect.”
“It’s all for you,” she gasped, throwing a glance over her shoulder, her eyes wild. “This cunt is yours. This ass is yours. All of it. Now come in me. I want it.”
Her words, filthy and possessive, undid him. His control snapped. With a final, brutal thrust, he slammed into her and held there, his release erupting in hot, pulsing waves. He cried out, a sound of pure, unvarnished release, his body trembling as he emptied himself inside her.
He stayed there, buried, leaning over her as they both caught their breath. The city lights twinkled, indifferent. Slowly, he pulled out, a mix of their fluids and the remnants of cream slicking her thighs. She straightened slowly, wincing slightly, a satisfied smile on her lips.
She turned and leaned back against the ruined table, surveying him. Her eyes dropped to his softened cock, glistening with her. “See?” she said softly, reaching out to stroke his cheek, her thumb smearing a fleck of cream. “You don’t need anything else. Just you is enough.”
The words were meant to comfort, to absolve. But as he looked at the debauched, beautiful scene—the wrecked table, the scattered strawberries, the evidence of their passion dripping down her legs—he felt a cold knot in his stomach. She saw his doubt as a need for reassurance. She didn’t see it as a premonition.
He forced a smile, pulling her into a sticky, sweet embrace. “You’re all I need, noona,” he whispered into her hair, the lie tasting of strawberries and fear.