Chapter 1: Drunken Domination in the Penthouse
The penthouse was quiet now, a hollowed-out shell echoing with the ghost of a party. Empty bottles stood like fallen sentinels on the smoked glass tables, and the air clung to notes of expensive whiskey and spilled champagne. One crystal glass lay shattered on the rug, its pieces catching the low light from the city sprawling beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Yoongi sprawled across the vast black velvet sofa, his silk robe hanging open. The defined lines of his torso, usually so controlled, were relaxed into the plush fabric. His head was tipped back, sharp jaw slack, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest at some forgotten joke. The professional composure was gone, stripped away by the night, leaving something rawer beneath.
Ashley watched him from beside the sofa, her arms crossed. The ink on her right arm—a delicate lattice of wings and script—seemed to shift in the dim light as she flexed her hand. Her long pink hair was a soft cascade over her shoulder.
“You’re a mess,” she said, but a smirk played on her lips. “World-famous Min Yoongi, reduced to a giggling puddle.”
He turned his head, his dark eyes finding hers. They were hazy, unfocused, but then they sharpened, tracking the line of her neck down to the V of her silk camisole. The laughter died in his throat. The shift in the room was immediate, the temperature climbing several degrees.
“Come here,” he said. His voice was a graveled command, no request in it.
“You need water. And aspirin. Not whatever you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking,” he said, pushing himself up onto his elbows, the robe falling open completely, “that you’re standing too far away.” He patted the space next to him on the sofa. The gesture was utterly confident, possessive. “Now.”
She raised a brow, holding her ground. Teasing him was a game, one she usually controlled. “Or what? You’ll sing at me?”
In a movement surprisingly fluid for his state, he unfolded himself from the sofa and stood. He was taller, his presence suddenly filling the spacious room. The city lights from behind painted a halo around his disheveled hair, but his expression was all shadow, all intent. He closed the distance between them in two slow strides, the silence thick enough to taste.
“Or,” he murmured, his breath warm and smelling of juniper and spice against her cheek, “I’ll bring you here myself.”
His hand came up, fingers brushing her jaw, then threading into her hair at the nape of her neck. The grip wasn’t harsh, but it was unyielding, anchoring her. A shiver, unbidden, traveled down her spine.
“Yoongi…” she started, her voice weaker than she intended.
“You liked teasing me,” he observed, his other hand landing on her hip, thumb stroking the bare skin above her waistband. “All night. Smiling with your friends. Letting that guy from the label talk to you for twenty minutes.” His gaze dipped to her lips. “You think I don’t see it?”
“It was a party. I was being social.”
“You were being mine,” he corrected, his voice dropping to a low hum that vibrated through her. “And now the party’s over.”
He used the hand in her hair to tilt her face up, studying her as if she were a complex equation he’d just solved. The drunken haze was still there, but it had coalesced into a single, burning focus. Her. The defiance in her eyes seemed to amuse him. He leaned in, his lips a millimeter from hers, waiting.
She could feel the heat coming off him, the solid wall of his chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a traitorous rhythm. She placed a hand on his chest, a feeble barrier. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m perfect,” he said, and closed the distance.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claim, deep and searching, all tongue and teeth and the bitter-sweet taste of the night. He kissed her like he was trying to consume the very air from her lungs. Her hand on his chest clenched, the silk of his robe soft under her fingers. A small sound escaped her, part protest, part something else entirely.
He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d started it, leaving her breathless. His eyes gleamed with dark triumph. “See?” he said, his thumb brushing her wet bottom lip. “You missed me, too.”
Before she could form a retort, his arm hooked behind her knees and he lifted her. She gasped, her own arms flying around his neck for balance. He carried her the few steps back to the sofa and deposited her not on the cushions, but onto the thick rug, following her down so his body caged hers against the soft pile.
The city was a dizzying tapestry of light through the windows above them. He loomed over her, one knee between hers, his hands pinning her wrists to the floor beside her head. The velvet of the sofa was a dark wall behind him.
“Yoongi, stop,” she said, but the command had no force. It was a whisper.
“You don’t want me to stop,” he said, certainty absolute in his tone. He lowered his head, nuzzling the sensitive spot below her ear, his lips traveling down the column of her throat. “You want to remember who you belong to. All night, you made me wait. Now you wait. You take what I give you.”
His teeth grazed her collarbone, not hard, but with enough pressure to make her gasp. He released one of her wrists, his hand sliding down her side, over the curve of her hip, gathering the thin silk of her camisole. He tugged it up, exposing her stomach, the lace edge of her bra. His palm was hot against her skin.
“My little tease,” he murmured against her breast, his breath searing through the lace. “My beautiful, frustrating little secret.” His eyes locked with hers, the playfulness gone, replaced by a intensity that was almost frightening. “Tell me you’re mine.”
She swallowed, the words stuck. This was the game’s end, the point where her teasing met his immutable will. The air crackled. His thumb stroked the inside of her thigh, a promise and a threat.
“Say it.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears, louder than any party beat. The world had narrowed to his weight, his scent, his demanding gaze. She opened her mouth, a surrender on her tongue.
The sudden, sharp buzz of a phone on the glass table above them cut through the silence like a shard of ice.
Yoongi froze, his body tensing above hers. The spell didn’t break so much as fracture, a web of cracks spreading through the moment. His eyes, still dark with desire, flicked toward the sound—a professional reflex drilled in by years of relentless schedules.
It buzzed again, insistent, vibrating against the surface.
A low growl escaped him, a sound of pure frustration. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, his breath coming in a hot, ragged wave against her skin. For a handful of seconds, he didn’t move, suspended between the world he was building beneath him and the one that was calling.
He pushed himself up on one arm, his other hand still splayed possessively on her waist. He looked from her flushed face to the glowing phone, and back again. The conflict was raw in his eyes.
The buzzing stopped. A second of pure, heavy silence descended.
Then, it started again.