Chapter 2: The sheer desperation between them explodes as Jungkook fucks Karolina raw in his closet, both of them straining to stay silent while his bandmates laugh just meters away, their sweat making the silk garments stick to their skin.
He closed the apartment door softly behind her, the latch clicking with a sound of terrible finality. The laughter from his living room was too loud, a jarring counterpoint to the silence in his head. He stood there for a long moment, forehead against the cool wood, feeling the ghost of her body against his, the slick heat of her still on his skin beneath his sweats.
“Jungkook-ah! The soju is open!” Taehyung’s voice, bright and oblivious, cut through the haze.
He pushed off the door. The harness—her harness—bit into his shoulders. He walked back into the dressing room, his reflection in the mirror a stranger: disheveled, lips swollen, eyes dark with unspent frustration. He looked… used. And he wanted to be used again. Immediately.
With methodical, almost violent movements, he unbuckled the leather straps, letting the harness fall in a heap on the velvet chair. He pulled on a clean black t-shirt, hiding the marks, the evidence. He took three deep, steadying breaths. He fixed his face into the easy, boyish smile he wore like armor. Then he walked out to his friends.
They were sprawled on his massive sectional, a low table littered with fried chicken boxes and open bottles. The huge windows behind them framed a dizzying view of Seoul’s nocturnal glitter.
“Took you long enough,” Jimin said, his eyes sharp and knowing over the rim of his soju glass. He didn’t miss much. “Get the fit right?”
“It’s perfect,” Jungkook said, his voice carefully light. He dropped onto the couch, accepting the bottle Taehyung handed him. He took a long, burning swallow, willing the alcohol to dull the edges, to quiet the phantom feel of her on his lap, around him.
They talked. They laughed. They played a few rounds of a loud, stupid mobile game. Jungkook’s body was there, responding on cue, but his mind was a rerun of sensations: the taste of her neck, the sound she made when he first pushed inside, the sheer, unbridled wrongness of it that felt more right than anything had in months.
A vibration buzzed against the coffee table. His phone lit up. Winter 💕 flashed on the screen, accompanied by a cute selfie of her with her dog.
The guilt arrived then, cold and slick. It coiled in his gut alongside the heat Karolina had left there. He stared at the screen. Winter had texted an hour ago: “Can’t wait for our date tomorrow! Sleep well my ♥️”
He hadn’t answered.
Jimin, following his gaze, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The conversation flowed around him, but Jungkook was sinking. He saw Karolina’s face as she left—not hurt, not guilty, but hungry. Determined. “This isn’t over.”
It couldn’t be. The thought was a compulsion.
He stood up abruptly. “I need to piss.”
Taehyung, mid-story about a variety show mishap, waved him off without breaking stride.
Jungkook didn’t go to the bathroom. He walked down the hall, past the dressing room door, to the very end where his master bedroom suite lay. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, but didn’t turn on the light. The city glow painted the room in shades of cobalt and shadow. He went straight to his walk-in closet, a space as large as a small apartment, lined with racks of immaculate clothing, shelves of sneakers, a island of jewelry cases.
He pulled out his phone. His fingers moved before his brain could catch up.
Where are you.
He sent it. No context. Just the demand.
The three blinking dots appeared almost instantly.
In the taxi. Going home.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
Turn around.
A long pause. The dots blinked. Stopped. Blinked again.
Why.
You know why.
Another pause. Then:
Your friends.
They’re drunk. They’ll pass out soon. They won’t know.
He was bargaining with the devil, and he didn’t care. He needed her back in this room, under his hands, under his mouth. He needed to finish what they started, to erase the polite facade of the last hour, to feel real again, even if it was in the worst possible way.
Come to the service entrance. The code is 0910. I’ll meet you.
He waited, staring at the screen, the light bleaching his face in the dark closet. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.
10 minutes.
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
He paced the closet, a caged animal. He straightened a row of jackets for something to do. He listened to the muffled sounds of Jimin’s loud laugh from the living room. His phone buzzed again.
I’m here.
He moved like a ghost through his own apartment. He grabbed a hoodie from a hook, pulling it up over his head. He slipped out the kitchen entrance, down a back hallway, and into the sterile, concrete service corridor. The heavy door hissed shut behind him.
She was there, leaning against the gray wall under a harsh fluorescent light, wearing the same clothes from earlier. She looked smaller. Real. Her eyes met his, wide and dark, all pretense gone.
Without a word, he grabbed her wrist, his grip firm, and pulled her back through the door, down the hall, into the bedroom, and finally into the deep, sound-absorbing darkness of the walk-in closet. He closed the door silently.
They were enveloped in near-total blackness, the only light a sliver from under the door. The air was still, cool, and smelled of cedar and clean cotton. He could hear the faint, rapid sound of her breathing.
He pushed her against the door, his body pinning hers. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked down at her shadowed face.
“Tell me to leave,” he whispered, his voice rough.
“No,” she breathed back.
That was all he needed. His mouth crashed down on hers, a claiming, desperate kiss that was all teeth and searching tongue. It was nothing like before. There was no slow burn, no exploration. This was pure need, a floodgate breaking. Her hands came up to claw at his back, pulling him impossibly closer.
He broke the kiss only to yank her shirt over her head. He unhooked her bra with a sharp, practiced flick of his fingers. His mouth found her breast, his tongue laving her nipple before he sucked it hard into his mouth. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the clothes and the door.
“Quiet,” he growled against her skin, his hand coming up to cover her mouth. “You have to be quiet.”
She nodded, her eyes glinting in the dark. He turned her around, facing the door, and pushed her forward until she was bent at the waist, her palms flat against the wood. He shoved her jeans and underwear down to her knees in one rough motion. He didn't bother taking them off.
He fumbled with his own sweatpants, pushing them down just enough to free himself. He was already painfully hard. He spat into his hand, slicking himself roughly, the sound crude in the quiet. He lined himself up with her entrance, the head pressing against her wet heat.
“You’re sure?” he asked, one last thread of restraint.
Her answer was to push back against him, taking the tip inside. A choked gasp escaped her, muffled by her own arm.
He needed no further invitation. He drove into her in one deep, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. She was tight, slick, hotter than he remembered. A guttural groan ripped from his throat. He paused, shuddering, feeling her walls clench around him.
Then he started to move.
He set a punishing pace from the first, his hips slamming into her with a force that rocked her whole body forward against the door. Each thrust was a punctuation mark in the dark, a furious, frantic rhythm. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the wet, obscene slap of skin on skin, and the soft rustle of a thousand-dollar suits on the rack next to them swaying with the impact.
“Fuck,” he gritted out, one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, the other braced against the door beside her head. “Fucking… so good.”
She was pushing back against him, meeting every thrust, a low, continuous moan vibrating in her throat. His hand left her hip and snaked around her front, diving between her legs. His fingers found her clit, already swollen and sensitive. He rubbed rough, urgent circles as he fucked her, the angle allowing him deeper penetration.
“Come on,” he snarled in her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Come on my cock. Do it.”
The dual assault was too much. Her body tightened, coiled, and then shattered. She convulsed around him, a silent scream locked behind her clenched teeth, her back arching as the orgasm ripped through her. The fierce, pulsing contractions of her inner muscles pushed him over the edge.
With a final, ragged thrust, he buried himself deep and came, a hot, claiming rush. A raw, torn sound escaped his lips as he emptied into her, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades, his body shuddering with the force of it.
They stayed like that for a long minute, joined, leaning against the door, their sweat cooling in the chilled air. His breath fogged against her skin.
Slowly, reality bled back in. The faint scent of her perfume mixed with sex and cedar. The distant, tinny sound of music from the living room. The ache in his knees from the stance.
He pulled out gently. The soft sound made her flinch. He straightened, pulling his sweatpants up. She stayed bent over, her head hanging, her jeans still around her knees. He reached out, his hand finding her shoulder. It was trembling.
“Karolina,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She stood up slowly, wincing, pulling her underwear and jeans up with clumsy hands. She turned, leaning back against the door, her face pale in the gloom. She looked wrecked. Beautifully, completely wrecked.
He cupped her face. He expected her to pull away. She didn’t. She leaned into his touch, her eyes closed.
“That can’t happen again,” she whispered, but the words had no conviction.
“I know,” he lied, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.
From the other room, a sudden burst of louder laughter, followed by the thud of a falling pillow. The real world, with its friendships and obligations, was just outside the door.
He found her shirt and bra, handing them to her silently. They dressed in the dark, the act intimate in a different, quieter way. When she was put back together—or as together as one could be after that—she looked at him. Her lip was slightly swollen. Her hair was a mess.
“I have to go,” she said.
He nodded. He wanted to tell her to stay. He wanted to pull her into his bed, wrap himself around her, and sleep for a thousand years. He said nothing.
He led her back through the silent apartment. Taehyung was asleep on the couch, mouth open. Jimin was scrolling on his phone in the armchair. He looked up as they passed, his eyes tracking from Jungkook’s tense face to Karolina’s hastily smoothed hair. His expression didn’t change, but his gaze was understanding, and faintly sad.
Jimin said nothing. Just gave a slow, barely perceptible nod.
Jungkook led Karolina to the service entrance. He paused with his hand on the door handle.
“Tomorrow,” he said, not looking at her. “The shoot for ‘Luxury.’ At the warehouse.”
“I’ll be there,” she said. Her professional voice was back, a thin veneer over everything that had just happened. “Your first look is at seven.”
He opened the door. She slipped out into the concrete corridor without looking back. He watched her go until she turned the corner, then closed the door, locking her out and himself in.
He walked back to the living room. Jimin was still watching him.
“She forget something?” Jimin asked softly.
“Yeah,” Jungkook said, his voice hollow. “Something.”
He picked up the soju bottle and took a long, deep drink. It didn’t touch the fire, or the ice, in his gut. His phone, sitting silent on the table, suddenly buzzed. Another message from Winter.
“Goodnight my love 😘 Dream of me.”
He put the bottle down, the glass clicking hard against the wood. He looked at the message, then at the closed door to the service entrance, then at Jimin’s knowing eyes.
The harness, the symbol of his “Luxury,” lay discarded on the velvet chair in the other room. He felt like he was wearing it again, the straps tightening with every breath, a beautiful, suffocating cage of his own making. And he had just invited someone else inside to see the lock from the wrong side.
The harness stayed on the velvet chair. Jungkook left it there like a crime scene. He didn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling until the neon bleed from the window faded into a dull, grim dawn. The smell of her was still on his skin.
He showered until the water ran cold, scrubbing hard. It didn’t help. His body felt branded. His mind was a scratched record, stuck on the gasp she’d made when he entered her in the dark, the animal truth of it.
Jimin and a groggy Taehyung left just after five with few words, a heavy understanding hanging in the air between them. The apartment was achingly silent after the door closed. He made coffee he didn’t drink. His phone buzzed—manager updates, Winter’s cheerful good morning text. He typed out a bland reply, his thumbs feeling clumsy and false.
The ‘Luxury’ video shoot was in a converted industrial warehouse in Mullae-dong. Jungkook arrived in a black van, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky. He was all performer now, all focus. He could compartmentalize. He had to.
The set was a controlled chaos of scaffolding, kino flo lights, and a crew in black shirts scurrying like ants. The central concept was decayed opulence: a massive, gutted grand piano, velvet chaise lounges with stuffing leaking out, mountains of fake roses already wilting under the heat of the lights.
And there she was.
Karolina stood near the principle rack of costumes, her back to the entrance, discussing something with the head of makeup. She was wearing a simple linen shirt and wide-leg trousers, a tape measure draped around her neck like a noose. Just seeing the line of her shoulders, the knot of her bun at the nape of her neck, sent a jolt through his system. His mouth went dry.
She turned, as if sensing him. Their eyes met across thirty feet of concrete floor. A glass lens of professional detachment slid over her face, but it cracked immediately. A flush crept up her throat. She looked away first, pretending to scrutinize a garment bag.
This was the plan. This was the punishment. Proximity without touch.
“Jungkook-ssi! Welcome!” The director, a famously intense man named Park, clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re starting with the solo sequences at the piano. Go get into Look One.”
Look One was her creation. A deconstructed silk shirt, sheer black, worn open over the same leather harness from the fitting, paired with tailored trousers that were artfully torn at the knees. He was led to his private dressing tent. Karolina followed, carrying the garments, her eyes fixed on the floor.
The tent was too small, too warm. It was just him, her, and a rack of clothes. The attendant who usually helped had been called away. The silence was a physical thing, thick and humming.
“You can hang them there,” he said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
She nodded, not looking at him. She moved to hang the shirt. Her hand was trembling. Just a slight, almost imperceptible shake. She fumbled the hanger. It clattered to the metal rack.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, her voice tight.
“It’s fine.”
She went for the trousers next. As she lifted them, a heavy, jeweled belt attached to the look slipped from its loop. The metallic crash on the concrete floor made them both jump. She bent quickly to retrieve it, her movements rushed and graceless.
“Shit,” she whispered under her breath, a Polish curse following.
He said nothing. He just watched her, this usually unflappable woman, come unraveled over a belt. He knew why. The knowledge was a dark, possessive thrill in his gut. He had done this. The memory of him was in her head, in her hands, making them stupid.
She finally got the outfit organized. “It’s all here. I’ll… send in the noona to help you dress.”
“You can help me,” he said, quietly.
She froze. “That’s not… my job. Not today.”
“It is today. I want it to be you.”
She finally looked at him then, a flash of anger and panic in her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what? Asking my stylist to dress me?” He kept his tone flat, innocent.
She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Fine. Turn around.”
He turned, presenting his back. He heard her step closer, felt her fingers at the hem of his t-shirt. She pulled it up over his head. Her knuckles brushed the skin of his back, just above his waistband. A full-body shudder ran through her. He felt it in the air between them.
She was clumsy. Her fingers, so sure and professional just days ago, fumbled with the buckles of the harness. She couldn’t get the central clasp to seat properly. He heard her frustrated little breaths behind him.
“It’s not your day today, girl,” she muttered to herself, repeating something a crew member must have said.
Little did they know. The thought was a scream in his head. Little did they know it was his presence that did it all. The memory of him fucking her from behind, of her cries muffled against his closet door, was etched into her brain. That was all she could think about. It was all he could think about.
“Let me,” he said softly. He reached back, his hands covering hers on the buckle. Her skin was ice cold. Together, they clicked it shut. The leather pulled tight across his chest, a familiar embrace.
She jerked her hands away as if burned. “The shirt.”
He faced her again as she held out the sheer silk. He slid his arms in, the cool fabric whispering over his skin. She stepped in to do the buttons at the cuffs. She was staring fixedly at his wrist, at the tiny tattoos there, but her gaze was unfocused. Her breathing was shallow.
Her fingers worked the first button. Then the second. At the third, near his inner elbow, her thumb slipped, brushing the sensitive skin. She flinched, her whole hand pulling back.
“Sorry,” she said again, the word a strained record.
“Stop saying sorry.” His own voice was low, a thread of tension running through it. He caught her hand. Not hard. Just a capture. Her pulse hammered wildly under his thumb.
She looked up at him, finally. Her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. He saw the dark closet in them. He saw the raw want, the shame, the thrilling fear. He saw the reflection of his own fucked-up mess.
“Jungkook,” a voice called from outside the tent, accompanied by a knock on the pole. “They’re ready for you on set.”
He released her hand. She stumbled back a step, looking down at her fingers as if they belonged to someone else.
“You’re fine,” he said, though she wasn’t. He wasn’t.
He walked out onto the set, into the blaze of the lights. The director explained the scene: a close-up of raw anguish, of luxury as a suffocating weight. The piano keys were cracked and stained. Jungkook sat on the bench, the cool leather of the harness a second skin.
“Action!”
The cameras rolled, the fans blew his hair artfully. He was supposed to look tormented. He didn’t have to pretend. He thought of Karolina’s trembling hands. He thought of Winter’s trusting texts waiting on his phone. He thought of the tight, hot clench of Karolina around him, the way she came apart silently in the dark.
His face, in the monitor, was a masterpiece of conflicted desire. A raw, beautiful agony. Park let the camera roll, mesmerized.
“God, that’s perfect,” the director breathed. “Don’t move. Hold that.”
Jungkook held it. He let the war inside him show on his face, let it bleed into the lens. Across the set, hidden in the shadows behind a lighting rig, Karolina watched. Her hand was pressed to her mouth. He couldn’t see her clearly, but he knew she was there. He could feel her gaze like a touch.
He was performing for an audience of one. And he was giving the performance of his life.