Chapter 13: Sunday Morning Confessions
The first thing Joan became aware of was the scent of clean cotton and him. She opened her eyes to the unfamiliar, pristine ceiling of Cheol’s bedroom, the early morning sun cutting sharp lines across the duvet. His arm was a solid, warm bar across her stomach, his breathing deep and even against the back of her neck.
She carefully extracted herself, slipping from the bed. The cool air kissed her skin. She found his discarded dress shirt from the night before, shrugged it on. It smelled like his cologne and sex. The hem hit her mid-thigh. She padded barefoot into the stark kitchen.
It was a showroom of disuse. She found bacon in the fridge, a package that looked barely touched, and a carton of eggs. The granite counter was cold under her palms. She began to cook, the sizzle of fat a comforting, familiar percussion in the silent apartment. She hummed a fragment of a song, something old her mother used to sing, lost in the simple ritual.
She didn’t hear him approach. She felt him. A shift in the air, a focusing of attention. She turned.
Cheol leaned in the doorway, dressed in low-slung sweatpants, his hair sleep-tousled, his chest bare. He was just watching her, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes tracking the movement of her hands, the way his shirt slipped off one shoulder.
“Morning,” she said, turning back to flip the bacon.
He didn’t answer for a long moment. “Yeah,” he finally said, his voice gravelly with sleep. “It is.”
He moved then, coming to lean against the island opposite her. He watched her crack eggs into a bowl, whisk them. The silence was different now—not charged with want, but with something quieter, more fragile.
“You cook,” he stated.
“I eat,” she corrected lightly, a small smile playing on her lips. “Cooking is usually involved.”
“No one’s ever cooked in this kitchen,” he said. The admission was simple, stark as the white walls. “I order in. Or I don’t eat.”
Joan paused, looking at him. The morning light softened the sharp lines of his face, revealing the faint shadows under his eyes. The formidable student body president looked young, and somehow untethered in his own home. She plated the food, pushing a plate across the island to him. “Well. Try not to choke. It’d be a terrible headline. ‘Student President Felled by Scrambled Eggs.’”
A flicker of a smile touched his mouth. He took a stool, pulling the plate toward him. He ate like he did everything: with intense focus. She perched on the next stool, eating her own food, watching the city wake up below.
“It’s good,” he said after a few bites, as if surprised.
“It’s eggs,” she laughed.
“It’s good,” he insisted, his eyes meeting hers.
The air between them softened, warmed. She nudged his foot with hers under the island. “So. You’re a soft boy who likes breakfast. Who would’ve guessed?”
He scowled, but it lacked heat. “Don’t start.”
“It’s cute. The big bad Cheol, brought to heel by bacon.”
“I’m not brought to heel,” he grumbled, but he was fighting a real smile now, a rare, unguarded thing that made her stomach flip.
She finished her food, pushing the plate away. “We should probably talk about the project. The data from yesterday is… substantial.”
His smile vanished. The shuttered look returned. He set his fork down with a precise click. “Forget the project.”
“Cheol, we have a paper to write. Observations. Conclusions.”
“I have a conclusion,” he said, his voice dropping. He stood, circling the island. He stopped in front of her stool, his hands coming to rest on the granite on either side of her hips, caging her in. “My conclusion is I don’t give a fuck about the paper.”
Her breath hitched. He was so close she could see the gold flecks in his brown irises. “What do you give a fuck about?”
“This.”
He kissed her. It was slower than the night before, tasting of salt and coffee and a deep, yearning sweetness. His hands slid from the counter to her waist, lifting her effortlessly from the stool. He set her on the edge of the island, the granite cold through the thin shirt. He stepped between her knees, his mouth never leaving hers.
“I want to taste you again,” he murmured against her lips, his hands sliding up her bare thighs, pushing the hem of the shirt higher. “Not for a study. Not for a grade. Just because I dreamt about it.”
Her pulse hammered in her throat. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of the panties she’d kept as extra in her bag—black, simple—and peeled them down her legs, letting them fall to the floor.
He sank to his knees on the cold kitchen floor.
“Cheol—” His name was a gasp.
He looked up at her, his hands spreading her thighs. His expression was one of pure, focused reverence. “Just be quiet,” he said softly, not a command, but a request. “And feel it.”
His mouth was hot and devastatingly soft. He didn’t devour, he explored. Slow, languid strokes of his tongue that mapped every fold, every sensitive ridge. He kissed her there with a tenderness that felt more intimate than anything they’d done the night before. His hands held her hips steady, his thumbs stroking the sharp bone.
Pleasure, thick and syrupy, pooled low in her belly. Her head fell back, a silent cry shaking her shoulders. She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white.
He took his time. He licked into her, savoring, learning what made her legs tremble, what made her breath catch in a sob. He found her clit and circled it with the very tip of his tongue, a maddeningly gentle pressure. When he finally sealed his mouth over it and sucked, gently at first, then with firmer pulls, the world dissolved into a white-hot point of sensation.
She came with a shattered, soundless gasp, her body bowing over him. He held her through it, his mouth gentle now, soothing the frantic pulses until she went limp.
He didn’t stop. He guided her through the aftershocks and then began again, building a new, slower fire. She was oversensitive, wrung out, but he was relentless in his worship. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, stretching her gently as his tongue worked its magic. The dual sensation was too much, not enough, everything.
“Please,” she begged, not even knowing what she was asking for.
He gave it to her anyway. A second climax tore through her, deeper, longer, a rolling wave that left her trembling and weak. A broken cry finally escaped, echoing in the sterile kitchen.
He rose, kissing his way up her body—her stomach, the valley between her breasts, her throat—before finding her mouth. She could taste herself on his lips, salty and intimate. He was hard against her thigh, straining his sweatpants.
He lifted her from the counter, her legs wrapping automatically around his waist. He carried her, not to the bedroom, but to the vast leather couch in the sun-flooded living room. He laid her down on the cool leather and followed her down, settling his weight on top of her.
He nuzzled her neck, his breathing ragged. “See?” he whispered, his voice rough. “No rubric. No observation notes. Just you. Coming apart because I want you to.”
She touched his face, turning it so he’d look at her. His eyes were wide, almost wild with vulnerability. The protector, exposed. She kissed him, softly. “Just you,” she echoed.
He buried his face in her hair, holding her tightly, as if the morning light could dissolve the new, fragile thing they’d built. Outside, the city buzzed, oblivious. Inside, the only sound was the catch in their breathing, and the hum of the refrigerator, keeping time.
Inside, the only sound was the catch in their breathing, and the hum of the refrigerator, keeping time.
The stillness broke when Cheol shifted, his hand sliding down his own torso. He watched her face as he palmed himself through the soft fabric of his sweats, a blunt outline of his erection stark against the grey. Her eyes tracked the movement, her lips parting.
“You’re staring,” he said, his voice a low scrape.
“It’s a lot to look at,” she whispered back, the ghost of her smile returning. “After last night, I feel… acquainted.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, but his expression remained serious, intense. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pushed the sweats down, freeing himself. He ran a hand slowly over his hard length, from root to tip, a slick bead of moisture already glistening there. The sunlight caught the movement, rendering it obscene and beautiful.
Joan whined, the sound torn from deep in her chest. “Please, Cheol. Put it in. I want your massive dick inside me.” The vulgar words, so stark in the bright room, made him shudder. His grip tightened.
She continued, her voice shaking with need, “I want you to fill me so full that I can’t think or walk straight.”
“Yeah?” he breathed, leaning over her, not entering her yet, just letting the hot, heavy tip press against her. “You want to be ruined for it? For me?”
“Yes. God, yes. Just fuck me. No more slow.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. He positioned himself and pushed in with one long, devastating thrust. The stretch was still a breathtaking shock, a glorious, burning fullness that made her see stars. He sank all the way, seating himself to the hilt, and they both groaned, a harmony of raw relief.
“Talk to me,” he demanded, his forearms caging her head, his hips beginning a slow, deep roll. “Tell me what you feel.”
“I feel… split open,” she gasped, her nails digging into his back. “I feel every inch. It’s so deep.”
“Good.” His pace quickened, the slick, driving rhythm punching the air from her lungs. “You’re so tight around me. Clenching like you’ll never let go.”
“I won’t,” she moaned, arching to meet his thrusts. “Faster. Please.”
He obeyed, his body slamming into hers, the leather couch creaking in protest. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the gasp of breath, the profound friction of him moving inside her. He dropped his head to her shoulder, his lips against her sweat-slicked skin.
“Say it again,” he murmured into her collarbone.
“Fill me,” she chanted, her mind dissolving into pure sensation. “So full. Make it so I can’t walk. So everyone knows.”
A possessive growl rumbled from his chest. He drove into her harder, his rhythm fragmenting into something more frantic, more primal. “They’ll know,” he grunted. “They’ll look at you and see it. See me.”
The pressure coiled, unbearable, exquisite. Her third climax of the morning detonated, a silent, seismic event that locked her muscles and drew a ragged shout from him. He followed her over, his release hot and piercing, his body collapsing onto hers as he spilled himself deep within her.
He stayed there, buried inside her, for a long time. Their harsh breaths slowly evened out. The city’ light had moved across the floor.
Finally, he shifted, pulling out. A soft, oversensitive ache throbbed in its wake. He didn’t go far, just rolled to his side, pulling her back against his chest, his arms wrapping around her. He nuzzled the damp hair at her temple.
“So,” he said, his voice quiet, rough with spent emotion. “Walking straight is officially off the agenda.”
A laugh bubbled out of her, surprised and light. It felt foreign, and wonderful.
His arms tightened. The humor faded from his voice, replaced by something heavier. “Joan.” He paused, searching for words. “This thing with Soomin. The project. It’s… it’s not just gossip. It’s a system. And you poked it.”
She went still in his arms. “What are you saying?”
He sighs and shakes his head chuckling, “I’m saying… we have a paper due tomorrow about your squirting. And we have to start working on it.”
And we have to start working on it.”
The weight of his words, of the real world, settled over them like a fine dust. Joan stared at the abstract painting on his far wall, a swirl of black and grey. Her body still hummed from him, from the claims he’d made with his mouth and his hands and his body. The contrast was jarring.
“Right,” she said, her voice flat. “The paper.”
He felt her stiffen in his arms. His hold tightened, an instinctual reaction. “Hey.” He turned her onto her back so he could see her face. The open, sated softness was gone, replaced by a careful neutrality he recognized. It was the look she wore in the hallways. “It’s just a piece of paper. We’ll bullshit it. We have the data.”
“Data,” she repeated, and a faint, ironic smile touched her lips. She trailed a finger down the center of his chest. “You’re right. We have very thorough data.” Her eyes met his, a spark of her earlier wit returning. “OK BUT WHAT IF WE TRY TO GET ME TO DO IT AGAIN? YOU KNOW… FOR DATA ACCURACY?” JOAN PLAYFULLY JOKES.
CHEOL RAISES AN EYEBROW TAKING IT AS A CHALLENGE. “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.”
“I WAS KIDDING,” JOAN LAUGHED, the sound bright and startled in the quiet room.
CHEOL SMILED WIDE AND TEASED HER BY SHAKING HIS HEAD ALREADY MAKING HIS WAY DOWN TO MEET HER PUSSY. “NOPE. WE’RE DOING THIS. YOU SUGGESTED IT. THEN WE’LL WORK ON THE PAPER AFTER.”
He didn’t use his mouth this time. He used his fingers, his eyes locked on hers as he pushed two, then three inside, curling them precisely. He watched every flicker of sensation on her face—the gasp, the flutter of her eyelids, the bite of her lip. He was clinical and devastating all at once.
“Tell me the stages,” he murmured, his voice low and focused. “For the report.”
“Cheol—”
“Observation. Subject exhibits increased respiration.” He added a fourth finger, stretching her gently, his thumb finding her clit. “Pupils dilated. Vocalizations escalating in pitch.”
It was absurd. It was unbearably hot. She was being analyzed while he drove her to the edge, his gaze as intense as a microscope. The pleasure built, sharp and coiling, under his directed attention.
“Conclusion pending,” he breathed, his own control fraying as he felt her clench around his fingers. He leaned down, his lips a breath from hers. “Need a replicate to confirm.”
He kissed her as she came, swallowing her cry, his fingers working her through the rolling waves until she pushed his hand away, oversensitive and trembling.
He pulled his fingers free, brought them to his own mouth, and tasted her without breaking eye contact. “Data confirmed,” he said, his voice gravel.
“Data confirmed,” he said, his voice gravel.
He collapsed beside her on the leather, the sunlight now a warm bar across their tangled legs. For a while, there was just breathing. The smell of sex and clean leather filled the air, dense and real. Joan watched dust motes dance in the light, her body a map of pleasantly exhausted sensations.
She traced the line of his hipbone with her thumb. “So we just… write that up?” Her voice was husky.
“We write something,” he conceded, rolling onto his side to face her. His expression was softer now, the intense researcher gone. “We can say the results were inconclusive. Varied. Subject to environmental factors.”
A laugh escaped her, dry and sudden. “Environmental factors. Is that what we’re calling your four-finger survey technique?”
“It’s a variable.” He tried to keep a straight face and failed, a real grin breaking through. It transformed him, making him look younger, unburdened. She wanted to pocket that smile.
The grin faded as he studied her. He saw it then—the slight furrow between her brows that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The quiet retreat in her eyes. Her gaze drifted past him, toward the kitchen, toward the ghost of her own earlier release.
Her lower lip pushed out in a genuine, frustrated pout. “But I didn’t squirt again,” she muttered, almost to herself. She looked back at him, confusion and a tinge of insecurity in her expressive eyes. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to be consistent. It just… happened that once. In the practice room.”
The admission hung there, vulnerable and entirely human. It wasn’t about the project. It was about her own body, mysterious and uncooperative.
Cheol’s entire demeanor shifted. The teasing glint vanished, replaced by a protective focus so complete it made her chest ache. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. “Hey. No.” His voice was a soft command. “Here, let’s try again and find what works. You did it once. You can do it again.”
He leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on her lips, not of passion, but of reassurance. “Relax.”
He didn’t ask. He simply began, his touch shifting from claiming to investigative. He moved her gently onto her back, his hands spreading her thighs with a new kind of purpose. This wasn’t for a paper. This was for her.
He worked slow, taking time and building it up for her this time instead of just going all in. He started with his mouth, soft, open-mouthed kisses along her inner thighs, avoiding the center, making her wait and whine. He coaxed and kept his moves unpredictable.
When his tongue finally touched her, it was a glancing blow, a tease. He used his mouth and fingers in a disorienting, luxurious tandem. Two fingers at first, just inside, a shallow, slow penetration. Then three, stretching her with a relentless, gentle pressure. He applied careful, circling pressure onto her clit with the pad of his thumb, the rhythm asynchronous with his fingers.
His mouth left her sex, trailing fire up her torso. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking deeply, then biting down just to the edge of pain before soothing it with his tongue. Then the other. He worked on her nipples with his mouth, leaving her overstimulated all over her erogenous zones and not just her pussy.
Sensation bombarded her from everywhere. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t anticipate his next move. A desperate, climbing tension replaced frustration. Her breaths came in short, sharp gasps. “Cheol, I— I can’t—”
“You can,” he murmured against her sternum, his fingers curling inside her, his thumb pressing harder. “Just let it.”
The peak didn’t crest—it shattered. Her back arched off the leather as a convulsive, soaking release tore through her, a series of pulses that felt endless. She convulsed into a series of squirts that didn’t stop Cheol from coaxing more. He didn’t let up, his mouth returning to drink from her, his fingers working through the waves, pushing her into a second, overlapping climax that was pure blinding white noise.
It wasn’t until she was limp and weakly pushing at his shoulders, a hoarse sob in her throat, that he stopped. He kissed his way up her trembling body, his own breathing ragged. He kissed her tenderly, soothing her parted lips, her cheeks, her closed eyelids. “See?” he whispered, the word filled with a fierce pride. “Consistency is overrated. That was better.”
She couldn’t speak. She burrowed into his chest, her body humming, utterly spent. He gathered her close, one hand stroking her hair. The city continued its silent dance beyond the glass. In the warmth of him, the hard proof of his care, the unfinished paper waiting on a computer somewhere felt very small, and very far away.