Chapter 3: The Last Goodbye
The penthouse was a tomb of glass and silence. Jimin moved through the vast living room, his footsteps echoing on the polished concrete floor. His single suitcase lay open on the low-slung Italian sofa, a stark, foreign object in Jungkook’s meticulously curated world. He was folding a sweater when the electronic hum of the front door disengaging froze him mid-motion.
Jungkook stood in the doorway, his tailored coat dusted with rain, his expression one of pure, uncomprehending shock. “What the hell is this?”
Jimin’s hands tightened on the soft wool. “I’m leaving.”
“I can see that.” Jungkook tossed his keys onto a side table with a sharp clatter. “Why?”
The simplicity of the question was a knife twist. Jimin turned back to his suitcase, unable to hold the intensity of that gaze. “The hotel. The money on the table. It’s… it’s always like that. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Jungkook’s laugh was short, harsh. “We had an amazing night. I had to work. That’s my life. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know!” Jimin’s voice cracked, the sound too loud in the sterile space. “Maybe to not wake up alone in a five-star room that feels like a transaction?”
Jungkook crossed the room in quick, angry strides. He didn’t touch the suitcase. He touched Jimin, his hands gripping his shoulders, spinning him around. “This is not a transaction. You know it’s not.”
“Do I?” Jimin tried to pull away, but the grip was iron. “It feels like one. It feels like I’m just a convenient body. Something you use and then leave cash for.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” Jungkook’s face was inches from his, his eyes blazing. “You love what we do. Your body fucking sings for me. Don’t pretend you don’t crave it.”
He was right, and that was the worst part. The anger in Jimin’s chest was already melting under the heat of Jungkook’s proximity, the familiar scent of his cologne short-circuiting his resolve. “That’s not the point.”
“It’s the only point that matters.” And then Jungkook’s mouth was on his, but it wasn’t the gentle kiss from the hotel. This was a conquest. It was violent and desperate, all teeth and claiming tongue. Jimin’s hands came up to push against his chest, but the strength had bled from his arms. A broken sound escaped his throat, a sob mingled with a moan.
Jungkook walked him backward until Jimin’s back hit the cool, unyielding surface of a floor-to-ceiling window. The entire city sprawled beneath them, a dizzying tapestry of lights, unseen witnesses to his surrender.
“You’re not leaving,” Jungkook growled against his lips, his hands tearing at Jimin’s jeans. “This is where you belong.”
“Jungkook, stop—” The protest was weak, swallowed by another bruising kiss. His jeans and briefs were shoved down to his thighs in one rough motion. He was exposed, pinned against the glass by Jungkook’s weight.
“I’m not stopping.” Jungkook fumbled with his own belt, his movements frantic. “You want to go? Fine. But you’re going to remember this. You’re going to remember who you fucking belong to.”
There was no preparation, no tenderness. Jungkook spat into his hand, slicking himself roughly before aligning his cock with Jimin’s entrance. He pushed in, a brutal, tearing invasion that forced a sharp, pained cry from Jimin’s lungs.
“Fuck,” Jungkook hissed, his forehead dropping to Jimin’s shoulder as he sheathed himself fully in the tight, dry heat. “God, you’re always so fucking tight for me.”
It hurt. A sharp, burning ache that spoke of violation, not passion. Jimin clawed at Jungkook’s back, his nails digging through the fine fabric of his shirt. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the city lights into a watercolor smear. Jungkook began to move, a harsh, punishing rhythm that shoved Jimin’s body against the cold glass over and over.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” Jungkook challenged, his voice a raw scrape in Jimin’s ear. His thrusts were deep, jarring, each one hitting a place that was more pain than pleasure. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
Jimin couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form. Because beneath the searing pain, his traitorous body was responding, the friction sparking a familiar, shameful heat in his gut. He turned his head, pressing his face into Jungkook’s shoulder to muffle the sobs that were wracking his frame. He opened his mouth and bit down, hard, into the muscle of Jungkook’s shoulder through his shirt.
Jungkook groaned, a sound of pure animal pleasure. “Yeah, that’s it. Mark me. Let everyone know whose fucking cock you’re taking.”
The crude words, the raw possession, shattered the last of Jimin’s resistance. His body convulsed, a brutal, unwanted orgasm tearing through him without a hand ever touching his cock. He cried out against Jungkook’s shoulder, his release hot and sticky between their stomachs.
The clenching of Jimin’s body around him was all it took. Jungkook drove into him one last, final time, his own groan long and guttural as he emptied himself deep inside. They stood there, locked together, panting harshly in the silent, judging expanse of the penthouse.
The reality of what had just happened crashed down on Jimin. The violation. The desperation. The way his body had betrayed his heart yet again.
Slowly, Jungkook pulled out. He gently tugged Jimin’s clothes back into place, his hands now surprisingly soft. He cupped Jimin’s tear-streaked face. “See?” he murmured, his thumb stroking a cheekbone. “You don’t want to leave. This is where you’re meant to be.”
Jimin looked past him, at his half-packed suitcase on the sofa. He looked at the man in front of him, whose eyes were already shifting from possessive lover back to careless heir. He felt the ache between his legs, a raw testament to their last, desperate collision.
He said nothing. He simply leaned forward, resting his forehead against Jungkook’s chest, and closed his eyes, waiting for the strength to finally walk away.