Chapter 11: All Night Long
The silence in Donghae’s penthouse was a living thing, thick and loaded, broken only by the whisper of the elevator doors closing behind them. The city sprawled beyond the windows, a dizzying tapestry of amber and white, but it felt like a painting. Unreal.
He didn’t look at her. He walked to the center of the room, to the deep leather couch, and stood facing it, his back tense. Hyukjae hovered near the doorway, the chill of the air conditioning raising goosebumps on her arms. The memory of the locker room floor was a phantom heat between her legs, a stark contrast to the cold calculation in his posture now.
“You can go,” he said, his voice rough. “If you want.”
She didn’t move. “Is that what you want?”
He turned then. His eyes were shadows. “What I want,” he said slowly, “is to not feel like every fucking thing is a game she’s winning.”
“Miyoung.”
“She hit you.” He said it like the fact was a jagged rock in his throat. “Because of me. And I… I used you to hit back. Publicly.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “That was shitty.”
Hyukjae took a step forward. The polished floor felt unsteady. “It didn’t feel shitty in the moment.”
A bitter smirk twisted his lips. “Yeah. Well.”
She walked to him, stopping just out of reach. The scent of him, sweat and clean cotton and something uniquely male, filled her senses. “You said I was your girlfriend.”
“I had to.”
“Do you have to now?” Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. This was the gamble, the real one, away from the crowd.
He stared at her, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then lifting again. The conflict in him was a visible storm. The charming jock was gone. The strategist was fraying. What was left was just a young man, cornered by his own impulses.
“I don’t know what I have to do,” he admitted, the words barely audible.
She closed the distance. She placed her palm flat on his chest, over the frantic beat of his heart. “Then stop thinking.”
He shuddered under her touch. Then his hands came up, cradling her face, his thumbs tracing the faint, lingering warmth on her cheek where Miyoung had struck. His touch was infinitely gentler now. “Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
He leaned down and kissed her. It was nothing like the desperate, public claim by the field. This was slow, searching, a silent question. She answered it, parting her lips, letting him in. The taste of him was familiar now, a addiction she’d already acquired. His hands slid down her back, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the hard line of his erection through his jeans. A soft moan escaped her, swallowed by his mouth.
He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the leather couch. “Lie down,” he murmured against her lips.
She obeyed, leaning back into the supple leather. He didn’t join her. He knelt on the floor between her legs, his hands pushing her skirt up her thighs. His eyes were dark, focused. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her lace panties and drew them down, his knuckles brushing her skin, leaving a trail of fire. He tossed them aside, somewhere into the dim room.
He looked at her, completely exposed to him in the low light. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathed, and it didn’t sound like a line. It sounded like a discovery.
Then he lowered his head.
His mouth on her this time was not frantic hunger. It was deliberate worship. He started with soft, open-mouthed kisses on her inner thighs, making her jump at the sensation. His tongue traced a slow, maddening path closer and closer to her core, but avoiding it, until she whimpered and arched her hips off the couch.
“Please,” she heard herself beg.
He finally let his tongue touch her, a long, flat stroke that made her cry out. He lapped at her, savoring her, his hands holding her hips down. He found her clit and circled it with relentless, perfect pressure, his eyes closed in concentration. He slipped one finger, then two, inside her, curling them, and she was so wet they slid in easily.
“Donghae… I’m going to…”
“Come,” he growled against her, the vibration pushing her over.
Her orgasm ripped through her, a deep, pulsing wave that left her gasping, her fingers tangled in his hair. He didn’t stop, drinking from her until the last shudder passed.
He rose then, unbuckling his belt, his eyes never leaving hers. He freed his cock, thick and veined and already leaking. He gripped himself, stroking slowly. “Open your mouth,” he said, his voice thick.
She did, leaning her head back. He guided himself past her lips. The taste of him was salty, musky, overwhelmingly male. He let her get used to the size, the feel of him on her tongue, before he began to move. He set a slow, deep rhythm, fucking into her mouth, his hand gentle on the side of her face.
“You take me so well,” he groaned. His hips stuttered. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”
He thrust deep, holding himself there as he pulsed, hot jets spilling down her throat. She swallowed, her eyes watering. He pulled out with a soft pop, his breath ragged.
He pulled her up, turned her, and bent her over the wide arm of the couch. Her hands gripped the leather. He positioned himself behind her, the broad head of his cock nudging at her entrance. He was still hard.
“This might hurt,” he whispered, a shred of conscience returning.
“Do it.”
He pushed in.
There was a sharp, burning stretch, a brief, blinding moment of pain. She cried out, a short, sharp sound muffled by the couch. He froze, buried to the hilt inside her.
“Hyukjae…?”
“Don’t stop.” Tears welled in her eyes, but her voice was firm. “Just move.”
He began to thrust, shallow at first, then deeper as her body adjusted, welcoming him. The pain melted, transforming into a stunning, full feeling. Each drive of his hips sent a jolt through her. The sound of their bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin, filled the quiet room. He gripped her hips, his fingers biting into her flesh, pulling her back onto him with every plunge. His balls slapped against her, a rough, rhythmic punctuation.
“God, you’re so tight,” he chanted, his voice breaking. “So fucking tight and wet for me.”
His pace became punishing, frantic. He gave a harsh, choked shout, and she felt the hot flood of his release inside her, filling her up. He stayed there, panting, leaning over her, his sweat dripping onto her back.
But he wasn’t done. He was still hard.
He pulled out, the loss of him making her feel empty. He turned her onto her back, lifted her legs onto his shoulders, and sank into her again in one smooth, deep stroke. This angle was deeper, more intimate. He braced himself on one arm, his other hand finding her clit, rubbing tight, urgent circles as he fucked her.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his. His expression was shattered, unguarded. This was the raw act, no audience, no performance. Just the two of them, laid bare. The pressure built again, coiling tight in her belly. His thumb worked her clit, his thrusts hitting a spot inside her that made her see stars.
“Come with me,” he gasped. “Now.”
She exploded, her body clamping around his, a silent scream on her lips. He followed, with a guttural groan, pumping another hot load deep into her womb.
He collapsed on top of her, then rolled them to their sides. They were both slick, breathing in ragged unison. He was still inside her, still semi-hard. It seemed his body refused to let her go.
After a few minutes, without a word, he pulled out and guided her off the couch. He led her to the glass coffee table. “Hands here,” he said, his voice raw.
She bent over, her palms flat on the cool, hard surface, seeing their blurred reflection below. He entered her from behind again, this pace slower, almost weary, but no less intense. He leaned over her, kissing her shoulder, her neck, as he moved. This climax was a slow burn, a deep, rolling shudder. He pulled out at the last second, spending his fourth release in hot stripes across the curve of her ass.
He sank onto the couch, pulling her with him. He sat back, and she straddled his lap, his cock, still miraculously hard, slipping back inside her with ease. She rode him, her breasts bouncing, her head thrown back. He gripped her hips, guiding her, then began thrusting up into her, matching her rhythm. Their foreheads pressed together, their breath mingling. This was the most intimate position of all, facing each other, joined completely.
“Hyukjae,” he whispered, his eyes searching hers, confused, overwhelmed.
“I’m here,” she whispered back.
His control finally shattered. He held her tight against him, driving up into her one last time with a broken cry, emptying himself deep inside her for a fifth, seemingly impossible time. She felt him throbbing within her, and the sensation tipped her over another edge, a softer, prolonged wave that left her boneless against his chest.
For a long time, they stayed like that, stuck together with sweat and come and exhaustion. The city lights twinkled, indifferent. Eventually, he softened and slipped from her body. A mess of fluids leaked between her thighs, a raw testament to what had just happened.
He didn’t speak. He stood, his legs unsteady, and fetched a soft towel from the bathroom. He returned and gently cleaned her, his touch now unbearably tender. He wiped the drying streaks from her back, then carefully tended to the mess between her legs. When he was done, he pulled her against him on the couch, covering them both with a throw blanket.
He held her, his chin resting on top of her head. His heartbeat finally slowed under her ear.
“I’ve never…” he started, then stopped. “No one’s ever… I don’t lose control like that.”
She knew what he was asking. “I was a virgin,” she said softly into the silence.
His entire body went rigid. He tried to pull back to look at her, but she held on. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was a mixture of horror and awe.
“Would it have changed what just happened?”
He thought about it. His arms tightened around her. “No,” he admitted hoarsely. “It wouldn’t have.”
They lapsed back into silence. The magnitude of it settled over them. The performance was over. The audience was gone. All that remained was this dizzying, terrifying truth they had created with their bodies.
“What are we doing, Hyukjae?” he finally whispered into her hair, the question hanging in the dark, luxurious air, with no easy answer in sight.