Chapter 1: From Dinner to Devotion
The city was a smear of gold and black beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a silent film playing thirty stories below. Up here, in the quiet penthouse, the only sounds were the soft jazz from hidden speakers and the occasional flicker of a candle flame guttering in its glass holder. The remains of their dinner sat between them on the mahogany table—a wreckage of cheese rinds, olive pits, and two empty wine bottles that told the story of an evening that had unwound, hour by languid hour, into this fragile, quiet space.
Cecilia—Cici to almost everyone, but never to him—curled deeper into the corner of the plush sofa, her feet tucked under her. The oversized cashmere sweater swallowed her frame, the neckline slipping to reveal one pale shoulder. She held a mug of chamomile tea in both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.
“I didn’t think I could laugh again,” she said, her voice soft. “I mean, really laugh. Not the polite kind.”
Yoongi watched her from the other end of the couch, his sharp eyes missing nothing. The way her chestnut hair fell over her shoulder in a wave, the faint shadow that still lingered under her warm brown eyes. Weeks of holding her while she cried, of forcing soup between her lips, of lying beside her in the dark listening to her breath hitch. It had carved something out of him, too—a sharper edge, a more desperate kind of want.
“You have a beautiful laugh,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “It was a crime to let them suffocate it.”
She looked down into her tea, a small smile touching her lips. “You sound so fierce.”
“I am fierce. About you.”
The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was a new silence. For years, their time together had been punctuated by her phone buzzing with texts from Taehyung or Jungkook, by the unspoken calendar in her head dividing her attention, her affection, her body. Now, the air was clear. The only phone on the table was his, and it was face down.
She uncurled herself slowly, stretching her legs out. The movement hitched the sweater up, exposing a sliver of her thigh above her fuzzy socks. She padded to the kitchen island to pour more wine, and Yoongi’s gaze followed her, a hunter’s gaze. He watched the sway of her hips, the delicate shape of her through the bulky fabric, the way her hair caught the candlelight and held it.
Every protective instinct in him warred with a more primal one. He had been so careful, so fucking patient, building her back up from shattered glass. But now, seeing the color back in her cheeks, seeing the way her body moved with a relaxed grace he hadn’t witnessed in months, the leash on his control began to fray.
She turned, glass in hand, and caught him looking. Not just looking—devouring. A flush crept up her neck. “What?”
He didn’t answer with words. He simply held out a hand, his expression unmoved except for the dark fire in his eyes. She hesitated for only a second—a fragment of a heartbeat where the ghost of old hurts might have flickered—then placed her hand in his.
He pulled, not gently.
She landed on his lap with a soft gasp, the wine sloshing perilously in her glass. He took it from her and placed it on the table without a sound. His arms locked around her waist, binding her to him. She could feel the hard plane of his stomach, the rapid beat of his heart against her side, and the rigid, insistent heat of his cock already straining against the soft grey fabric of his sweatpants.
“Yoongi…” Her voice was a whisper.
He framed her face with his hands, his thumbs stroking her jaw. “No one else,” he murmured, the words a vow against her lips. “Just me. From now on, every sigh, every moan, every tear. They’re all mine.”
Then his mouth was on hers, and any thought of protest dissolved. This wasn’t the gentle, comforting kisses of the past weeks. This was claiming. His lips were demanding, his tongue sweeping in to taste her, the faint remnants of red wine and her own unique sweetness. A low groan vibrated from his chest into hers. Her hands fisted in his black shirt, holding on as the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the possessive grip of his hands on her body.
She began to move instinctively, a slow roll of her hips against the hard ridge in his pants. He broke the kiss with a sharp, inhaled curse. “Fuck, Princess. Do that again.”
She did, bolder this time, grinding down against him, a spark of her own long-dormant desire flickering to life. The soft, forgiving girl was still there, but beneath her was a woman waking up, and she was hungry too.
With a sudden growl, his hands went to the hem of her sweater. “This,” he said, the word clipped.“Off. Now.”
He yanked it up and over her head, tossing it aside. The cool air of the penthouse kissed her skin, pebbling her nipples into tight peaks. She wore nothing underneath. His dark eyes raked over the exposed curves of her breasts, the delicate dip of her waist, the flutter of her ribcage with each quick breath.
“Christ,” he breathed. “You have no idea. Watching you with him… having to share this.” His head dipped, and he took one taut nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the sensitive peak.
A sharp cry tore from her throat, her back arching, pushing herself deeper into his mouth. Her fingers tangled in his silver-black hair, holding him to her. The sensation was electric, a direct line of pleasure coiling deep in her belly. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, biting and sucking with a focused intensity that left her gasping.
His hands slid down, over the swell of her hips, gripping the waistband of her soft cotton shorts and the panties beneath. In one rough motion, he ripped them down her legs. The sound of fabric tearing was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“Yoongi!” she gasped, startled.
“I’ll buy you a hundred new ones,” he muttered, his gaze burning as he looked at her, completely bare and sprawled across his lap. He palmed the heat between her legs, his fingers sliding through her slickness. “You’re already so wet. All for me.”
He pushed two fingers inside her without warning, curling them, and her whole body jerked. A broken, choked sound escaped her lips. His eyes locked on hers as he worked his fingers in and out, the filthy, wet sound echoing in the space between them.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice raw. “This perfect, tight cunt is mine now. You understand? Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she whimpered, her hips moving against his hand, chasing the building pressure. “Only yours.”
That was all he needed to hear. In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood, lifting her with him. She clung to his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her from the candlelit living room, down the hallway, into the muted darkness of his bedroom. The silk duvet was cool as he laid her down upon it, her hair fanning out around her like a crown.
He stripped off his shirt, revealing the lean, wiry muscle of his torso, the pale skin scattered with faint scars and tattoos. He shoved his sweatpants and boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and rigid, the tip already glistening. He stood over her for a moment, just looking, his chest rising and falling. The sight of her, spread out on his bed, finally alone and his, was almost too much.
He crawled over her, caging her body with his. He didn’t enter her immediately. Instead, he kissed her again, deeply, as his hand found her center once more, stroking and circling her clit until she was writhing, her pleas becoming a constant stream against his mouth.
“Please… Yoongi, please…”
He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head pressing against her. His eyes, black and endless in the dim light, held hers. “Look at me,” he commanded. “I want you to see me when I make you come.”
He pushed in, an inch, then another, stretching her exquisitely, filling her so completely it stole the air from her lungs. He paused, letting her adjust, his forehead damp against hers. “Okay?” The single word was strained, frayed with the effort of his control.
She nodded, her lips parted on a silent gasp. He was so deep, already touching a place that made her vision blur.
He began to move. Slow, deliberate, devastating thrusts that dragged against every sensitive nerve inside her. Each one was a promise, a reclamation. His mouth was everywhere—on her lips, her throat, sucking a dark mark onto the pale skin of her breast. His whispers were filth and poetry woven together.
“You take me so well… this sweet, perfect pussy was made for my cock… gonna fuck you like this every night until you can’t remember anyone’s else name…”
His pace remained agonizingly steady, each thrust a masterclass in prolonged torture. The friction was building a fire in her core, tightening, coiling. She was so close, teetering on the edge, but he held her there, refusing to let her fall.
“Yoongi… I can’t… I need…”
“What do you need?” he gritted out, his own restraint manifesting in the corded muscles of his neck, the sweat sheening his skin.
“You. Harder. Please.”
A savage sound ripped from him. He hooked his hands under her knees, pushing her legs back toward her shoulders, opening her up completely. The change in angle was immediate and profound. When he drove into her now, he hit a spot so deep and electric that she screamed.
That shattered his control. The slow, deep rhythm broke into a pounding, frantic pace. The bed slammed against the wall, the headboard cracking a steady, brutal rhythm. His grunts were animalistic, her cries were sharp and pleading. The world dissolved into a blur of sensation: the slap of skin, the guttural sounds he made, the overwhelming fullness, the scent of sex and his cologne.
The coil snapped. Her orgasm tore through her without warning, a violent, crashing wave that clenched around him, pulling a raw shout from his throat. He fucked her through it, his movements turning jagged, before he buried himself to the hilt with a final, wrenching thrust. She felt the hot pulse of his release inside her, the shudder that racked his entire frame.
For long minutes, the only sound was their ragged breathing. He collapsed onto her, his weight a solid, comforting anchor, before quickly rolling to his side, taking her with him, keeping them joined. He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, his lips moving against her damp skin.
They lay like that, tangled in the ruined sheets, the city’ silent glow painting their bodies in shades of blue and grey. Her heart hammered against his, slowly settling into a synchronized rhythm.
His hand came up, his fingers gently brushing the hair from her sticky forehead. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, but the possession in it was absolute, peaceful.
“Now,” he whispered into the dark. “We begin.”
His words hung in the air, a promise that was both a threat and a sanctuary. They lay tangled for a long time, the sweat cooling on their skin, their breathing slowing into a shared rhythm. The scent of sex and blown-out candles was heavy around them.
“I’m sticky,” she murmured finally, her nose pressed against his collarbone.
“Good,” he said, his hand stroking the length of her spine. “Means you’re well-fucked.”
She pinched his side, a feeble protest that made him smirk. He caught her wrist and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. “Come on. Shower.”
The en-suite was a expanse of slate tile and glass. He turned the water on, letting it roar until steam began to fog the mirrors. The shift from the soft intimacy of the bed to the bright, hard surfaces of the bathroom changed the mood. The tension softened, became playful.
He tested the water, then pulled her in under the spray. It was hot, almost scalding, and she gasped as it hit her shoulders, her back pressed to his chest. He reached for a bottle of sandalwood body wash, squeezing a dollop into his palm.
“Arms up,” he instructed, his voice a casual command.
She obeyed, lifting her arms as he smoothed the slick soap over her torso, his hands moving in slow, thorough circles. He was washing her with a focused tenderness that felt as intimate as anything they’d just done. His fingers traced the undersides of her breasts, lathered over her stomach, slid between her thighs with a clinical gentleness that made her shiver for an entirely different reason.
She turned under the spray to rinse, then grabbed the bottle from him. “My turn.”
A slow grin spread across his face. She pushed him back against the wet tile and mirrored his actions, her small hands working the soap over the defined planes of his chest, the sharp lines of his hips. When her hand wrapped around his cock, it was already half-hard, thickening rapidly under her touch. She stroked him slowly, watching his eyes darken.
“Just cleaning,” she said, her voice innocent, but her eyes were not.
“You’re a terrible liar, sunshine.”
She laughed, the sound bouncing off the tiles, bright and genuine. It was a gift, that laugh, and it hit him right in the center of his chest. He pulled her in for a kiss under the water, the taste of her mixed with the clean, herbal soap.
The playfulness took a sharp turn when her hand slid lower, cupping his balls, her thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind them. He groaned into her mouth, his hips pushing forward into her fist. The water plastered her hair to her skull, streamed down her face.
She broke the kiss, her breath coming faster. She looked down at him, her warm brown eyes now smoky with intent. “I think,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I need to do a deeper cleaning down here.”
Before he could process her meaning, she was sinking to her knees on the hard shower floor. The sight was fucking obscene. Her knees pressed into the slate, the water sluicing over her shoulders, her hair streaming like dark silk over her breasts. Her gaze was locked on his cock, which stood rigid and leaking just inches from her face.
“Fuck,” he breathed, one hand bracing against the wall.
She didn’t use her hands. She leaned forward, her tongue darting out to catch the droplet of pre-cum pearled at his tip. A low, ragged sound tore from him. Her lips parted, and she took the head into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the sensitive ridge. Her eyes flicked up to his, holding his gaze as she began to sink down, taking him deeper, her mouth impossibly hot and wet.
She moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, one hand coming up to cradle his balls, rolling them gently in her palm. The other braced against his thigh. The sounds were filthy—the wet, sucking pulls of her mouth, the slap of water, his choked curses. She hollowed her cheeks, drawing him deeper into her throat, and he felt the muscles fluttering around him.
“Jesus Christ,” he gritted out, his fingers tangling in her hair, not guiding, just holding on. “Your mouth… god, your perfect fucking mouth.”
She hummed in response, the vibration shooting up his spine. She picked up the pace, bobbing her head faster, her tongue lashing the throbbing vein underneath. His control, so meticulously rebuilt in the few minutes since their last climax, began to splinter. The sight of her on her knees, servile and eager, the feel of her throat constricting around him—it was too much.
His grip in her hair tightened. “Open,” he commanded, his voice rough.
She obeyed instantly, letting her jaw go slack. He pulled her head back just enough to position himself at her lips, then pushed forward, fucking into her mouth with short, sharp thrusts. It was not gentle. It was possessive, brutal. He set a punishing rhythm, using her mouth for his pleasure, watching her lips stretch around his girth, tears mixing with the shower water on her cheeks.
“Take it,” he grunted, his hips pistoning. “Take all of it, Princess.”
She made a guttural, choked sound of surrender, her throat working around him. The pressure in his balls tightened, coiled, snapped. With a final, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt, he came, his release pulsing hot and bitter down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, her hands clutching at his thighs until the last tremor left his body.
He slid out of her mouth, breathless. She stayed on her knees, panting, looking up at him with dazed, watery eyes. The vulnerability in that look, the complete submission, ignited a fresh, darker need in him.
He didn’t let her rise. He turned her roughly, pressing her front against the cool, wet tile. “Stay.” He reached for the shower caddy, finding a small bottle of clear gel. He coated his fingers, then his still-hard cock, the sight of it glistening and ready making her whimper.
One slick finger pressed against her other entrance, circling slowly. She jerked, a shocked gasp escaping her. “Yoongi…”
“You said it was all mine,” he reminded her, his voice a low rumble against her ear as he leaned over her. “Every part. This tight little asshole is mine, too.” He pushed his finger in, just to the first knuckle, and she cried out, her body clenching violently around the intrusion. He worked her open with careful, insistent fingers, first one, then two, scissoring them, feeling her resistance give way to a trembling acceptance.
When he was satisfied, he replaced his fingers with the blunt, slick head of his cock. He positioned himself, one hand braced on the wall beside her head, the other gripping the soft, heavy weight of her breast, squeezing and kneading the flesh.
“Breathe out,” he ordered.
She exhaled a shuddering breath, and he pushed forward.
It was an impossible, burning fullness, a stretch so profound it stole the air from her lungs. He sank in inch by torturous inch, his own breath coming in sharp hisses at the hot, vice-like tightness. When he was fully sheathed, they both froze, panting, a union that felt more like conquest than lovemaking.
Then he began to move.
The pace was relentless from the start, hard, driving strokes that forced shocked little cries from her with every inward thrust. The tile was cold and rough against her cheek. His hand left her breast, sliding down her slick stomach, through the coarse hair between her legs, until his fingers found her soaked, swollen clit.
He drove into her ass with a deep, punishing rhythm, and at the same time, his long, clever fingers pushed inside her pussy, fucking her in counterpoint to his cock. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a symphony of violation and pleasure so intense it blurred into pain. She was being split open, filled beyond capacity, utterly claimed in every possible way.
“You feel that?” he growled, his teeth grazing her shoulder. “Both of you… full of me. Nothing else fits here. No one else. Just my cock, my fingers. You’re mine.”
She couldn’t speak. Her world had narrowed to the hard wall, the steaming water, and the devastating, perfect rhythm of his body destroying and remaking hers. The friction, the stretch, the skilled pressure of his fingers on her clit—it built a crescendo that broke over her without warning, a silent, seismic convulsion that locked her muscles and drew a raw, broken scream from her throat.
Feeling her climax clamp around his fingers, Yoongi lost the last vestige of his rhythm. His thrusts became ragged, brutal, chasing his own release. With three final, deep plunges that shoved her hard against the wall, he came, a hot flood that sealed his possession, his groan muffled against the nape of her neck.
They slumped together under the still-pounding water, spent, breathing in ragged unison. He slowly, carefully withdrew, turning her in his arms to hold her up as her legs buckled. He cradled her against him, his hands now gentle, stroking her hair, rinsing the soap from her skin with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the previous moments.
He turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening. Wrapping a large, plush towel around her, he dried her with the same meticulous care he’d used to wash her. He led her, silent and pliant, back to the rumpled bed.
As he pulled the duvet over them, tucking her against his side, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A single, insistent vibration.
Neither of them moved to check it. The city’s light bled around the edges of the blinds, painting stripes across the floor. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his chest.
“It’s begun,” she whispered, not a question.
His arm tightened around her. “Yeah,” he said, his voice already thick with sleep, with satiation. “It has.”
The phone buzzed again, a faint, angry insect sound in the dark. It went unanswered.