Chapter 4: Arrival at the Ilsan House
The wooden gate of the hanok swung shut behind her with a soft, final click. The sound was swallowed by the dense forest air, thick with the scent of damp earth and pine. Dusk painted the sky in bruised purples and golds, the light filtering through the trees in slanting, fading beams.
He was already there, waiting in the shadow of the overhanging eaves. Hyukjae leaned against a weathered support post, bare-chested, his lean torso sheened with a fresh layer of sweat that gleamed in the low light. A pair of loose gray sweats hung low on his hips. His breathing was still slightly elevated, his skin flushed from exertion. He’d been running.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other. The frantic panic of the studio, the ghost of Manager Kim’s text, hung between them like a specter.
“You came,” he said. His voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it.
“You paid for the cab from the city,” Gaby replied, her own voice steady despite the hammering of her heart. She adjusted the strap of her overnight bag. “It felt like an order.”
“It was a plea.” He pushed off the post and closed the distance between them. Up close, she could see the fine tremor in his hands, smell the clean salt of his sweat mixed with the forest. His dark eyes were huge, searching her face. “After that night… I thought you’d block my number.”
“I thought about it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because you looked at me in that studio like I was the only real thing in your world,” she whispered. “Even when you were terrified. Especially then.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He didn’t deny it. Instead, he reached out and took her bag, his fingers brushing hers. The contact was electric. He set it silently on the polished stone step. Then his hands were on her, not frantic, but deliberate. They framed her face, his thumbs tracing the arc of her eyebrows, the line of her jaw, as if memorizing her.
“I have been,” he began, then stopped, swallowing hard. “I have been aching for you. Physically. Like a sickness. It’s all I can think about. During practice, I see your reflection in the mirror instead of mine. During interviews, I hear your voice in my head. It’s fucking maddening.”
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. His breath was warm. “I’m sorry I used you. I’m not sorry I need you.”
Then his mouth found hers. This kiss was different. It wasn't the consuming fire of the hotel or the desperate reclaiming of the studio. It was deep, slow, and profoundly hungry, a confession of a week’s worth of starving. She opened for him, her tongue meeting his, tasting the mint he must have popped just before she arrived. His hands slid down her neck, over her shoulders, pulling her soft body flush against the hard, sweaty plane of his chest. The contrast was dizzying.
He walked her backward until her spine met the cool, solid wood of the hanok’s exterior wall. The ancient timber creaked softly. He broke the kiss, his eyes burning into hers as his hands went to the button of her jeans.
“I need to feel you,” he murmured, his voice gravel. “Right now. I can’t wait.”
He made quick work of the button and zipper, yanking the denim and her simple cotton panties down over her hips in one rough, efficient motion. The cool evening air kissed her exposed skin. He didn’t bother taking them all the way off. He just pushed the fabric to mid-thigh, a binding that made her feel even more exposed, more helpless to his intent.
He hooked his hands under her right thigh, lifting it, his strong dancer’s arm taking her full weight as he pressed her leg up and out against the wall. It opened her completely to him, to the darkening forest, to the fading sky.
He sank to his knees on the stone pathway.
His breath hit her wetness first, a hot gust that made her jerk. Then his mouth was on her, and any thought of apology or fear evaporated. He didn't tease. He feasted. His tongue speared into her core, a deep, claiming lunge that drew a sharp cry from her throat. He fucked her with his tongue, in and out, with a rhythmic intensity that mirrored the thrust of his hips in the studio. His nose ground against her clit with each dive, the pressure perfect and brutal.
“God, yes… right there…” she choked out, her head falling back against the wood with a thud. Her fingers plunged into his hair, not guiding, just holding on as the pleasure, sharp and blinding, lanced through her.
He groaned against her, the vibration traveling straight to her core. “Taste so good,” he slurred, his words muffled by her flesh. “Every fucking time. Like you were made for me to eat.” He switched techniques, his tongue flattening, lapping at her broadly before zeroing in on her clit, sucking the sensitive bud into the heat of his mouth.
She was panting, her other leg trembling, barely supporting her. The world narrowed to the feel of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the wet, obscene sounds of him devouring her. The forest crickets were a silent audience.
“Hyukjae… I’m close… so close…”
He pulled back abruptly, leaving her throbbing and empty, gasping at the sudden loss. He looked up at her, his chin glistening. His eyes were dark pools of pure want. “Not yet,” he breathed. “Not until I’m inside you.”
He stood in one fluid motion, his own arousal a blatant, heavy outline against the thin sweats. He didn’t remove them. He simply pushed the waistband down, freeing himself. He was already fully hard, the skin flushed and taut. He fisted himself once, twice, a slow, tight stroke that made her mouth water.
He grabbed her hips again, turning her roughly to face the wall. The rough wood grazed her cheek. He kicked her legs wider apart, the denim at her thighs a frustrating restraint. One hand planted on the wall beside her head, the other guided the thick head of his cock to her soaked entrance.
He pushed in.
It was a slow, inexorable invasion, a breathtaking stretch that filled her utterly. He didn’t sheath himself in one brutal stroke this time. He fed himself into her inch by torturous inch, letting her feel every ridge, every pulse of him. A low, broken moan escaped her, part pleasure, part overwhelm.
“Fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades. “You’re so… fucking… tight. Every time. It’s like you steal my soul.”
When he was fully seated, balls-deep, he stopped, both of them trembling with the effort of holding still. His body covered hers, a hot, heavy blanket. His lips found the shell of her ear.
“I’m going to fuck you in every room of this house before we leave,” he promised, his voice a raw whisper. “I’m going to bend you over that low table in the main room. I’m going to lay you out in the steaming bath and ride you until the water goes cold. I’m going to take you on the floor where the morning sun hits. I’m going to mark this place so all I remember is you screaming my name.”
Then he moved.
He set a deep, driving pace, each pull and thrust measured and devastatingly thorough. The slap of his skin against her ass was a crisp, rhythmic report in the quiet evening. His grip on her hip was iron, holding her in place for his relentless possession. The angle was perfect, each thrust brushing a spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids.
“Is this what you want, noona?” he grunted, his breath coming in hot gusts against her neck. “You want me to fuck you like this? Like I’ll die if I don’t?”
“Yes! God, yes, just like that… don’t stop…”
He obeyed. His rhythm began to fracture, the precise control of the dancer giving way to something more primal, more needy. His thrusts became harder, faster, slamming into her with a force that shoved her against the wall with every drive. The wood creaked in protest.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice ragged. “Tell me you’re mine here. That this is mine.”
“It’s yours,” she gasped, the words torn from her. “I’m yours, right here, it’s all yours…”
With a guttural roar that was part triumph, part surrender, he pistoned into her, his orgamming tearing through him. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release filling her, the violent shudders that racked his lean frame. It triggered her own climax, a secondary explosion that milked him through his own, her inner muscles clenching around him in rhythmic, fluttering waves until she was weak and boneless against the wall.
He collapsed against her, his full weight pressing her into the wood, both of them slick with sweat and spent. His breath was a hurricane in her ear. Slowly, softening, he slipped out of her. A warm trickle followed, tracing a path down her inner thigh.
For a long time, they didn’t move. The forest darkened around them. The first stars pricked the velvet sky.
Finally, he stirred. He gently pulled her jeans and underwear back up over her hips, his hands surprisingly tender. He turned her around and gathered her into his arms, holding her tightly, his face buried in her hair.
“I’m scared, Gaby,” he whispered, the words muffled.
“I know.”
“What are we doing?”
“I don’t know.”
He pulled back, cupping her face. In the deep blue twilight, his expression was stark, vulnerable. “A week. We have this week. Manager Kim thinks I’m on a solo ‘reflection retreat’ after the contract stress. The others think I’m visiting a distant cousin. No one will look here.”
“A week,” she echoed, the words feeling like both a gift and a sentence.
He nodded, then bent to pick up her bag. Taking her hand, he led her inside the dark hanok. He didn’t turn on the lights. He navigated by memory, through the main room with its low wooden table, past a sliding screen door, into a bedroom where a thick futon was laid out on the tatami floor.
He dropped her bag and pulled her down onto the futon with him, their clothes still in disarray. He curled his body around hers from behind, his arm a heavy, possessive band across her waist. His lips pressed against the nape of her neck.
“Sleep,” he murmured. “Tomorrow, I start on my promise.”
Outside, an owl called. A distant sound, lonely and searching. Gaby lay awake in the dark, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her back, listening to the forest, and wondering how in the world she was ever going to walk away from this.