Chapter 9: Sunset Tease
The laughter from the kitchen had settled into a warm, domestic hum. The children, pacified by eggs and the triumphant defeat of the imaginary mosquito, were now in the living room, their voices a soft chatter over cartoons. Donghae leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Hyukjae wipe tears of mirth from his eyes.
“Naughty mosquito,” Hyukjae whispered, his voice still thick with amusement. He mimicked Haru’s swatting motion. “I’ll smack the mosquit!”
“You’re an idiot,” Donghae said, but his smile was fond, effortless. The tension from the flight, the performative distance, had dissolved under the ridiculousness of their children’s intervention. It left a clean, quiet space between them.
Later, after the babysitter had arrived and the kids were engrossed in a movie, Hyukjae grabbed a bottle from the fridge. “Upstairs. Now.”
The penthouse rooftop was their private slice of sky. The sun was a bleeding orange wound along the horizon, setting the low clouds on fire. The pool glowed, a rectangle of liquid amber reflecting the dying light. The city sound was a distant, soothing rush.
Hyukjae shucked his shirt first, then his pants, standing there in just his dark blue swim shorts. “Come on, old man. Water’s warm.”
Donghae undressed more slowly, folding his clothes onto a lounger. The evening air was a soft caress on his skin. He dove in, the water enveloping him in a silent, weightless embrace. He surfaced, pushing his hair back, to find Hyukjae already leaning against the infinity edge, looking out over the awakening city lights.
“It never gets old,” Hyukjae said, quieter now.
“What doesn’t?”
“This. All of it. Coming home to that,” he jerked his head back towards the apartment below, “and then coming up here to… this.” He turned, his eyes finding Donghae’s in the twilight. “To you.”
They swam lazy laps for a while, the water smoothing over skin still marked from their frantic coupling in the hallway days before. The evidence was fading, yellowing at the edges, but Donghae could still trace the shapes of his own fingers on Hyukjae’s hips if he looked closely. He felt a possessive thrum at the sight.
Eventually, they hauled themselves out, dripping onto the warm decking. Hyukjae fetched towels and the small blue bottle of peppermint oil from a cabinet. “Lie down,” he said, nodding to a wide, cushioned lounger.
Donghae obeyed, settling onto his stomach, his face turned towards the spectacular sky. The lounger material was cool against his heated skin. He heard the click of the bottle cap, the wet sound of oil being poured. Then Hyukjae’s weight settled across his thighs, not fully sitting, but kneeling over him.
His hands, strong and knowing from decades of dance and performance, came down on Donghae’s shoulders. The oil was cool at first, then warmed instantly by Hyukjae’s skin. He began to work, his thumbs digging deep into the tight ropes of muscle flanking Donghae’s spine.
A groan escaped Donghae, long and low. He melted into the pressure. Hyukjae’s hands were a revelation, finding every knot accumulated from travel, from stress, from holding himself so carefully in public.
“Jesus, you’re tense,” Hyukjae muttered, his voice all focused concentration. He used the heels of his palms, rolling them down the length of Donghae’s back. The peppermint scent, sharp and clean, bloomed in the warm air. Each stroke was firm, deliberate, wringing the stiffness out of him.
Donghae’s breathing deepened. He let his eyes close, the world narrowing to the push and pull of Hyukjae’s hands, the distant hum of the city, the faint chlorine tang mixing with peppermint. He felt unraveled, boneless.
Hyukjae’s fingers traced the individual vertebrae of Donghae’s spine, a gentle, exploring touch. Then his hands slid lower, spreading oil over the broad plane of his lower back. His thumbs pressed possessive circles into the dimples at the base, the touch no longer purely medicinal.
Donghae’s breath hitched.
A fresh, cool trickle of oil ran down the center of his back, a single shocking line that made him shiver. Hyukjae followed its path with one hand, smoothing it over the curve of Donghae’s ass. The touch lingered, kneading, not quite clinical anymore.
“Hyuk…” Donghae’s voice was muffled against the lounger cushion.
“Shhh. You’re still wound up.” Hyukjae’s tone was light, but his hands weren’t. They slid lower, his thumbs parting him. Another drip of oil, this one deliberate, landed in the cleft. Donghae jerked, a jolt of pure electric awareness shooting through him.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his back arching slightly off the lounger.
Hyukjae’s thumbs worked the oil there, his touch bold, slicking the furrow with a slow, obscene drag. “Just getting all the tension,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. His fingers pressed, just a little, against the tight ring of muscle.
Donghae groaned, pushing back against the pressure. “Just like that… god, don’t stop.”
Hyukjae didn’t. He stroked him there, circling, pressing, until Donghae was panting, his fingers clawing at the lounger fabric. The world had shrunk to this rooftop, this lounger, the feel of Hyukjae’s slick fingers teasing his most private place, the sound of his own ragged breaths loud in his ears.
He heard the rustle of fabric. The weight across his thighs shifted. Then the sound of a zipper. The rustle of swim shorts being pushed down.
Donghae turned his head, cheek pressed to the cushion. Hyukjae was kneeling over him again, his cock hard and flushed, jutting out from his body. He was slicking himself with the oil, his strokes rough and fast.
“You ready?” Hyukjae asked, his voice raw.
“Yes. Now. Please, now.”
Hyukjae didn’t need further invitation. He guided himself, the hot, broad head of his cock nudging against Donghae’s oil-slicked entrance. He pressed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion.
Donghae cried out as he was filled, the stretch a sweet, burning ache. It was deeper, more intense than in the hallway. This was slow, deliberate, a claiming under the open sky. Hyukjae sank all the way in, sheathing himself to the hilt, his hips flush against Donghae’s ass. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the lounger on either side of Donghae’s head, his body a cage of heat.
“Mine,” Hyukjae growled into his ear, a mirror of Donghae’s own possession days before. Then he began to move.
His thrusts were deep and measured at first, each one dragging a choked moan from Donghae’s throat. The angle was different, perfect. Hyukjae hit a spot inside him that sent white-hot pleasure lancing through his veins. Donghae pushed back, meeting every thrust, the lounger creaking beneath them.
“Harder,” Donghae begged, the word tearing from him. “Fuck me harder.”
Hyukjae snapped his hips forward, his pace turning frantic, brutal. The slapping sound of skin on skin was loud in the twilight, a raw, primal rhythm. Donghae’s vision blurred. He was reduced to sensation: the grip of Hyukjae’s hands on his hips, the driving pistoning of his cock, the pooling heat in his own groin.
Hyukjae was swearing, filthy, beautiful words. “You feel so fucking good. So tight. Taking me so deep, Hae. God, I love this ass.” He leaned down, biting Donghae’s shoulder, marking him again as he fucked into him with a desperate, pounding rhythm.
Donghae could feel his own orgasm building, a coil of fire tightening at the base of his spine. He reached a hand between his legs, but Hyukjae slapped it away.
“No. Come from this. Just from me fucking you.”
The command, the sheer arrogance of it, sent Donghae over the edge. His climax ripped through him with shocking force, his cry swallowed by the vast sky. His body clamped down on Hyukjae’s cock, milking it, as he spilled onto the cushion beneath him in hot, pulsing streaks.
The violent clenching triggered Hyukjae’s own release. He drove in one last, final time, burying himself as deep as possible, and shouted his completion, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside Donghae.
He collapsed forward, his sweat-slick chest pressed to Donghae’s oiled back, both of them gasping like they’d surfaced from drowning. For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant city.
Hyukjae softened inside him, still connected. He nuzzled Donghae’s neck, his lips soft against the skin he’d bitten. “The naughty mosquito strikes again,” he whispered, his voice wrecked.
A weak laugh bubbled out of Donghae. He turned his head, their lips meeting in a sticky, exhausted kiss. When Hyukjae finally pulled out, the loss was profound. They were a mess—of oil, spend, and sweat.
Without a word, Hyukjae helped him up. They staggered to the edge of the pool and slipped into the water. It was cool, cleansing. They floated together, limbs entangled, watching the first stars prick through the purple haze.
“The sitter leaves at eleven,” Donghae said, his voice hoarse.
“Mm.” Hyukjae traced a water droplet down Donghae’s cheek. “We have time.”
They did. But more than time, they had this: the water holding them, the city laid out like a gift below, the secret, glowing truth of their bodies humming in the quiet dark. It was a different kind of possession than the frantic hallway, different than the desperate cabana. This was slow, deep, and quiet, an ownership written in sweat and starlight, a reminder that home wasn’t just a place below them, but this exact point of collision, again and again, under an endless sky.
They floated until their skin pruned and the night air raised goosebumps on their arms. Donghae drifted on his back, the world reduced to the black velvet sky and the anchor of Hyukjae’s hand on his chest. A contented silence, thick and rare, settled between them.
Hyukjae broke it, his voice a quiet rasp. “I’m not done.”
His fingers trailed through the water, tracing a path down Donghae’s stomach. They hooked in the waistband of his swim shorts, a clear, insistent tug.
A slow heat, separate from the pool’s warmth, curled in Donghae’s gut. He stood, the water sluicing off him, and climbed the steps. He didn’t look back, just walked to the lounger, the one still faintly smelling of peppermint and sex. He heard Hyukjae emerge behind him, a wet slap of feet on decking.
Donghae lay back on the cushion, the fabric cool and slightly abrasive against his skin. He watched Hyukjae approach, a silhouette against the city glow, water dripping from his chin, his cock already half-hard again.
“Up,” Hyukjae said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He grabbed a towel, folded it roughly, and pushed it under Donghae’s hips. “There.”
He knelt over Donghae, straddling his thighs, and found the blue bottle. He poured oil directly into his own palm, not bothering to warm it this time. He fisted Donghae’s cock, his grip slick and sudden, stroking him to a painful, swift fullness.
“Look at you,” Hyukjae breathed, his eyes glinting in the low light. He guided Donghae inside him without preamble, sinking down in one slow, devastating motion. His body was still loose, still open, and it accepted Donghae with a wet, hungry heat that punched the air from both their lungs.
Hyukjae’s head fell back, a raw sound tearing from his throat. He began to move, his hips rolling in a deep, grinding circle. It was slow, agonizingly so, a mastery of qqfriction that had Donghae clawing at the lounger.
“Fuck,” Donghae gritted out, his vision swimming. “Hyukjae.”
“Say it again.” Hyukjae’s voice was a dark command. He lifted himself almost all the way off, then slammed back down, taking Donghae deeper. His hands braced on Donghae’s chest, fingernails digging in. “Say my name.”
“Hyukjae.” It was a plea, a prayer.
“Yeah.” Hyukjae set a brutal, perfect rhythm, riding him with a frenetic, consuming energy. Each drop of his body was a calculated slam, a claim. “Donghae. Donghae. God, right there, you’re right there, you’re in me, you’re in me, you’re in me.”
The chanting was relentless, punctuated by gasps and sobs. He was loud, obscenely loud, his voice carrying into the open night. He didn’t care. His eyes locked on Donghae’s, blazing with a feral love.
“I feel you,” he panted, his movements turning erratic, desperate. “All of you. Every fucking inch.I love this. I love you in me. Donghae, I love you, I love you, I love you.”
The words weren’t whispers. They were declarations shouted at the stars, each one a piston stroke of his hips. His chants dissolved into a broken litany, filth and devotion tangled together. “So deep, you fill me so deep, I love you, fuck, I love you, don’t stop, I love you—”
His orgasm ripped through him without warning. He screamed Donghae’s name, a raw, shattered sound that seemed to echo off the glass walls of the penthouse. His body convulsed, clamping down in vice-like pulses, milking Donghae relentlessly as he spilled between them, stripes of white painting Donghae’s stomach and chest.
The clenching heat, the visceral sound of his own name howled into the night, the sight of Hyukjae coming completely apart above him—it shattered Donghae completely. His own release tore from him, a silent, wrenching wave that left him blind and breathless, emptying himself deep inside the trembling, chanting man on top of him.
Hyukjae collapsed forward, a dead weight, his sweat-slick forehead pressed to Donghae’s. Their breaths sawed in tandem, the only sound for a long moment. Hyukjae’s lips moved against Donghae’s skin.
“I love you,” he whispered, the words now soft, spent, definitive. “That’s it. That’s all of it.”
Donghae couldn’t speak. He wrapped his arms around Hyukjae’s shaking back, holding the dizzy, sated weight of him. The city glittered, indifferent and bright below. Up here, they were a single, shuddering heartbeat, a secret etched in sweat and spend and stars, louder than any scream.