Chapter 10: Office Interruption
Three days of “constant, hands-on care” had left Hyukjae languid and sore in the best possible way. The sprawling penthouse, once an exhibit of cold luxury, now held the evidence of their entanglement: a discarded robe on the library ladder, two empty wine glasses by the soaking tub, the distinct memory of Donghae’s mouth on him in every room.
But today, Donghae had retreated. The study door had been closed since morning, the intermittent growl of his voice on calls a reminder of the world that insisted on existing beyond their bubble. Hyukjae felt its pull like a physical draft. The contract marriage, the faceless board, the reason he was here in his sister’s stead—it was all waiting on the other side of that polished oak.
He found the tie in their walk-in closet. It was Donghae’s favorite, a sliver of midnight silk from a family-owned atelier in Rome. Hyukjae brought it to his face, inhaling the faint, expensive scent of Donghae’s cedar and bergamot cologne that lingered on the fabric. A plan, delicious and reckless, cohered in his mind.
He didn’t bother with clothes. The air conditioning kissed his skin as he walked naked down the corridor, the silk tie coiled in his fist. He paused outside the study, hearing the definitive click of Donghae ending a call. Perfect timing.
Hyukjae pushed the door open without knocking.
Donghae was seated behind the colossal desk, his back to the door, staring out at the geometric glow of the city. He didn’t turn. “I said no more interruptions, Joon.”
“It’s not Joon.”
Donghae’s chair swiveled slowly. His eyes, dark and tired from screens, tracked from Hyukjae’s face down the length of his body. They didn’t widen with surprise. They simply deepened, heated, turning from polished jet to molten ore. His gaze stuck on the tie in Hyukjae’s hand.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Hyukjae leaned against the doorframe, letting the pose highlight his slender build. “I’m a pending item. You seem to have forgotten to deal with me today.” He stepped inside, letting the door sigh shut behind him. The study felt different like this—the mahogany and whiskey scent becoming a stage, the city lights an audience.
With deliberate slowness, he wrapped the lengthg of silk around his semi-hard cock, tying it off in a loose, decadent bow. The contrast of the dark silk against his pale skin was obscenely elegant. “See? A present. For the hardworking Chairman.”
Donghae didn’t move from his chair, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the armrests. “I have a merger proposal to review. It’s sensitive.”
“I’m sensitive,” Hyukjae purred, walking forward. He stopped in front of the desk, a fortress of order, and turned his back to Donghae. With both hands on the cool wood, he bent over, presenting himself. The tie dangled absurdly, provocatively, between his thighs. He looked back over his shoulder, meeting Donghae’s burning stare. “I also think you forgot to stamp some important documents.” He reached back with one hand, spreading his cheeks apart, offering a view of his still-loosened, pinked entrance. “Right here. Needs your seal. Your personal attention.”
The silence that followed was seismic. Then, a low, visceral sound ripped from Donghae’s throat.
He was out of his chair so fast it wheeled back and slammed into the window. In two strides, he was on him. His hand wasn’t gentle. It wrapped in Hyukjae’s hair, pulling his head back. “You come into my study, where I conduct billion-won deals, and present your used, pretty hole to me like it’s a requisition form?”
“Is it approved?” Hyukjae breathed, his scalp stinging, his blood singing.
Donghae’s other hand smacked down on his ass, a sharp, shocking crack that echoed in the room. Hyukjae jolted, a cry torn from him. “It’s denied.” Another slap, on the other cheek, painting his skin a hot red. “You have the worst fucking timing.” A third. “And the most spectacular, shit-stirring audacity.”
With a furious grunt, Donghae shoved him. Hyukjae stumbled, his knees hitting the plush rug. Before he could right himself, Donghae’s hands were on his hips, flipping him onto his back across the desk. Ledgers and tablets clattered to the floor. The single photograph in its silver frame wobbled dangerously.
Donghae stood over him, a towering silhouette against the skyline, fumbling with his belt. His slacks were already tented obscenely. “You want it stamped? I’ll stamp you so deep you’ll feel it in your throat.”
He didn’t prepare him. There was no finesse, just the rough, desperate shove of his fingers, still smelling of ink and whiskey, into Hyukjae’s body, stretching him with a brutal efficiency that made Hyukjae arch off the desk with a choked gasp. It was too dry, too fast, a bright flash of pain that blurred into dizzying need.
“Donghae—fuck—!”
“You asked for this.” Donghae aligned himself, the broad head of his cock a blunt, demanding pressure. “You begged for it on your knees in my kitchen, and now you’re begging for it on my desk. You’re a fucking addict.” He sank in, not in one smooth motion, but in a relentless, conquering push that burned and filled and claimed.
Hyukjae screamed. The wood was hard and unyielding against his spine. Donghae folded over him, bracing his hands on either side of Hyukjae’s head, and began to fuck him in earnest. It was a punishing, piston-drive rhythm, each thrust jolting Hyukjae’s body, making the heavy desk creak in protest. The silk tie around his cock was a maddening tease, constricting and rubbing with every jarring movement.
“This what you wanted?” Donghae snarled, his breath hot and ragged. “To be my little distraction? My dirty secret across the desk?” He drove in harder, deeper. “You’re not a secret. You’re a fucking disaster. You’ve ruined every clean line in my life.”
Hyukjae could only clutch at Donghae’s shoulders, his nails digging into the fine fabric of his shirt. He was split open, owned, the pleasure so tightly wound with a shameful, searing pain that he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. “Yes! God, yes, ruin it—ruin me—!”
Donghae’s control was in tatters. His hips lost their rhythm, devolving into a frantic, slamming chase. One hand scrambled, finding Hyukjae’s tied cock, and he ripped the silk bow loose, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound. He wrapped his fist around him, stroking in time with his thrusts, rough and perfect.
The combined sensation was too much. Hyukjae’s orgasm exploded without warning, a white-hot wire of ecstasy that locked his every muscle. He came with a shattered sob, stripes of release painting his stomach and chest, his channel clamping down violently on Donghae’s cock.
The tight, fluttering squeeze tore Donghae’s climax from him. He buried himself to the root, a final, ground-shaking drive, and Hyukjae felt the hot, pulsing flood inside him. Donghae’s shout was raw, guttural, a sound of utter surrender.
A loud, sharp crack sounded beneath them.
The desk, the formidable, antique oak desk, had splintered along a seam under the combined force of their weight and violence.
The silence that fell was total, broken only by their heaving breaths. Donghae slumped over him, his forehead coming to rest on Hyukjae’s sternum. They were a mess of sweat and spend, lying on the ruined battlefield of his professional domain.
Slowly, carefully, Donghae softened and slipped out. He didn’t move far, just rested his head beside Hyukjae’s on the scarred wood, their cheeks touching. He looked at the crack running through the mahogany like a black lightning bolt.
“That was a nineteenth-century heirloom,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Hyukjae turned his head, his lips brushing Donghae’s temple. “You can buy another.”
“I don’t want another.” Donghae’s hand found his, their fingers intertwining amidst the wreckage of papers. “I want the crack. I want the reminder that you were here. That this happened.”
He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over Hyukjae’s prone, marked body, then up to his face. The tenderness in his eyes was so profound it was harder to bear than the fucking had been.“The merger,” Hyukjae whispered, the real world seeping back in. “Your call…”
“Can wait.” Donghae leaned down, kissing him slowly, a stark contrast to the frenzy of minutes before. It tasted like confession. “Everything can wait.”
“Everything can wait.” Donghae’s whisper was a lie they both accepted, his thumb stroking the sharp line of Hyukjae’s cheekbone. The city’s light bled across their damp skin.
But it couldn’t. The silence was severed by the violent buzz of a phone skittering on the fallen ledger. Donghae flinched, the real world a cold shard in their warmth. He didn’t move. The phone buzzed again, a relentless insect.
“It’s the Hong Kong call,” Hyukjae said softly, the words tasting like ash. He pushed gently at Donghae’s shoulder. “You have to answer.”
Donghae’s eyes shut, a brief, pained closure. He heaved himself up, his body leaving a cold void. He found the phone, his voice when he answered not the one that had just snarled filth into Hyukjae’s skin, but cool, clipped, authoritative. “Donghae. Yes, I have the revised figures.”
Hyukjae slid off the ruined desk, his legs unsteady. He gathered the torn silk tie from the floor, its smoothness now a memory of chaos. He watched Donghae pace, a predator corralled by spreadsheets and time zones, his bare back rigid with resurrected duty.
He wouldn’t be the crack in the foundation today. Not anymore.
Padding quietly, he retrieved Donghae’s discarded dress shirt, slipping it on. It hung to his thighs, a ghost of the man now speaking low Mandarin into the receiver. Hyukjae left the study without a sound.
Hours later, the penthouse was silent save for the hum of the ventilation. Hyukjae heard the study door finally open. Footsteps, heavy with exhaustion, moved down the hall toward the master suite.
He was waiting in the bathroom, a cavern of slate and steam. Candles flickered on the wide ledge of the sunken stone tub, which was filled with water the deep green of forest moss, scattered with bergamot pods. The air hung thick with the scent of sandalwood and bruised citrus.
Donghae paused in the doorway, his tie loose, his jacket gone. He looked ravaged, not by passion, but by the sheer mechanical grind of it all. He saw the tub, the candles, Hyukjae perched on its stone edge in just the open shirt.
“What’s this?”
“You finished your work,” Hyukjae said. It wasn’t a question. “You clinched it.”
A slow blink. “How did you know?”
“You only get that particular crease between your eyebrows when you’ve won something that cost you a piece of your soul.” Hyukjae stood, letting the shirt fall open. “So. A gift. As promised.”
He approached and began undoing Donghae’s remaining buttons, his fingers methodical. He pushed the shirt off his shoulders, then worked on the belt, the slacks, until Donghae stood naked and weary before him. He led him by the hand into the hot, fragrant water.
Donghae sank into the tub with a groan that spoke of deep physical relief, his head falling back against the stone. Hyukjae climbed in after him, settling between his legs. He took a jug, rinsing the day from Donghae’s skin, the water sluicing in clear rivulets over the tense plains of his chest.
Then he began. He poured sesame oil into his palm, warming it between his hands before spreading it over Donghae’s shoulders. His thumbs found the knots of steel cable along his spine, working them with a firm, knowing pressure. He did not speak. He just worked, kneading the cold authority from the muscle, feeling the gradual, shuddering surrender under his hands.
His touch traveled lower, over the dip of his waist, the curve of his ass under the water, sliding back up the inner lines of his thighs. Donghae’s breath grew deeper, a ragged, open-mouthed rhythm. His head lolled to the side, watching Hyukjae with heavy-lidded eyes.
Hyukjae leaned forward, peppering his shoulder with soft, sucking kisses. He nibbled the cord of his neck. “You’re so fucking tense,” he murmured against his skin.
“You have a talent for causing it. And for this.” Donghae’s hand came up, wet and dripping, to cup the back of Hyukjae’s head. “This undoing.”
Hyukjae smiled, kissing his sternum. His oil-slick hand drifted around front, closing around Donghae’s cock, which was already thick and hardening under the water. He pumped him slowly, a lazy, claiming rhythm. “Stand up.”
Donghae obeyed, water sheeting off his body, the candlelight painting him in gold and shadow. Hyukjae rose after him, leading him by the cock to a wide, padded bench. He pushed him down onto it.
“My turn,” Hyukjae whispered.
He straddled Donghae’s lap, facing him, their wet chests sliding together. He reached between them, guiding Donghae’s cock to his hole. He was still loose, still slick from their earlier wreckage, but this was different. He controlled the descent, lowering himself by agonizing, exquisite degrees, his eyes locked on Donghae’s.
The stretch was a deep, burning fullness. He seated himself fully, a slow exhale ghosting from his lips. Donghae’s hands clamped on his hips, fingers biting into the flesh, but he didn’t move. He let Hyukjae own it.
And Hyukjae began to ride him. A slow, grinding roll of his hips, a tight, circling undulation that made Donghae’s jaw go slack. His head fell back, tendons standing in sharp relief in his neck.
“Look at me,” Hyukjae breathed, his own breath catching as he lifted and fell, taking him deep. “I want to see you. I want to see it happen.”
Donghae’s eyes snapped open, blazing with raw need. They were defenseless. Hyukjae increased his pace, riding him with a determined, fluid rhythm, the wet slap of their skin a counterpoint to their gasps. He felt the coil tightening in his own gut, a sparkling wire about to snap.
“You’re close,” he panted, leaning in to bite Donghae’s lower lip. “I can feel it. Let me see. Please.”
He quickened, bouncing on his cock now, taking him so deep it bordered on pain, chasing his own release against the friction of their bodies. Donghae’s control shattered. His hips pistoned upward, fucking up into him with a brutal, final urgency. A guttural, broken sound was torn from his chest.
Hyukjae watched. He saw the moment: the flutter of Donghae’s eyelids, the desperate parting of his lips, the sheer, unguarded spasm of pure sensation that transformed his handsome, controlled face into something beautiful and ruined. It was the face he loved.
Seeing it tipped Hyukjae over the edge. His orgasm ripped through him, blinding and silent for a second before a sharp cry escaped. He clenched around Donghae, milking him, feeling the hot, pulsing release inside him as his own spend painted their stomachs.
He collapsed forward, peppering Donghae’s face with kisses—his temple, his closed eyelids, his salt-streaked cheeks, his panting mouth. “There,” he mumbled between kisses. “There it is. That’s the face. That’s my gift.”
Donghae’s arms wrapped around him, crushing him close, their hearts hammering a frantic, synchronized rhythm against the quiet, steam-filled night.
”
Donghae’s arms wrapped around him, crushing him close, their hearts hammering a frantic, synchronized rhythm against the quiet, steam-filled night. The water around them cooled, raising goosebumps on their spent skin. “I can’t feel my legs,” Hyukjae murmured into the hollow of Donghae’s throat.
“Good.” The word was a rumble beneath his ear. Then, with a grunt of effort, Donghae stood, water sloshing over the rim of the tub as he lifted Hyukjae in his arms. He carried him, dripping, into the bedroom, where the sheets were still tangled from the previous night. He laid him down on the dark cotton, his body a warm, heavy shadow in the low light.
He didn’t speak. He just looked, his gaze a physical weight traveling from Hyukjae’s ankles to his hairline. He leaned down, his mouth hovering over a peaked, pink nipple. “I missed this,” he said, his breath hot. “In that fucking five-hour call, all I saw was this.” His tongue swiped, flat and deliberate, across the tight bud.
Hyukjae arched, a sharp intake of breath. “You’re a liar. You were thinking about depreciation schedules.”
“I was thinking about how you taste.” Donghae sealed his mouth over the nipple, sucking hard, worrying it with his teeth until Hyukjae whimpered. His hand found the other, pinching and rolling it roughly between his thumb and forefinger. The dual assault was electric, pleasure shooting straight to Hyukjae’s already-stirring cock. “I want to watch you,” Donghae muttered, moving to lavish the same attention on his other nipple. “When you come apart. I want to see every flicker in those fucking expressive eyes.”
He kissed a trail up Hyukjae’s sternum, his neck, finally claiming his mouth. The kiss was deep, languid, a possessive exploration. Donghae settled his weight between Hyukjae’s thighs, the thick length of his erection pressing against his hole, already slick and loose from the bath and their earlier fucking.
“Look at me,” Donghae breathed against his lips, not a request but a soft command.
Hyukjae opened his eyes. Donghae’s face was inches from his, stripped of all its boardroom armor, his pupils blown wide with a need that was terrifying in its honesty. He pushed in.
It was an excruciatingly slow invasion. There was no violence now, only a deliberate, stretching fullness that made Hyukjae’s breath hitch. Donghae sank in by millimeters, his gaze locked on Hyukjae’s, watching every micro-expression—the flutter of a lash, the parting of lips, the dazed softening of focus as he was filled.
“Fuck,” Hyukjae whispered, the word tearing from him as Donghae bottomed out, their hips flush. The fit was perfect, an ache so profound it bordered on reverence.
“See?” Donghae murmured, beginning to move. He withdrew just as slowly, then pushed back in with a steady, rolling thrust that dragged against every sensitive nerve inside him. “See what you do?” His pace was a relentless, slow grind, each movement calculated to wring sensation from their very cores. It wasn’t about taking; it was about sharing the same breath, the same shuddering wave of building pressure.
Hyukjae’s hands came up to frame Donghae’s face, his thumbs stroking the high arches of his cheekbones. The pleasure was a deep, resonant thrum, a cello’s note held until it vibrated in the bones. It built not in spikes, but in a swelling tide, warm and inexorable. Each thrust was a promise, a question, an answer.
“Donghae…” His name was a prayer, a broken thing.
“I see you.” Donghae’s thrusts remained measured, deep, each one brushing that perfect, blinding spot inside him. The friction was delicious, a sweet, slow burn. Hyukjae could feel everything—the ripple of Donghae’s abdomen against his, the sweat-slick slide of their chests, the impossible intimacy of being so thoroughly known and open.
The coil in his gut tightened, sweet and severe. A tremor started in his thighs. His vision began to blur at the edges, the room dissolving into the heat and weight of the man above him. The pleasure was too much, too good, a seismic pressure seeking release.
A tear escaped, tracking a hot path down his temple into his hairline. Then another. It wasn’t sadness. It was the sheer, overwhelming fullness of it, this blissful, delicious wrecking of his every boundary.
“There,” Donghae whispered, his own rhythm beginning to fray, his thrusts gaining a shallow, urgent hitch. “That’s it. That’s the face.” He drove in, hard and deep, and held there as Hyukjae shattered.
Hyukjae’s climax rolled through him like a silent thunderclap. His back arched off the bed, a soundless cry on his lips, his body clenching in rhythmic, milking pulses around Donghae’s cock. The intensity was blinding, wringing more tears from his tightly shut eyes.
Seeing him, feeling him, was all it took. Donghae’s control snapped. With a choked-off groan, he fucked into him through the convulsions, his own release hitting him like a freight train. He spilled deep inside, his body shuddering violently, his forehead collapsing against Hyukjae’s shoulder.
For long minutes, the only sound was their ragged, merging breath. Donghae shifted, careful not to separate them, gathering Hyukjae against his side. He kissed the damp trails on Hyukjae’s face, tasting salt.
Hyukjae nuzzled into his neck, spent and boneless. In the dark, his fingers found Donghae’s, tracing the lines of his palm. “The desk,” he mumbled, drowsy.
“What about it?”
“You really aren’t going to fix it?”
Donghae’s arm tightened around him. “No.” He paused. “The board is flying in tomorrow. For the final merger sign-off.”
The real world, cold and intricate, clicked back into place with those words. The warmth of the bed suddenly felt fragile. Hyukjae stilled. “Here?”
“Here.” Donghae’s voice was quiet in the dark. “They’ll see the crack. They’ll see everything.”
Hyukjae understood. The crack wasn’t just in the wood. It was in the façade. It was in Donghae, and in the carefully constructed life he was now choosing to live, visibly, with him. He didn’t answer. He just held on tighter, their hearts beating a slow, steady rhythm against the coming dawn.