Chapter 3: CEO's Special Reward
The quiet kisses were a language Donghae understood perfectly. They were the period at the end of a very long, frantic sentence. He floated on them, his body heavy and pliant against the silk duvet. Hyukjae’s mouth was a soft, insistent point of warmth, tracing the architecture of his face, his throat, the hollow of his collarbone.
Each brush of lips was an erasure. The phantom pressure of the headphones, the stale studio air, the red recording light burning behind his eyelids—Hyukjae was kissing it all away.
He lingered over the pulse in Donghae’s throat, feeling it hammer against his lips. “So quiet now,” he murmured, the words vibrating against Donghae’s skin. “After all that noise you made.”
Donghae’s only response was a low hum. His hands, which had been fisted loosely in Hyukjae’s sweater, relaxed, palms flattening against the lean muscle of his back.
Hyukjae drew back, just enough to look at him. The golden afternoon light from the window cut across the bed, illuminating the fine lines at the corners of Donghae’s closed eyes, the relaxed slack of his mouth. He looked his age, and utterly beautiful in it. Hyukjae’s expression shifted, the tender focus sharpening into something more possessive, more hungry.
“My turn to listen,” Hyukjae said, his voice dropping into a rougher register.
He moved down the bed, his hands sliding under the hem of Donghae’s soft cotton t-shirt. He didn’t pull it off. Instead, he bent his head and took the fabric in his teeth, right over Donghae’s stomach. He tugged upwards, a slow, deliberate motion.
Donghae’s eyes flew open. He gasped, a short, sharp intake of breath at the sensation—the scrape of teeth through the material, the damp heat of Hyukjae’s mouth against his skin. “Hyukkie—”
“Shhh.” Hyukjae released the shirt, leaving a patch of damp cotton clinging to the defined planes of Donghae’s abdomen. He shuffled lower on the bed, kneeling on the floor beside it. He placed his hands on Donghae’s hips, his fingers hooking into the belt loops of his jeans. He looked up, meeting Donghae’s wide-eyed gaze. “You filled all the rooms with your voice. Now I want to hear the rest of you.”
He leaned in again, his mouth finding the button of Donghae’s jeans. He worked it open with a firm nudge of his chin and teeth, the metal cold for a second against his lips. The zipper came next. Hyukjae gripped the tab between his teeth and dragged it down, the sound obscenely loud in the hushed room.
Donghae lifted his hips instinctively, a shaky, aborted movement. Hyukjae held him down with a firm hand on his stomach. “Stay still.”
He didn’t use his hands. He used his mouth and his teeth and the stubborn angle of his jaw to peel the denim down Donghae’s thighs, over his knees. The fabric caught. Hyukjae growled low in his throat, a sound of pure frustration that shot straight to Donghae’s groin. He bit at the stiff material until it gave way, dragging the jeans and briefs down together in a single, rough push.
The cool air of the room hit Donghae’s heated skin. He was completely exposed, half-naked from the waist down, his cock already hard and curving against his belly. A flush spread across his chest and up his neck. Hyukjae stared, his eyes dark and unblinking.
“Look at you,” Hyukjae breathed. He didn’t touch. He just looked, his gaze a physical caress. “All that pressure, all that perfection…” He leaned forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Donghae’s thigh. “It lives right here, doesn’t it? In all this tension.” His lips moved higher, his breath hot. “I could taste it on your voice in the booth. That raw fucking edge.”
His tongue laved a stripe along the crease of Donghae’s groin. Donghae jerked, a ragged sound tearing from his throat. He fisted his hands in the silk duvet.
Hyukjae finally took him into his mouth, slow and deep, swallowing him down with practiced ease. Donghae cried out, his back arching off the bed. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming. Hyukjae’s head bobbed, his lips stretched tight, a filthy, wet sound accompanying each movement. He paused, pulling off with a soft pop, his own breath coming quick.
“That track,” he panted, his voice rough. “‘Rocket.’ You sang that last chorus like you were fucking coming.” He dove down again, taking Donghae deep, his throat working.
The crudeness, the direct link between his art and this base physicality, shattered something in Donghae. He wasn’t a CEO here. He wasn’t an idol. He was just a body, being worshipped with a savage tenderness. He whimpered, his hips beginning to move in tiny, helpless thrusts.
Hyukjae pulled off again, his own need evident in the tight line of his jaw. He stood up, his hands going to his own clothes. He yanked his sweater over his head, tossed it. He made quick work of his own jeans and briefs, kicking them aside. He stood naked by the bed, all lean muscle and intent, his erection jutting thick and heavy from his body.
He didn’t join Donghae on the bed. He climbed over him, one knee on either side of Donghae’s hips, caging him in. He braced his hands on either side of Donghae’s head, lowering himself until their bodies were almost touching, heat radiating between them.
“That ballad,” Hyukjae whispered, his lips brushing Donghae’s. “‘Anchor.’ Sounded so fucking lonely.” He rocked his hips, the hard length of him dragging against Donghae’s stomach, leaving a slick trail. “You’re not alone.”
He reached between them, his hand wrapping around both of them, his grip firm and knowing. Donghae shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound, as Hyukjae began to stroke them together. The friction was brutal, perfect. It was too much and not enough. Donghae’s head thrashed against the pillow. “Please… Hyukjae, please.”
“Please what?” Hyukjae demanded, his pace relentless. Sweat dripped from his chin onto Donghae’s chest. “You want me inside you? You want to feel how proud of you I am?” He leaned down, sucking a bruise into the tender skin of Donghae’s neck. “That you did it? That you finished your fucking masterpiece?”
“Yes,” Donghae sobbed, completely unraveled. “God, yes.”
Hyukjae released them, fumbling for a moment in the discarded clothes on the floor. He found his wallet, retrieved a small foil packet. He sheathed himself with quick, efficient motions, his eyes never leaving Donghae’s face. He poured a slick, cool drizzle of lube into his palm, coated himself, then pressed a wet finger against Donghae’s entrance.
Donghae was loose, relaxed from the oral attention, but the intrusion still made him gasp. Hyukjae worked him open with a single finger, then two, his movements urgent, less about preparation and more about claiming. “You’re so open for me,” he groaned. “Always so fucking ready.”
He withdrew his fingers. He positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing insistently. He locked eyes with Donghae, a fierce, unbreakable connection. “This,” Hyukjae said, voice guttural, “is your encore.”
He pushed in.
The stretch was breathtaking, a full, burning pressure that stole the air from Donghae’s lungs. He cried out, his legs wrapping around Hyukjae’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back. Hyukjae sank deeper, deeper, until he was fully sheathed, their bodies locked together. He paused, trembling with the effort of holding still, his forehead damp against Donghae’s.
“Fuck,” Donghae breathed, overwhelmed. He could feel every inch, a perfect, filling ache. It was grounding. It was everything.
Hyukjae began to move. Not a frantic pounding, but a series of deep, grinding rolls of his hips. Each thrust was a deliberate, soul-reaching plunge. It was slow, it was punishing in its intensity. He kept his eyes open, watching every flicker of pleasure and pain on Donghae’s face.
“That’s it,” Hyukjae grunted, his pace gradually building. “That’s the sound. The one you found in the booth when I walked in.” He drove into him, hard. “That raw, hungry fucking sound.” Another deep, skewering thrust. “It belongs to me. You gave it to me.”
Donghae could only nod, his world reduced to the sensation of being filled, owned, seen. His own cock, trapped between their sweat-slicked stomachs, leaked steadily. The pleasure coiled tight, a spring wound to its breaking point. He was babbling, a mix of Korean and broken English, curses and pleas and Hyukjae’s name.
Hyukjae shifted his angle, and the new pressure against Donghae’s prostate was blinding. Donghae screamed, his body bowing off the bed. Hyukjae snarled, sinking his teeth into Donghae’s shoulder, holding him down as he fucked into him with a relentless, driving rhythm. The bed slammed against the wall in a steady, rhythmic thump.
“Come on,” Hyukjae growled against his skin. “Come for me. Let me feel it. All that beautiful tension you’ve been carrying… let it go. Give it to me.”
The command, the filthy permission, was the final key. Donghae’s climax tore through him with a violence that felt like transformation. He came between their bodies with a choked, shattered cry, stripes of white painting his chest and Hyukjae’s. His body clamped down around Hyukjae, milking him, pulling him over the edge.
Hyukjae thrust once, twice more, a broken groan ripped from his throat as he followed, spilling inside the condom with a final, shuddering drive of his hips. He collapsed atop Donghae, his full weight a welcome anchor.
For long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city. Hyukjae softened inside him, still nestled deep. He nuzzled Donghae’s neck, placing a soft, incongruously gentle kiss on the bite mark he’d left.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out and disposed of the condom. He fetched a warm, damp towel from the bathroom and cleaned them both with a tenderness that contrasted starkly with their previous frenzy. He slid back into bed, gathering Donghae against him, tucking the man’s limp, sated body into the curve of his own.
Donghae felt hollowed out, but in the best way. Emptied of anxiety, of doubt, of everything but a bone-deep, buzzing peace. The setting sun painted the room in deep oranges and purples.
Hyukjae’s hand stroked his hair. “The rooms are quiet now,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
Donghae turned his head, his nose brushing Hyukjae’s collarbone. “They’re full,” he corrected softly, his voice hoarse. “Just… with you.”
Outside, Seoul glittered, indifferent. Tomorrow, the work would begin again—the marketing plans, the meetings, the relentless machine of promotion. But here, in the warm nest of silk and shared breath, the album was truly, finally, complete. It existed in the world. And they existed here, in the quiet aftermath, perfectly and utterly together.
And they existed here, in the quiet aftermath, perfectly and utterly together. The sun had dipped completely, staining the room the deep blue of a fresh bruise. Donghae’s breathing had evened out against Hyukjae’s chest, his limbs leaden with release.
Hyukjae’s fingers traced idle patterns on the damp skin of Donghae’s shoulder. The silence between them was viscous and complete.
Then Donghae stirred, a slow, deliberate shift of muscle. He lifted his head from Hyukjae’s chest, his eyes dark pools in the low light. The peace on his face had morphed into something else—a focused, simmering intent. He looked down at Hyukjae’s body, at the marks they’d left on each other.
“My turn,” Donghae said, his voice gravelly.
He didn’t wait for a response. He pushed himself up, rolling Hyukjae onto his back with a surprising strength. Hyukjae went willingly, a curious smirk playing on his lips. Donghae straddled his hips, his own spent body a silhouette against the window’s twilight glow.
“Your turn for what?” Hyukjae asked, his hands coming to rest on Donghae’s thighs.
“You gave me the encore,” Donghae said, leaning down until their lips were a breath apart. “Now I want the… ownership.”
He captured Hyukjae’s mouth in a kiss that was all possession, no softness. It was a reclaiming. He sucked Hyukjae’s lower lip between his teeth, biting down just enough to sting. When he pulled back, Hyukjae’s smirk had vanished, replaced by naked want.
Donghae’s mouth traveled south. He licked a broad stripe up the center of Hyukjae’s chest, over the sternum, until his lips closed around a tight, brown nipple. He bit down, not a gentle nip, but a sharp, claiming pressure.
Hyukjae hissed, his back arching off the bed. “Fuck, Hae—”
Donghae swirled his tongue around the taut peak, soothing the bite before he sucked it hard into his mouth. He repeated the act on the other side, biting then soothing, his hands pinning Hyukjae’s wrists to the mattress. He was marking, cataloging, taking back the control that had been so lovingly stripped from him hours before.
He released the nipple with a wet pop, sitting back up. He reached for the lube, coating his fingers with a slick, glistening sheen. His eyes never left Hyukjae’s as he reached behind himself.
Hyukjae watched, transfixed, as Donghae prepared himself. His breath caught as Donghae’s fingers worked, his own body tensing in sympathetic anticipation. Donghae’s expression was one of deep concentration, a slight furrow between his brows.
“Wanted you… inside me before,” Donghae panted, his fingers pushing deeper. “Needed it. Now I want you… under me.”
He removed his fingers, glistening. He positioned himself, one hand guiding Hyukjae’s thick, hardened length to his entrance. He paused, the head pressing against him. Hyukjae’s hands flew to Donghae’s hips, his knuckles white.
“Do it,” Hyukjae growled, his voice strained. “Fucking take it. Take me.”
Donghae sank down.
It was a slow, excruciating descent. Donghae threw his head back, a strangled groan escaping his lips as he impaled himself, taking Hyukjae in to the root. The fullness was profound, a stretching ache that bordered on pain. He stayed there, seated fully, letting them both feel the overwhelming connection.
He began to move.
It wasn’t the frantic pounding from earlier. This was a slow, deep roll of his hips, a sensual grind that made Hyukjae curse fluidly into the darkening room. Donghae rode him with a deliberate, devastating rhythm, his own cock swaying, hard again and leaking.
“You,” Donghae grunted, each downward stroke a punctuation. “You and your… quiet studio.” He lifted almost completely off before sinking back down, drawing a sharp cry from Hyukjae. “Your forehead… against mine.” Another deep, circular grind. “You gave me the song back.”
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on Hyukjae’s chest. The change in angle made Hyukjae shout, his eyes squeezing shut. Donghae’s pace increased, the slapping of their skin becoming a wet, rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breaths.
“This is mine,” Donghae snarled, his composure fracturing into something raw and primal. “This feeling. You. My encore.” He was slamming down now, his body using Hyukjae’s for its own consummation, taking what he needed. “You’re mine.”
Hyukjae could only nod, his words stolen by the brutal pleasure. His hands scrabbled at Donghae’s back, leaving red trails. He was close, so dangerously close.
Donghae sensed it. He sat up straight, pulling Hyukjae’s hands up to his own nipples. “Do it,” he demanded.
Hyukjae pinched and twisted the sensitive nubs, hard. The sharp pain lanced through Donghae, a brilliant counterpoint to the deep, grinding pleasure in his core. It tipped him over the edge.
His orgasm ripped through him silent at first, a stunning, white-hot seizure of his entire body. Then the sound followed, a raw, guttural cry that tore from his throat as he came in thick, pulsing ropes across Hyukjae’s stomach and chest.
The intense, clenching rhythm of Donghae’s body around him was too much. Hyukjae’s own release surged up, unstoppable. He thrust up once, twice, a final, desperate drive as he came inside Donghae with a shattered groan, filling the condom, his body convulsing.
Donghae collapsed forward, a boneless weight onto Hyukjae’s heaving chest. They were a mess of sweat and spend and shaking limbs. The room smelled of sex and salt and them.
Minutes bled by, marked only by the slowing cadence of their hearts. Hyukjae’s hands, clumsy with exhaustion, rose to stroke Donghae’s sweat-damp hair.
Donghae nuzzled into the hollow of Hyukjae’s throat. “The rooms aren’t quiet,” he mumbled, his words slurred with exhaustion. “They’re full of this.”
Hyukjae huffed a weak, breathless laugh. He understood. The album’s silence was now populated with this memory—the shuddering bed, the filthy promises, the profound and physical claiming. It was a part of the work now.
“Good,” Hyukjae finally whispered into the dark. His fingers stilled in Donghae’s hair. “Then it’s finished.”