Then he steps forward, closing the space between us until he’s towering over me. “Damn it, Min-hee, what do you want from me? You were there when we were twenty-four—you know exactly how the agency and the press shredded us.” His voice is raw with years of frustration, cracking on the final, desperate question. “You think I chose this?”
“That was years ago,” I say, standing so he can’t look down on me. “What’s your excuse now?”
He backs me against the dining table until the cold metal edge presses into my hips. “You’re right. There is no excuse now,” he says, his voice a low, husky growl. His hands plant on either side of me, caging me in. His knuckles brush my ears, sending a tremor through me. “You always make it impossible to think straight, you know that?”
I tilt my chin up, refusing to break eye contact. “Good.”
Then, in one swift move, his lips are on mine. The kiss crashes over me—hot, urgent, tasting of mint and a wilder, raw hunger. His tongue slips against mine with a deep, consuming need that makes my knees go weak, my fingers instantly tangling in the back of his hair.
My hoodie is gone in one swift pull, cool air skating over my suddenly exposed skin. His hands grip my waist, thumbs stroking small, possessive circles as he lifts me effortlessly onto the cold, polished tabletop. The sharp contrast of the surface against the backs of my thighs pulls a gasp from my mouth into his.
Now we’re eye-level—me sitting on the table, him standing between my knees. His muscular frame looms over me, his strong hands mapping every inch of exposed skin. His teeth graze my jaw, trail down my neck, leaving sparks in their wake.
The scent of him—clean soap and pure heat—wraps around me.
I manage to summon the last functioning cell in my brain to regain control, breaking the kiss and pushing him back slightly. “You can’t just do this every time we get into an argument.”
But he ignores my words, too consumed with our contact. His voice is hoarse as he commands, “Just shut up and kiss me.” And with that, he plunges back in.
I feel helpless, my body completely ignoring the memo from my brain. I kiss him back with the same fervor, subordinate to Suho’s ridiculous magic.
My pulse skips. For a moment, all the mess—rumors, headlines, the months we spent not seeing each other, silently wonderingis he? is he not?—hangs between us.
This is a terrible idea. An absolute, five-star disaster. If I let this continue, I know it’ll hurt later. It always does.
He leans in, his breath hot at my ear as we break the kiss to catch our breath. He shoots me that signature, annoying wicked smirk of his, knowing all too well that I’m completely under his spell. “Tell me to stop.”
The question is a challenge, and the answer is already burning in my body. I’m too far gone to pretend otherwise. I hook my legs around his hips, pulling him flush against me. “Don’t you dare.”
His groan is low, rough. One hand slides up my back, unhooking my bra in one smooth motion; the other steadies me as his mouth closes over my nipple, tongue flicking, sending heat racing through me.
His hands—broad, warm, slightly calloused—travel down, tugging my jeans and underwear away in one impatient motion. His hips grind against me in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the press of his hard length against my slick folds making my breath catch.
I lie fully back on the table with a gasp. He still stands there, his face so close to mine, I feelcompletely exposed, pinned beneath his relentless gaze.
His fingers dip lower, teasing my entrance before slipping one inside… then another, stretching me, preparing me for his length.
A low chuckle rumbles against my ear, a confident, knowing sound before his mouth begins a slow descent. Over my chest. Down my stomach.
His lips find the sensitive skin just below my navel, and I cry out as his fingers, already deep inside me, begin to move in the same deliberate, torturous rhythm, the wet sounds of slick friction filling the silence.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispers, his kiss growing bolder. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you,” I manage in a shallow, quick burst of breath, the fight in me now vanished. My hips mirror the motion of his mouth and fingers, one hand grips his hair, desperately, making sure his head stays exactly between my legs, every muscle straining to hold myself back from screaming and falling apart right there.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire.
He surges up and kisses me again—deep and punishing, a kiss designed to annihilate thought, making me taste myself on his lips.
But it’s not enough. I need him closer, need himinsideme. He reads the desperation in the way I claw at his shoulders, because he pulls back just enough to grab a condom. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving mine as he rolls it on with a practiced ease.
And suddenly, we’re twenty again.
With a slow, deliberate push, he slides into me—thick, stretching me in a way only Suho ever could, until my head falls back with a choked sound.
He presses forward again, deep and steady, until the table rocks beneath us. Every thrust sends a dull, delicious ache curling through my belly, his breath heavy and ragged.
“Suho—” I moan, half gasp, half plea, knowing I’ll feel sore tomorrow.
