“Okay,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady. “We’re just problem-solving. Like we always do.” You pushed yourself up from the floor and sat beside him on the bed, the worn mattress dipping under your combined weight. The space between you felt charged, the humid air clinging to your skin. “First, we remove the mystery.” You kept your gaze on his face, on the nervous flicker in his dark eyes. “Let me see.”

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, a mixture of relief and fresh anxiety. His fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans, the sound loud in the quiet room. When he finally pushed the denim down his hips, the reality of him was even more staggering than the glimpses you’d stolen. He was thick and long, fully hard already, the tip flushed a deep red. He looked painfully earnest and completely lost. “See?” he whispered, his voice rough. “It’s… a lot.”

“It is,” you agreed softly, not touching him yet.  You took his wrist and guided his hand to himself. “Get used to the feel of it.”  You coached him through a slow, tentative stroke, your hand over his. His breath hitched, a soft groan escaping him. “That’s it. No rush. Just get used to the sensation, to being in control of it.”

You let go, allowing him to continue on his own, watching the concentration on his face shift from panic to a dazed sort of focus. After a few moments, his rhythm faltered. “It’s not… I can’t just do this by myself forever,” he said, frustration creeping back in. He looked at you, a silent, desperate question in his eyes. 

“Then don’t,” you murmured. You shifted closer, your thigh pressing against his. With deliberate slowness, you reached out and replaced his hand with your own. The first full touch of your skin on him made him jerk, a strangled sound catching in his throat. He was impossibly smooth and hard, the vein along the underside pulsing under your thumb. You began to move your hand up and down in a firm, measured pace, your eyes locked on his.

A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. His hands gripped the bedsheet, knuckles white. “What… what about with someone else?” he managed to ask, his gaze dropping to where your hand worked him.

“That’s next,” you said, your own pulse thrumming. You leaned in, your breath ghosting over the wet head of his cock. “You have to learn where it’s most sensitive.” You touched your tongue to the slit, tasting the salty pre-come there. Sunghoon cried out, his back arching off the bed. “Here,” you said before taking him into your mouth, as much as you could manage. It was a stretch, your jaw aching instantly, but you hollowed your cheeks and sucked, using your hand on the base he couldn’t fit. His moans became broken, pleading things. You pulled off with a wet pop. “See? Responsive. You just have to listen.”

You crawled up his body, settling over his hips. The damp heat of your own need pressed against the thin barrier of your shorts, meeting the solid, insistent pressure of him. You guided him with your hand, positioning him right where you ached. "This is the part that usually makes people nervous," you said, your voice low. "It’s okay to go slow." You kept your eyes on his as you began to lower yourself, taking just the broad head of him inside. A sharp, full sensation made you pause, breathing through it. He’s not going to fit. 

Sunghoon's hands flew to your hips, his grip instinctive but gentle. His eyes were wide, watching where you were joined. "Okay?" he breathed out, the word strained.

"Okay," you confirmed, sinking down another inch. The stretch was intense, a burning fullness that forced a low moan from your throat. You moved in a careful, rocking rhythm, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming size of him. His hips twitched upward, seeking more, but you placed a firm hand on his stomach. "Not yet. Let me lead."

You continued the slow, grinding descent until he was fully seated inside you, a feeling of being utterly filled. I’m full. Completely full. You stayed there, unmoving, letting the sensation settle for both of you. His chest was heaving, every muscle in his abdomen taut. "Now," you whispered, beginning to move in earnest. You rose until only the tip remained, then sank back down, setting a deep, rolling pace. His hands tightened on your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he matched your rhythm, his own thrusts growing more confident, more demanding.

A low, ragged moan tore from your throat as he hit a spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His confidence was growing with every thrust, his movements losing their initial hesitation and gaining a raw, powerful rhythm. You braced your hands on his sweat-slicked chest, riding him with a desperate intensity now, each descent a deliberate surrender to that overwhelming fullness. The stretch had become a burning pleasure, a constant, throbbing reminder of his size that was tipping you toward the edge. You could feel your own climax coiling tight in your belly, triggered by the relentless, deep friction.

Sunghoon’s breathing was coming in harsh gasps, his eyes glazed and fixed on you. His hands slid from your hips to grip the backs of your thighs, holding you open, controlling the depth of his plunges. "Tell me," he grunted, the words strained. His voice was rough with a newfound authority. "Tell me if it's right."

Before you could form a coherent sentence, your orgasm crashed over you, a violent, clenching wave that ripped a cry from your lips. Your body clamped down around him, milking his length in rhythmic pulses. That sensation tipped him over the edge. With a choked-off shout, he drove up into you one final, searing time and held there, his release flooding you.

You collapsed forward, your forehead resting against his collarbone, both of you slick with sweat and utterly spent, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against your ear. His arms came around you, holding you close in the sticky silence. “So,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet and a bit rough. “Best friends still?”

You sat on the edge of the bed, Chloe perched beside you, as Jay stood before you both, shedding his shirt. He looked from you to Chloe, his gaze appreciative and warm. "So," he said, his voice low. "How do you want to do this?" It was Chloe who answered first, leaning over to capture your lips in a soft, practised kiss. Her tongue slipped into your mouth, the familiar taste of punch and mint making you sigh. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark. "We start together," she murmured.

Jay watched, his breathing already heavier, before he moved. He knelt on the floor in front of you, his hands sliding up your thighs to push your skirt up around your hips. At the same time, Chloe’s fingers worked at the buttons of your blouse, exposing your chest. Their attentions were a synchronised, overwhelming assault. Jay’s mouth found the centre of your need through your underwear, his tongue a hot, wet pressure, while Chloe took a nipple into her mouth, sucking and grazing it with her teeth. You cried out, your head falling back as pleasure sparked through you from two points at once.

Chloe pulled back, her lips glistening. "My turn," she said to Jay, a wicked smile on her face. She pushed you gently back onto the mattress and straddled your face, lowering herself onto your mouth without hesitation. You licked into her, tasting her sharp, clean arousal as Jay moved up the bed. You felt the bed dip, then the pressure of him entering you from behind, filling you. The room dissolved into a tangle of limbs and shared gasps. Chloe rocked against your mouth, her moans vibrating through you, each one timed with Jay’s deep, steady thrusts.

You lost track of who was touching where. A hand—you weren’t sure whose—slid between your bodies to circle your clit, the touch perfectly in rhythm with the movements rocking you. Jay’s pace increased, his grip on your hips tightening, and you felt Chloe’s thighs begin to tremble around your ears. Her climax hit her silently, a tight, pulsing wave against your tongue, and that sensation tipped you over the edge. Your own release tore through you, clenching around Jay, who groaned and followed, his body shuddering against your back. For a long moment, the only sounds were ragged breathing and the distant bass from the party below. 

Chloe moved first. Sliding down the bed, she settled between your legs, her hands spreading you open. She didn’t use her mouth this time. Instead, she looked up at Jay, her expression a clear challenge. “Your turn to watch,” she said softly. Then she lowered her head, and her tongue began a slow, torturous exploration, licking broad, flat strokes that made you arch off the bed. Jay groaned, the sound torn from deep in his chest. He pushed himself up, kneeling beside you, his eyes fixed on where Chloe’s mouth worked on you. His own hand went to his cock, stroking himself slowly as he watched her bring you to the edge and then back down, denying you your finish with a cruel, expert ease.

“Fuck,” Jay breathed, the word strained. He leaned over you, his body casting a shadow. “I need to be in her mouth.” It wasn’t a request, Chloe understood immediately. She pulled away, leaving you throbbing and empty, and turned her head towards him. He guided himself to her lips, and she took him in, her mouth stretching around his girth. The visual was devastating—Chloe on her knees between your legs, Jay kneeling over you, feeding his cock into her hungry mouth. The wet, sucking sounds filled the room. You reached for yourself, desperate for relief, but Jay’s hand shot out and caught your wrist, pinning it to the mattress above your head. “No,” he said, his voice thick. “You wait for us.”

He began to move in Chloe’s mouth, a slow, deep rhythm. Her eyes were closed in concentration, one of her hands coming up to cup his balls. With her other hand, she reached back for you, her fingers finding your soaked entrance and pushing two inside with a ruthless, curling thrust. You cried out, the dual sensation of watching Jay fuck her face and feeling her fingers piston inside you driving you wild. The coil in your belly tightened beyond bearing. Jay’s thrusts into her mouth became faster, less controlled. With a guttural shout, he pulled himself free, his release striping across your stomach and breasts in hot, sudden spurts. The sight of it, the sheer carnality, was the final trigger. Your orgasm ripped through you, clamping down on Chloe’s driving fingers, your back bowing off the bed in a silent scream.

In the aftermath, Chloe crawled up your body, ignoring the mess, and kissed you deeply, letting you taste her and a hint of Jay on her tongue. She then turned her head and licked a stripe through the cooling come on your sternum, her eyes locked on Jay’s as she did it. He watched, utterly captivated, his chest heaving. He lowered himself down, his body sliding through the slickness between you, and captured Chloe’s mouth in a kiss, sharing the taste of all three of you.

The kiss between Jay and Chloe broke slowly, a thread of saliva connecting their lips for a second before it snapped. Jay rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing heavily. He then turned his head, his mouth finding the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “Still with us?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your neck. You could only manage a weak nod, your entire body humming and oversensitive.

Chloe slid off the bed, her movements fluid. She returned from the adjoining bathroom with a warm, damp washcloth. Instead of handing it over, she began cleaning you herself, her touch surprisingly tender as she wiped the evidence of Jay’s release from your skin. Jay watched her, his eyes dark and intent. When she was done, she dropped the cloth on the floor and climbed back onto the mattress, but she didn’t lie down. She straddled Jay’s hips, her back to you, and took his softness into her hand, stroking him slowly back to full, aching hardness. He hissed through his teeth, his hands coming to rest on her waist.

You pushed yourself up, your body aching in the best way. You pressed a kiss to the knobs of Chloe’s spine, then leaned over her shoulder to watch your own hand join hers around Jay’s length. Your fingers intertwined with Chloe’s as you both worked him, a silent, slick collaboration. Jay’s head fell back, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His hands tightened on Chloe’s hips, his fingers digging in, urging her to move. She understood, rising on her knees and positioning herself above him. She sank onto him with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, taking him all the way in with a deep, satisfied sigh. You kept your hand where it was, your fingers now pressed against the place where their bodies joined, feeling the incredible heat and the slide of him inside her with every movement she made.

You felt the slick, rhythmic push of Jay moving deep within Chloe, the sensation vibrating through your fingertips. You leaned closer, your breath hot on Chloe's shoulder, and began to kiss and lick a trail up the side of her neck. She tilted her head, giving you better access, a low moan escaping her as you nipped at her earlobe. Jay’s eyes were locked on the two of you, his gaze feverish. One of his hands left Chloe’s hip and snaked around to find your breast, his thumb rubbing rough circles over your nipple.

The pace quickened. Chloe rode him with increasing fervor, her body slapping against his. You moved your hand, slipping it between her legs from behind to stroke her clit in time with their thrusts. She gasped, her inner muscles clamping down on Jay, who groaned and bucked his hips up to meet her. The room was filled with the sounds of skin on skin, ragged breathing, and the headboard tapping a steady beat against the wall. You felt Chloe’s climax begin to gather, a trembling tension coiling through her body. You pressed harder, faster, and with a sharp cry, she came, shuddering around Jay’s length.

Her orgasm triggered his. He held her hips down, burying himself to the hilt as he pulsed inside her, his release muffled by a choked-off shout. For a long moment, the three of you were frozen in that connected tableau—Chloe impaled and trembling, Jay throbbing within her, your hand still pressed against her. Slowly, the tension bled away. Chloe collapsed forward onto Jay’s chest, and you let your forehead rest against her sweaty back, your arm draped over them both. The only movement was the frantic rise and fall of their chests beneath you.

Jay’s hand, still resting on your breast, gave a final, absent squeeze before sliding away to wrap around Chloe’s back, holding her close against him. You felt the shift as he softened and slipped out of her, a warm wetness trickling between their joined bodies.

The light, teasing atmosphere at their table evaporated in an instant. Jake watched Ni-ki’s entire body go still, the easy slouch of his shoulders tightening into a rigid line. The clatter of the restaurant faded into a dull roar as Ni-ki’s focus tunneled. He saw the way you touched your date’s forearm briefly, a gesture of casual warmth that sent a cold, sharp clarity through his veins. “Yeah,” Ni-ki said, his voice flat and devoid of its earlier laughter. He pushed his chair back, the sound abrupt against the hum of conversation. “I’ll be right back.”

He moved through the crowded space with a singular, direct purpose, ignoring the waitress who tried to catch his eye. Arriving at your table, he watched the smile freeze on your lips

He pulled out the chair next to you, the metal legs shrieking against the floor tiles. He sat down without taking his eyes off you, effectively boxing you in between him and the window. Your date finally found his voice. “Excuse me, do you two know each other?” Ni-ki finally acknowledged him, a slow, dismissive turn of his head. “Yeah. We do.” He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he reached for the menu tucked behind the condiment caddy, flipping it open as if he were the one who belonged here.

“The pork buns here are decent,” Ni-ki said, his voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register meant only for your ears. He let his knee press against yours under the small table. “But you hate pork. You should get the spicy chicken.” Your date watched this interaction, his earlier confidence visibly deflating. Ni-ki didn’t look at him again, his attention fully on you as he pretended to study the menu. 

Your date cleared his throat, attempting to regain control of the conversation. “We were just discussing the wine list,” he said, a strained politeness in his tone. Ni-ki didn’t even look up from the menu. “She doesn’t like reds,” he stated simply, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. He finally glanced at the other man, his expression unreadable. “Gives her a headache.” He turned his attention back to you, his eyes searching yours. “You should get the ginger tea. It’s better for you.” He reached over slowly and picked up your half-full wine glass, moving it to the far edge of the table, away from you. His fingers lingered near yours for a beat too long before he drew his hand back.

The air at the table crackled with a new kind of tension. Your date had resorted to silently pushing his food around his plate. 

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your legs and letting your foot deliberately brush against Ni-ki’s calf under the table. “Actually,” you said, your voice clear and cutting, aimed at your flustered companion, “he’s right about the red wine. It’s cheap and gives me a migraine.” The man blinked, stunned by the sudden shift.

You turned your head, your gaze locking onto Ni-ki’s. The confidence in your eyes was a challenge. “But he’s wrong about the ginger tea,” you continued, your tone dropping into something lower, more familiar. “I hate ginger. You’re forgetting things, Riki.” You reached out and pulled your wine glass back from where he’d exiled it, taking a deliberate, slow sip, your eyes holding his over the rim. 

“If you’re going to interrupt my evening and embarrass my date, the least you could do is remember my preferences.” You set the glass down. “Now, since you’re here, you can make yourself useful. Tell the waiter I want the scallops. And tell him to take this,” you gestured dismissively at the full plate in front of your date, “away. He’s lost his appetite.”

A flicker of something hot and approving flashed in Ni-ki’s eyes at your command. He didn’t look away from you, but raised a hand to signal a passing server without breaking your stare. “The lady will have the scallops,” he relayed, his voice smooth. “And clear this, please.” He nodded toward the other man’s plate. As the waiter hurried to comply, your date finally found his voice, a sputter of indignation. “This is really rude—”

“Go,” you said flatly, not even looking at him. You took another sip of wine, your focus entirely on Ni-ki. The man stared, flushed with humiliation, before muttering something under his breath and standing up to leave. You waited until he had disappeared into the crowd before speaking again, “Now. You dragged yourself over here and ruined a perfectly adequate dinner. You have my attention. Start explaining why I shouldn’t just get up and walk out that door.”

Ni-ki leaned forward, closing the small distance you’d maintained. “Adequate?” he repeated, the word laced with disdain. “You were smiling at him. You don’t smile like that for ‘adequate.’” His hand came to lace his fingers with yours on the table, “You don’t get to do that. We had an understanding.”

“We had a casual arrangement,” you corrected, tilting your head. “You’re acting like you own something. You don’t.” The challenge was direct, a test flung right into his path. The waiter returned with your scallops, placing the plate before you, then disappeared again. You picked up your fork, spearing a perfectly seared piece, but didn’t bring it to your lips. You just held it, watching him, waiting for his move.

Ni-ki’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the fork in your hand before lifting back to your face. “A casual arrangement,” he echoed, his voice dangerously quiet. “Right.” He leaned in closer, his arm brushing yours as he reached for the bread basket, his movements deliberate. “So my texts go unanswered because you’re busy with… that.” He didn’t bother hiding the contempt. “And I’m just supposed to wait around until you’re bored?”

You brought the scallop to your mouth, taking a slow, deliberate bite, savouring it before answering. “You don’t ‘wait around’ for anyone, Riki. You do whatever you want, with whoever you want,” you said, licking a trace of butter from your lower lip. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? That’s literally what no strings attached means.”

He watched the movement of your tongue, the deliberate, almost obscene way you cleaned the butter from your skin. A low sound escaped him, not quite a laugh. “No strings,” he agreed, his eyes darkening. “But there’s an understanding. A courtesy. You ghost me for a week and show up here, smelling like his cologne, sitting in our spot.” He finally took a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his fingers but not eating it. 

“Our spot?” You arched a brow, setting your fork down. “It’s a restaurant booth, Riki. It doesn’t have a name etched on it.” You leaned back, putting a few more inches of charged space between you. “And I didn’t ghost you. I was occupied.” The words were light, but your pulse was a rapid drum against your ribs. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the coiled energy in his stillness.

He finally placed the shredded bread on his plate, then slowly wiped his fingers on the napkin in his lap. His eyes never left yours. “Occupied,” he repeated flatly. He reached over, his fingers brushing yours as he took your unused water glass, bringing it to his own lips and drinking deeply. When he set it back down, the rim bore the faint, damp imprint of his mouth. “Tell me,” he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “Was he any good?”

You let a slow smile curve your lips, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” You picked up your wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid. “It seems to be all you can think about. I’m flattered, really. I didn’t know you cared so much about the details of my social calendar.”

His hand shot out, not to grab you, but to still the stem of your glass, his fingers covering yours. The contact was electric, a sudden jolt that silenced the ambient noise of the restaurant. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice a rough whisper. “Don’t play that game with me. You know exactly what this is.” He applied the slightest pressure, holding your hand and the glass in place, a silent anchor in the storm of your mutual provocation.

You didn’t pull away. You met his stormy gaze, your own defiant. “Then enlighten me. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a lot like a man who agreed to no strings getting tangled in his own.” You leaned forward, your breath ghosting over his knuckles. “Does it bother you, Ni-ki? The thought of someone else’s hands on me?” The question hung in the air, a dangerous, shimmering thing. You watched the muscle in his jaw leap, a telltale sign of the control he was fighting to maintain. He released your hand abruptly, as if burned, and sat back in the booth, his expression shifting into something unreadable and cold.

The cold mask he wore was more unnerving than his open anger. He picked up his own wine, took a measured sip, and surveyed you over the rim. “Bother me?” he finally said, his tone chillingly conversational. “No. It clarifies things.” He set the glass down precisely. “It shows me what our ‘arrangement’ actually was. A convenience for you when you had nothing better lined up.”

His words were designed to wound, to reduce what had burned between you to something transactional and cheap. You felt the sting, sharp and precise, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you gave a light, airy shrug, returning your attention to your scallops as if the conversation had lost all interest. “If that’s the narrative you need,” you murmured, cutting another piece. “Believe whatever helps you sleep.”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your fork against the china. Then he moved, not away, but deeper into your space. His arm settled along the back of the booth behind you, not touching, but the heat of him was a palpable presence along your shoulder. His head dipped close, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he spoke, his breath warm against your skin. “I don’t need a narrative,” he whispered, the quiet words laden with a promise that felt like a threat. “I just need you to remember who you’re really playing with.” He pulled back just enough to see your face, his eyes tracing your reaction, waiting for the flicker of fear or recognition he was sure to find.

You didn't flinch. You turned your head, bringing your face within an inch of his, the scent of his cologne—something dark and spicy—overwhelming the lingering trace of the other man's. "I remember," you said, your voice equally soft, equally dangerous. "I remember every rule we broke. I remember who taught me how." You let your gaze drop to his mouth for a heartbeat before lifting it back to his eyes. "The student might just be surpassing the teacher."

A faint, almost imperceptible tremor went through the arm resting behind you. He didn't move away. His free hand came up, his fingers hovering just beside your cheek, not touching, but you could feel the static charge of his proximity on your skin. "Is that what you think this is? A lesson?" His thumb finally made contact, a slow, deliberate stroke along your cheekbone. It was a claiming gesture, utterly at odds with his detached tone. "You haven't even begun to learn what I can do."

The waiter chose that moment to approach, hesitating a few feet from the table, sensing the volatile energy. Ni-ki's hand fell away instantly, his expression smoothing into polite neutrality as he looked up. "Just the check, please," he said, his voice now perfectly normal, sociable. The waiter nodded and retreated. As soon as the man turned his back, Ni-ki's focus snapped back to you, the polite mask gone. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and tossed a stack of bills onto the table—far more than the meal cost. "We're leaving," he stated, no longer a question or a challenge, but a simple, incontrovertible fact. He slid out of the booth and stood, waiting for you, his posture rigid with a tension that vibrated in the air between you.

You looked at the money, then at him, a slow smile spreading. Making him wait was its own kind of power. You took one last, deliberate sip of your wine, the glass leaving a faint stain on the linen as you set it down. Only then did you slide from the booth, your movements fluid and unhurried. You didn’t take the hand he hadn’t offered. You simply walked past him, the brush of your body against his in the narrow aisle a fleeting, electric contact, and headed for the door.

He was right behind you, his presence a solid, heated pressure at your back. The night air outside was cool, a shock after the restaurant’s warmth. You didn’t turn toward the valet or the street. You walked to the edge of the building, into the shadowy alcove near the service entrance, and stopped, leaning against the rough brick. You turned to face him, the distant streetlight casting his features in sharp relief. “So,” you said, your voice a low murmur in the quiet alley. “You paid for dinner. What happens now?”

He closed the distance in two strides, his hands coming up to cage you against the wall, his body not touching yours but surrounding it completely. The scent of him, of wine and restrained fury, filled your senses. “Now,” he said, his gaze dropping to your mouth, “you tell me his name.” His voice was gravelly, the command in it absolute. “And then you forget it.”

You held his gaze, the corner of your mouth lifting. “I told you. It doesn’t matter.” Your voice was steady, a stark contrast to the frantic rhythm of your heart. “And your little audience is watching, by the way.” You flicked your eyes past his shoulder toward the restaurant’s front window. There, clustered inside, were four of his friends—Jake, Sunghoon, Heeseung and Jay—their faces pressed close to the glass, their expressions a mix of shock and avid curiosity. They’d clearly followed him out and were now witnessing the entire confrontation.

Ni-ki didn’t bother to look. His focus remained entirely and relentlessly on you. “Let them watch,” he breathed out, the words a hot whisper against your lips. His hands slid from the brick to frame your face, his thumbs pressing into the hinge of your jaw. “They’ve seen me walk away from plenty of things. They’ve never seen me take something back.” He leaned in, his nose skimming the line of your cheek, inhaling deeply as if to erase any foreign scent. “His name.”

From inside, one of his friends—probably Jake—rapped sharply on the window, a muffled call of “Hey, man!” reaching you both. Ni-ki flinched, the sound a crack in his intense concentration. His eyes snapped toward the window for a split second, a flash of pure irritation crossing his features before he looked back at you, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly.

You saw the interruption fracture his control. It was the opening you needed. You brought your hands up, not to push him away, but to settle on his chest, feeling the hard, frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “Riki,” you said, your tone shifting, losing its edge of taunting challenge for something lower, more intimate. “They’re your friends. This isn’t for them.” You applied the slightest pressure, not to create distance, but to anchor him, to pull his focus back from the spectacle to the silent war between just the two of you.

He stared down at your hands on him, his breath coming in a short, harsh exhale. The noise from the window persisted, another muffled shout. He closed his eyes for a second, his jaw working. When he opened them, the blind possession had banked into something colder, more calculated. He released your face, his hands dropping to his sides. He took a single step back, breaking the intimate cage of his body, though the space between you still crackled. “You’re right,” he said, his voice now devoid of all emotion. He glanced over his shoulder, giving his friends a single, sharp look that immediately silenced them and sent them shuffling back from the glass.

He turned back to you, his expression unreadable in the shadows. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. “My place. Now. Or this ends here, and you can go back to your occupation.” It wasn’t a request, nor was it the heated demand from before. It was an ultimatum, delivered with a chilling finality. He didn’t wait for your agreement. He simply turned and began walking toward the valet stand, the set of his shoulders telling you he fully expected you to follow.

You watched him walk away, the arrogant certainty in his stride igniting a fresh spark of defiance. He hadn't even looked back. The valet was already hurrying toward his sleek, black car. You could turn, walk in the opposite direction, hail a cab, and let him drive off alone. The thought was a sweet, fleeting fantasy. But the memory of his hands on your face, the raw intensity in his eyes before his friends interrupted—it was a hook buried deep. You pushed off from the wall and followed, your heels clicking a steady rhythm on the pavement that matched the stubborn beat of your heart.

You reached the passenger side just as the valet closed the driver’s door for him. Ni-ki stared straight ahead through the windshield, his profile sharp and unyielding. You pulled the handle and slid into the cool leather interior, the door thudding shut with a sound of finality. The car was silent, filled only with the scent of him and the expensive, clean smell of the vehicle. He didn't acknowledge you. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb with a smooth, powerful surge.

He drove with a focused aggression, weaving through the late-night traffic. The city lights streaked past the windows, painting his face in alternating flashes of neon and shadow. After several blocks of suffocating quiet, he spoke, his eyes never leaving the road. "Was it worth it?" he asked, the question slicing through the quiet. "The game. The point you were trying to make. Was it worth what you just threw away?" His voice was flat, but the question hung there, heavy and real, demanding an answer the restaurant’s games had never allowed.

You looked out your own window, watching the blur of the city. “I didn’t throw anything away,” you said, your voice quieter now, stripped of its earlier performance. “You did. The moment you decided our casual arrangement came with a leash.” You finally turned your head to look at him. “You want to know if it was worth it? Him?” You let out a soft, humourless breath. “He was a distraction, a way to see if I could feel something that wasn’t you. I couldn’t. That’s the pathetic truth.”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his grip. He said nothing for a long moment, the admission hanging in the space between you, more intimate than any touch had been all night. He took a sudden, sharp turn, pulling the car into the underground garage of his building. The tyres echoed in the concrete cavern as he navigated to his reserved spot and killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening.

He didn’t move immediately. He sat there, staring at the blank concrete wall ahead. “A distraction,” he repeated, the word tasting bitter. He finally turned to look at you, the car’s interior light casting his expression in a stark, unforgiving glow. The anger was gone, replaced by something more weary, more complex. “Get out,” he said, but the command had lost its force. It sounded like a surrender. He pushed his own door open and stepped out into the cool, still air of the garage, not waiting to see if you obeyed.

You followed him out, the car door thudding shut with a heavy finality that reverberated in the concrete space. He was already walking toward the private elevator, his strides long and tense, but he didn't look back to see if you were coming. The implication was clear: he expected you to follow. You took your time, the click of your heels a deliberate counter-rhythm to his silent retreat.

Inside the elevator, mirrored walls reflected a thousand versions of his strained profile. He stared straight ahead, refusing to meet your gaze in the glass. The air was thick with everything unsaid. Before you could react, his hand shot out, not towards you, but to the elevator control panel. He pressed a small, red button marked ‘STOP’, and a sharp, jarring alarm blared for a single second before he silenced it with another press. The elevator shuddered to a halt between floors, the gentle hum of movement ceasing entirely.

"You made your point," he said, his voice rough. "You proved you don't need me. So why are you here?" It wasn't an accusation. It was a genuine, weary question. He was waiting, not for an argument, but for your next move, completely disarmed. You smiled, a small, knowing curve of your lips, and took a single, purposeful step forward.

He didn’t retreat from your advance. He held his ground, but his posture softened, a subtle yielding. “I’m here,” you said, your voice low and deliberate, “because you saw me and lost your composure. Because you still think you have a say in what I do.” You reached out then, not to touch him, but to brush a non-existent speck of lint from the shoulder of his jacket. The gesture was intimate, proprietary. He shuddered.

“I don’t want a say,” he breathed out, the confession ripped from him. “I want… instructions.” The word hung in the air, stark and honest. All the fight, all the jealousy, had been a twisted plea for exactly this. For you to take the chaos he felt and give it order. You let the silence stretch, letting him feel the weight of his own admission, the vulnerability of it.

Your hand finally settled on his shoulder, your grip firm, anchoring. “Then kneel,” you said, the command clear and absolute in the quiet room. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you, his dark eyes wide. Then, without a word of protest, his knees gave way, bending until he was on the floor at your feet, his head bowed. The submission was total, beautiful in its simplicity. You looked down at him, at the elegant line of his neck, and placed a hand gently atop his head.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, not petting, but claiming. The soft strands were cool against your skin. He let out a shaky exhale, his shoulders relaxing further into the position, as if a terrible weight had been lifted. The proud, rebellious boy was gone, replaced by this quiet, pliant creature at your feet. You applied the slightest pressure, and he understood, leaning his forehead against your thigh. The warmth of his skin seeped through the fabric of your pants.

"Good," you murmured. His breath hitched again, a small, grateful sound. You kept him there for a long moment, letting him feel the safety of surrender. This was your world now, this elevator and the boy who had finally stopped running from what he needed. You withdrew your hand from his hair, and he made a faint, involuntary noise of protest at the loss of contact.

"Look at me," you instructed. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes finding yours. They were clear now, free of anger or pretence, just a deep, waiting calm. You cupped his chin, your thumb stroking the line of his jaw. "The distraction is over," you stated, your voice leaving no room for argument. He nodded, a tiny, obedient movement against your hold. "From now on, you ask for what you need. You use your words." A faint blush colored his cheeks, but he held your gaze. "Can you do that?"

His lips parted, his voice a hushed, reverent whisper. "Please." The word hung in the silent elevator. "Please, let me taste you." You held his gaze for a beat longer, then gave a single, slow nod. Your hands went to the waistband of your pants, pushing them and your underwear down just enough. He didn't need further instruction. His hands came up to steady your hips as he leaned forward, his mouth finding you with an eager, worshipful precision. His tongue was a slow, deliberate stroke, lapping at your heat as if savoring a sacred offering. A soft sigh escaped you, your head tipping back against the mirrored wall. He moaned against you, the vibration shooting a sharp thrill up your spine. His movements became more focused, his tongue circling and dipping, his entire being devoted to the single task of pulling pleasure from you. His eyes were closed in concentration, lashes dark against his cheeks, a picture of perfect, blissful service.

His hands tightened on your hips, holding you steady as he lost himself in the act. There was no hesitation, no seeking of his own pleasure, only a deep, abiding focus on yours. The flat of his tongue pressed and circled, his lips sealing around you to draw a soft, shuddering cry from your throat. The mirrored walls reflected the scene a dozen times—your fingers now tangled in his dark hair, his shoulders flexing with the effort of his ministrations, the absolute surrender in every line of his kneeling form.

You guided him with gentle pressure, and he followed without question, his rhythm shifting to match your unspoken demands. A low, continuous hum of pleasure vibrated in his chest, the sound echoing softly in the confined space. His own need was evident in the tense set of his back, in the way his knuckles whitened where he gripped you, but he made no move to seek friction for himself. This was his offering, his penance, and his reward all at once. The building tension in your core was a slow, sweet coil, fed by every devoted stroke of his tongue.

A sharp, breathy gasp was your only warning before the release washed over you, your thighs trembling against the sides of his face. He didn’t pull away, drinking down every wave until you gently tugged his hair, signalling him to stop. He rested his forehead against your thigh, his breathing ragged and warm against your sensitive skin. He stayed there, perfectly still, waiting for your next command as the last tremors subsided.

You let the silence stretch, the only sound his laboured breathing and the faint, residual hum of the elevator’s machinery. Your fingers loosened their grip in his hair, shifting to a slow, almost absent-minded petting. He leaned into the touch, a quiet sigh escaping him. After a long moment, you guided his head back, forcing him to look up at you. His lips were glistening, his eyes dark and hazy with a satisfaction that had nothing to do with his own physical release.

"Stand up," you said, your voice soft but firm. He obeyed slowly, his muscles stiff from kneeling. You reached down and pulled your clothing back into place with deliberate, unhurried movements, your eyes never leaving his. He watched you, his expression open and expectant, a faint flush still high on his cheekbones. You stepped closer, closing the small space between you, and smoothed a thumb over his damp bottom lip. He shivered, his gaze dropping to your mouth.

You pout at the notebook, like a child denied ice cream.

“I don’t get why there are letters in math,” you complain, twirling the pink pen between your fingers. “Numbers were already enough.”

Jake snorts softly from across the library table, dragging the worksheet closer before you can accidentally doodle hearts in the margins again. He leans over to rewrite the equation for the third time, and your eyes drift from the page to the exposed skin of his forearms, before landing on the swell of his biceps that flexed whenever he rested his elbows against the table.

Jake was too nice to look at, and it made studying with him impossible.

“Here,” he says, moving your notebook closer. “You solve this one.”

You immediately push it back.

Jake exhales sharply through his nose, like he's already exhausted by you. "You're gonna make me beg?" His knee nudges yours apart beneath the table. "Or should I just give up and bend you over this desk instead?"

"I don't know how!"

"You know exactly how," he counters, "You've been teasing me for twenty minutes."

You twirl your pink pen. "Maybe I like it when you get frustrated."

Jake's laugh is low and dangerous. "You're the worst student I've ever had."

"But I'm your favourite. Aren’t I?"

He pauses just long enough to make your stomach flip. "Yeah," he admits.

Before you can think too hard about it, Jake reaches over and takes the pencil from your hand.

“Watch,” he says. “You move this here first, then divide both sides.”

You try to focus. You really do!

But Jake’s sitting close enough that his shoulder keeps brushing yours every time he writes, and he smells faintly like cologne, and suddenly algebra feels like the least important thing in the room.

“You’re not listening,” he says without looking up.

“How do you know?”

The thing was, you weren’t listening. You probably hadn’t been for the last 3 minutes he spent explaining equations that didn’t make sense. 

It wasn’t like you weren’t trying to pay attention; you seriously did try your best. You’d listen attentively as he explained content you had no understanding of, attempting to let the words click in your head. 

“Okay,” he says slowly, tapping the worksheet with the end of the pencil. His brows pull together in fake seriousness as he turns toward you. “Tell me what comes first.”

You stare at the equation for a long moment, glossed lips pursed thoughtfully.

Then you glance at him.

Then back at the worksheet.

“…crying?” you answer quietly.

Jake immediately drops his head into his hand, shoulders shaking with laughter he’s trying to hold in. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters into his palm.

“I’m serious,” you insist with a small pout, sitting up straighter in your chair. Your bracelets clink against the table as you gesture dramatically toward the page. “This looks evil.”

“It’s literally basic algebra.”

“Then why,” you ask, squinting suspiciously at the numbers, “are there so many steps?”

“Because math would be too easy otherwise.”

You slump in your chair, defeated by the question. Jake could lie and say he wasn’t watching the way your chest bulged over your top as you did, but that would be the furthest thing from the truth. 

"Y'know," he says, spinning the pencil between his fingers with infuriating ease, "most girls at least pretend to care when I tutor them."

“I do care!” you insist, fluttering your fake lashes.

“Really?” Jake raises a brow, unconvinced.

“Yeah.” You nod earnestly. “I care about making you proud of me.”

That catches him off guard. His smirk falters for half a second—just long enough for you to notice—before he schools his expression back into one of lazy amusement.

“That’s…” He clears his throat, adjusting in his seat. “Not what I meant.”

Jake exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair. "Christ. You're manipulative."

You grin. "And yet you're still here."

"Because if I'm not," he leans in, voice dropping low, "some idiot's gonna have to explain why you failed."

"And because you like me."

Jake stares at you for a beat too long before exhaling slowly. "You make it really fuckin' hard to remember why I agreed to this."

Your eyes widen innocently. "Studying with me?"

“Yeah.”

You lean closer, lowering your voice like it’s a secret. "Is it because I distract you?"

Jake doesn't answer right away. His gaze flicks to your lips, then back up, before he huffs out a quiet laugh.

"You distract everyone," he mutters, shaking his head like he can't believe he's admitting it.

You beam as if you've just won something.

Jake watches you for another second before shoving the worksheet back in front of you with a sigh. "Alright, pretty girl. Focus." He taps the paper. "Solve it."

You chew on the end of your pen thoughtfully. "...Can I have a hint?"

Jake groans. "Jesus. I've given you, like, six."

"One more?" you wheedle, nudging his arm with your elbow.

He exhales sharply, but there's no real bite to it when he finally relents. "Move the x-values first."

You scribble something down with intense concentration, tongue poking slightly against the inside of your cheek. Jake watches quietly this time, chin resting against his fist.

A whole minute passes before you slide the notebook toward him with a triumphant grin.

“I got an answer,” you announce proudly.

He leans over. “Okay, let’s see—”

Then Jake stops.

"...How the fuck," he says slowly, tracing the pink "42" smudged across the page, "did you get forty-two?"

Your proud smile falters. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

Jake looks from the paper—where the numbers only go up to twelve—back to your pouting face. His mouth twitches.

“Baby,” he says carefully, trying not to laugh again, “the equation only goes up to twelve. Did you just... guess?”

You puff out your glossed lips in an exaggerated pout, twirling a curled strand of hair around your manicured finger. "But numbers are, like, soooo confusing!" you whine, deliberately pushing your chest forward until your bedazzled, low-cut crop top looks like it could split at the seams at any second.

Jake's gaze drops to your cleavage for a second too long before he exhales sharply.

"Christ." He snatches the pen from your hand, scrawling the actual answer onto the page. "This is what happens when you flirt instead of focusing."

You bat your lashes. "But flirting's way more fun!"

Jake sets the pencil down, rubbing his mouth with one hand to hide his smile. "Alright. Let's try this differently."

"Oooh, are we playing a game?"

His fingers trail up your bare arm, making you shiver. "Something like that." He taps the pencil against your bottom lip. "First rule? No skipping steps."

You pout prettily. "But rules are boring!"

"Trust me," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath ghosts over your ear. "You'll love the rewards."

"First," he announces, tapping the paper. "Write the equation perfectly. Every symbol in the right place."

When you bite your lip and copy the equation (after three tries), his large hand slides up your thigh beneath your skirt. "Good girl," he purrs, thumb brushing dangerously close to where you're already damp.

"Reward one," he continues, guiding your hand as you subtract from both sides. When you get it right, his fingers tilt your chin up. You squeal when his lips crash against yours, his tongue teasing your lower lip before pulling away.

You're already breathless when he murmurs, "Reward two" He watches intently as you divide, his fingers tracing idle circles on your inner thigh. "Beautiful." His hand slides yours to his lap, where the hard length of him strains against his sweats.

"Reward three," he groans as you free him, his hips jerking when your fingers wrap around his cock. He guides your strokes, slow and firm.

"Now solve," he rasps, teeth grazing your neck. Your fingers tighten instinctively when you gasp out the answer.

"F-five," you whimper, and his grip tightens around your wrist.

Jake groans, his hips jerking into your grip. "Perfect." His free hand slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher until his fingers brush the damp fabric of your panties. "Reward four." He presses his palm against you, letting you grind shamelessly against him while you keep stroking his cock.

Your breath comes in uneven gasps, the dual sensation making it impossible to think. "J-Jake—"

"One more step," he murmurs, lips grazing your ear. "Prove it." He nudges your panties aside, dragging two fingers through your slick folds. "Show me how you got five."

You whimper, thighs trembling as his fingers circle your clit. "I—I subtracted first, then—oh god—divided—"

"Good girl." His fingers plunge inside you without warning, curling just right. Your back arches, your grip tightening around his cock as pleasure coils tight in your belly.

The textbook slides off the table when he lifts you onto it, spreading your legs wider. "Now," he growls, lining himself up, "let's check your work."

The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. His hands grip your hips, pulling you onto him with each rough snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping fills the tiny dorm room, your moans muffled against his shoulder.

You come with a sob as Jake’s free hand claps over your mouth, concealing your desperate whines. Jake exhales sharply as he pulls out, watching you shiver at the sudden emptiness.  His fingers trail lazily through the mess between your thighs, smearing it across your flushed skin before bringing them to your lips.

"Lick," he commands, voice rough.

You part your lips obediently, swirling your tongue around his fingers until they’re clean, tasting the mix of salt and sweetness on his fingers. 

By the third "lesson", your ponytail is lopsided, lipstick smudged from Jake’s mouth on yours. His sweats are shoved halfway down his thighs, your sticky-sweet moans filling the room every time his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips.

"Still stuck?" he taunts, thrusting deeper as you squeal, hands scrabbling at the desk.

"Nuh-uh!" you lie, toes curling when he pinches your nipple through your lace bra. "I—oh!—I totally remember now!"

Jake’s grin is feral as he pulls out, positioning you onto your knees on the floor. "Prove it."

You whimper but obey, sinking your manicured fingers into his thighs before taking him into your mouth with an exaggerated, wet pop. His groan is ragged above you, hands fisting in your hair as you look up through your lashes, drool dripping down your chin.

"Such a good girl," he praises, and you preen, hollowing your cheeks just the way he likes.

The dorm room is a wreck by the time he’s done with you—your skirt ripped off, hair a tangled mess, and makeup ruined in the best way. Jake’s lazily tracing equations on your bare stomach with his cum when you stretch like a cat, giggling.

"See?" you chirp, wiggling your hips. "I told you I’m a fast learner!"

His hand smacks your ass hard enough to make you yelp. "We’ll see tomorrow," he growls, biting your shoulder. "After I quiz you."

Your breathy giggle dissolves into a moan as his fingers slide between your thighs again.