stargirl

The first time you noticed him was at the corner deli. You were grabbing a late-night snack after your closing shift at the office, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, when you felt that prickling sensation on the back of your neck. You turned, and there he was—a man leaning against the cooler, tall and lean, with sharp features that seemed carved from marble. His eyes, dark and unblinking, were fixed on you. He didn’t look away when you caught him staring. He just smiled, a slow, unsettling curve of his lips.

You paid quickly and left, the bell above the door jangling too loudly. Halfway down the block, you glanced back. He was gone.

Two days later, you saw him again. This time, at the bus stop. He stood a few feet away, reading a newspaper, but you could feel his attention like a physical weight. When your bus arrived, he boarded after you, sitting across the aisle. He never looked at you directly, but his presence filled the space between you.

“Forgive me,” his voice cut through the bus’s rumble. It was smooth, low. “You dropped this.”

He was holding out a hair tie you hadn’t realized you’d lost. His fingers brushed yours as you took it. They were cool, his grip firm for just a fraction too long.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, turning to stare out the window.

“Heeseung,” he said. “My name.”

You didn’t offer yours. He already knew it. You could feel that truth in your bones.

Over the next week, Heeseung became a fixture in the periphery of your life. At the coffee shop across from your office, nursing a single espresso for hours. In the park where you ate lunch, sitting on a bench just within eyesight. He never approached again, but the message was clear: I see you. I am always seeing you.

Your boyfriend, Minho, noticed your jumpiness. “You okay, babe? You’ve been tense.”

“Just work stress,” you lied, forcing a smile.

The violation happened on a Tuesday.

You were working late again, the office empty. The cleaning crew had already passed through. As you gathered your things in the hushed, dimmed space, you heard the soft chime of the elevator arriving on your floor. Odd. You were sure you were the last one.

Footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, echoed down the marble hallway. You froze, your hand tightening around your keys. The footsteps stopped outside your glass-walled office.

Heeseung stood there, dressed in a sleek black suit, looking like he belonged. He didn’t smile this time.

“Working late is dangerous for a pretty thing like you,” he said, his voice a soft caress that made your skin crawl. He pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked. You never locked it during the day.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?” Your voice trembled.

“The security guard is an old friend.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sound was final. “We need to talk, Y/N. About your lack of manners. I gave you my name. You never gave me yours in return.”

“Get out, or I’ll scream.”

He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Scream. No one will come. And if they do, I’ll tell them you invited me. That we’ve been seeing each other. That your sweet, oblivious Minho isn’t enough for you.”

He crossed the room in three long strides. You backed into your desk, the edge digging into your thighs.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Please what?” he mimicked, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb stroked your bottom lip. “You’ve been leading me on. Smiling at the bus stop, looking at me in the park. You knew what you were doing.”

“I never—”

His hand moved from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting, a cold, heavy band. “Don’t lie. It’s unbecoming.”

With his other hand, he swept everything off your desk—files, your monitor, a framed photo of you and Minho. The glass shattered. He pushed you backwards until you were bent over the polished wood, your cheek pressed against the cold surface.

“No! Stop! Don’t!” you cried, struggling.

He slapped you, hard. The shock of it stole your breath. “Quiet,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper in your ear. His body pressed against your back, lean and unyielding. You felt the hard length of his erection against your ass. “You don’t get to say no. Not to me.”

He hiked up your pencil skirt, his fingers tearing at your stockings and panties. The fabric gave way with a sickening rip. You sobbed, pleading, but your words were muffled against the desk.

He didn’t prepare you. He unzipped his trousers and pushed himself inside you in one brutal, tearing thrust. You screamed, the pain white-hot and searing.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his breath hot on your neck. “So fucking tight. Like a virgin. But you’re not, are you? Minho’s been here. But he doesn’t own this. I do now.”

He set a ruthless pace, pounding into you, his hips slamming against your ass. The desk rattled with each thrust. One hand remained on your throat, the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’re my good little whore now,” he grunted. “Mine. Say it.”

You shook your head, tears streaming. He slapped your ass, the sound sharp in the quiet office. “Say it!”

“Y-yours,” you choked out, the humiliation burning worse than the pain.

“That’s right.” His movements became more erratic. “Gonna fill you up. Mark what’s mine.”

He came with a deep groan, spilling inside you, his body shuddering against yours. He held himself there for a long moment, panting, before pulling out. The sudden emptiness was almost as violating as the act itself.

He straightened his clothes, tucking himself away, smoothing his hair. He looked down at you, still bent over the desk, weeping, his release already leaking down your thighs.

“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice back to that calm, smooth tone. “I’ll be seeing you.” He left, his footsteps fading down the hall.

You slid to the floor, amidst the shattered glass and scattered papers, and cried until you were empty.

The terror didn’t fade; it just mutated. You quit your job, citing stress. You stayed inside.

A week later, a bouquet of stargazer lilies arrived. No card. Minho was suspicious. “Who sends flowers with no note?”

“A mistake,” you said, your voice hollow. You threw them in the dumpster.

You started using the 24-hour laundromat two blocks away, going at odd hours when it was less busy. It felt safer than the one in your building.

That’s where Jay found you.

It was 11 PM on a Thursday. You were folding towels when he walked in. He was strikingly handsome, with an air of polished, effortless wealth. Designer jeans, a simple white t-shirt that clung to a sculpted chest, a leather jacket slung over his arm. He gave you a charming, practiced smile as he passed, heading for the detergent dispenser.

You kept your head down, focusing on your laundry.

A few minutes later, he was beside you. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, his voice a warm baritone. “This machine is eating my money. Think you could take a look? You seem like you know what you’re doing.”

You hesitated. “I’m not sure…”

“Please? It’s my last clean shirt.” His smile was disarming, laced with a boyish plea.

Reluctantly, you leaned over the malfunctioning machine, pressing the coin return. As you did, he crowded behind you, his front pressing against your back. Before you could react, his arm snaked around your waist, and a hand clapped over your mouth.

“Not a sound,” he breathed into your ear, his pleasant facade gone, replaced by something cold and predatory. He dragged you backward, into the narrow gap between a row of towering, humming dryers and the wall. It was a blind spot, hidden from the street view and the security camera.

He spun you to face him, pinning you against the cinderblock wall. Up close, his handsomeness was terrifying. His eyes, which had seemed warm, were now flat and hungry.

“I’ve seen you,” he whispered. “With that simp boyfriend. Holding hands in the market. Pathetic.” His free hand came up and gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You need a real man. Someone who isn’t afraid to take what he wants.”

“Let me go,” you pleaded against his palm, your voice muffled.

He shook his head slowly, a mockery of regret. “Can’t do that, sweetheart. You’ve been on my mind. That pretty mouth. Those scared little eyes.” His hand left your chin and slid down, under your sweater, over your bra. He squeezed your breast roughly. “I followed you from the flower shop last week. Saw you throw my lilies away. That was rude.”

The flowers were from him. A new wave of nausea washed over you.

He pinched your nipple through the lace, hard, making you cry out against his hand. “Quiet,” he warned. His hand traveled down, over your stomach, and pushed between your legs, palming you through your jeans. “Already getting wet for me? You’re such a slut.”

You weren’t. You were dry with fear. But your body, traitorously, was responding to the brutal stimulation, a slickness gathering that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with shock and violation. He felt it, and his grin turned wolfish.

“See? Your body knows.” He undid your jeans with quick, practiced movements, yanking them and your underwear down to your knees. The cold air hit your skin. He unzipped his own jeans, freeing a thick, heavy cock that made your breath hitch. He was big, intimidating.

He didn’t wait. He hoisted one of your legs up around his hip, forcing you open, and pushed inside.

The stretch was agonizing. You weren’t ready. You whimpered, tears spilling over.

“Tight,” he groaned, beginning to move. His thrusts were deep, deliberate, each one punching the air from your lungs. The dryers vibrated against your back. He fucked you with a focused intensity, his eyes locked on your face, watching every tear, every grimace of pain.

“You like that, don’t you? Being fucked like a cheap whore in a laundromat.” He slapped your ass, the sting sharp and startling. “Answer me.”

“N-no…”

He slapped your ass again, harder. “Liar. Your cunt’s gripping me like a vise. You love it.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “I’m gonna come inside you. Fill you up. Maybe I’ll put a baby in you. Would you like that? Carrying my kid while your boyfriend raises it?”

The horror of his words, combined with the relentless friction, coiled a sickening tension in your gut. Your body, against your will, was building towards a climax, a betrayal so profound it shattered something inside you.

“I can feel you clenching,” he panted, his pace quickening. “You’re gonna come on my cock, you filthy bitch. Come for me.”

And you did. A silent, shuddering orgasm ripped through you, wave after wave of shame and pleasure that left you gasping. He groaned in triumph, his thrusts becoming erratic, and then he was pulsing inside you, hot and deep, his own release mingling with yours.

He held you there for a moment, his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. Then he pulled out, letting your leg drop. You sagged against the wall, your jeans around your ankles, his semen already dripping down your thigh.

He tucked himself away, zipped up, and straightened his jacket. He looked utterly composed.

“Wear a skirt next time,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather. “It’s more convenient.” He turned and walked out, leaving you crumpled in the gap between the dryers.

The city began to feel like a labyrinth designed to trap you. You stopped going out alone. Minho accompanied you everywhere. His concern was a constant, smothering presence. You couldn’t tell him the truth. How could you?

You started seeing a therapist, lying about the cause of your anxiety. You took a new job, a data entry position in a bland, open-plan office with lots of people. Safety in numbers.

Sunghoon worked in the accounting department on the other side of the floor. He was ethereally beautiful, with pale skin and sharp features that seemed carved from ice. He was quiet, efficient, always impeccably dressed. He’d smile at you in the breakroom, a small, polite thing that never reached his distant brown eyes.

For a month, it was just that—polite nods. You started to relax. Maybe this was a safe space.

Then, the company retreat.

A weekend at a secluded lodge in the mountains. Team-building exercises, shared cabins. You were paired with Sunghoon and two other colleagues for a hiking activity.

The hike was strenuous. You fell behind, your lungs burning. Sunghoon dropped back to walk with you. “Take your time,” he said, his voice soft.

The rest of the group disappeared around a bend. The woods were dense, silent except for the crunch of leaves underfoot.

“You’re very pretty, Y/N,” Sunghoon said, his tone conversational.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, speeding up.

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. His grip was like iron. “I wasn’t finished.”

You tried to pull away. “Let go of me.”

“I’ve watched you,” he continued, pulling you off the path, into a thicket of trees. “You carry yourself like you’re better than everyone. Like you’re pure.” He pushed you against a broad pine tree, the bark scraping through your thin jacket. “But I know what you are. I saw the bruises on your thigh last week in the breakroom. Someone’s already been marking you.”

Panic seized you. “That was—I fell.”

“Don’t lie.” His voice was still calm, almost bored. He unbuttoned your jeans. “Let’s see if you’re as pure as you pretend.”

“No! Please, Sunghoon, don’t!”

He slapped you. It wasn’t a hard, angry slap like Heeseung’s. It was a crisp, precise strike, meant to stun and humiliate. “Quiet. You’ll disturb the wildlife.”

He yanked your jeans and underwear down, his cold fingers probing between your legs. You were dry, clenched tight with fear.

“Hm.” He spat on his fingers, roughly pushed two inside you. The intrusion was brutal. You cried out, and he covered your mouth with his other hand.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he murmured, his face close to yours, his breath smelling of mint. He scissored his fingers, stretching you. “But look, you’re getting wet. Your body knows its purpose.”

Tears streamed down your face. He was right. The awful, unwanted slickness was returning, a physiological betrayal.

He unzipped his trousers. His cock was long and slender, like the rest of him. He positioned himself and pushed in. The stretch was different this time—a slow, burning invasion.

He fucked you with a cold, detached rhythm, his eyes fixed on your face, studying your reactions as if you were a specimen. He didn’t grunt or swear. He was silent, save for his controlled breathing.

“You’re thinking of your boyfriend,” he stated. “Pathetic. He can’t have you like this. Only I can.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “I’m going to come inside you. And you’re going to thank me.”

You shook your head, sobbing against his hand.

He increased his pace, his hips snapping against yours. The friction, combined with your own treacherous wetness, began to build that familiar, hated tension. You tried to fight it, to go somewhere else in your mind.

“I can feel you tightening,” he whispered, a flicker of heat finally entering his icy voice. “Come for me, you dirty girl. Come on the cock of the man you ignored for a month.”

The command, the humiliation, tipped you over the edge. A sharp, painful climax tore through you, your muscles clamping down on him. He groaned, a soft, almost surprised sound, and followed you over, his release spilling deep inside you with a few final, deep thrusts.

He pulled out, tucked himself away, and smoothed his hair. He looked down at you, slumped against the tree, exposed and soiled.

“Button up,” he said, his voice flat once more. “We don’t want to be late for the trust fall exercise.” He turned and walked back to the path, leaving you to scramble your clothes back on with trembling hands.

After the retreat, you broke. You told Minho you were sick, that you needed to go stay with a cousin in another city for a while. You just needed to get away. He argued, but you were insistent. You packed a single bag and bought a train ticket to Busan.

You thought you’d escaped.

The train was crowded. You found your seat, tucked your bag under your legs, and stared out the window, watching the city blur into countryside. You allowed yourself a sliver of hope.

“Excuse me? Is this seat 14B?”

You looked up. The man smiling down at you was sun-kissed and handsome, with kind, crinkling eyes and a disarming smile. He looked… safe.

“Yes,” you said, moving your bag.

“Thanks. I’m Jake.” He settled into the seat beside you, radiating a friendly warmth. He made easy small talk—about the weather, the slow train, his visit to his grandmother in Daegu. He was funny, gentle. For the first time in months, you felt your shoulders untense. You even laughed at a joke.

In Busan, you rented a small, furnished studio near the beach. For three days, you breathed. You walked along the shore, the salt air cleansing. You thought maybe you could start over.

On the fourth day, as you carried groceries back to your studio, a motorcycle screeched to a halt beside you. The rider took off his helmet.

Jake.

His friendly smile was still in place. “Y/N? Wow, what a coincidence!”

The coincidence was too perfect. The ice water of dread flooded your veins.

“Jake… hi.”

“Small world! Listen, I’m meeting some friends at a bar nearby. You should come. You shouldn’t be alone in a new city.”

You declined, making an excuse, your heart hammering. He looked disappointed but understanding. “Another time, then.”

That night, there was a knock on your door. You peered through the peephole. Jake stood there, holding a bottle of wine and a concerned expression.

“I know you said no,” he called through the door, his voice muffled but warm. “But I was worried. You seemed… lonely. Just one drink? For my peace of mind?”

He seemed so genuine. So kind. The part of you that was starved for normal human connection overruled your fear. You opened the door.

“Just one,” you said.

He beamed. “Great!”

He was charming. He talked about his job (he was a physical therapist), his love of surfing, his family. He poured the wine. It was rich and red. You drank it too quickly, grateful for the warmth in your belly, the softening of the sharp edges of your fear.

A pleasant fog descended. Your limbs felt heavy. Jake’s face swam in your vision, his smile still kind.

“You’re tired,” he said softly, taking the glass from your slack fingers. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“M’okay…” you slurred.

He helped you up, his arm strong around your waist. He led you to the bed, laying you down. He brushed your hair from your face. “So pretty,” he murmured. “So perfect.”

His hands began to undress you. You tried to protest, to push him away, but your arms were leaden.

“Shhh, pretty girl,” he cooed, his voice like honey. “It’s okay. Jake’s here. I’ll take care of you. You want this. You’ve been asking for it with those scared little eyes.”

“No…” you whimpered.

“Yes,” he said firmly, but his smile never faded. He stripped you naked, then undressed himself. His body was tanned, muscular. His cock was thick and curved, already fully hard. He knelt between your legs, spreading them.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his eyes drinking you in. “Made for me.” He didn’t force entry. He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling. A shock of unwanted sensation jolted through you. He switched to the other, biting gently, then not so gently.

His hand slid between your legs, his fingers parting your folds. “So wet already,” he lied. The wine, the shock, had made you pliant but not aroused. He spat on his fingers and pushed them inside, working them in and out. “There we go. That’s my girl.”

He positioned himself at your entrance. “This might hurt a little,” he said, as if apologizing for stepping on your toe. “But it’ll feel good soon. I promise.”

He pushed in. The stretch was immense, burning. You cried out, a weak, thready sound.

“Shhh, I know, baby, I know.” He sank in to the hilt, his weight settling on you. He began to move, slow, deep, grinding thrusts that filled you unbearably. He kissed your tears away. “You’re taking me so well. Such a good girl. My good girl.”

His pretended tenderness was the most terrifying thing you’d experienced. He fucked you like a lover, whispering endearments, even as he held your wrists pinned above your head, his grip unbreakable. He talked about the future, about putting a baby in you, about how beautiful you’d look round with his child.

“Gonna fill you up, darling,” he panted, his rhythm increasing. “Gonna breed you. Make you a mommy. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being full of me always.”

You came then, a silent, shuddering release born of overstimulation and sheer physiological betrayal. He smiled against your neck, pleased. “That’s it. Come for me.” His own climax followed, a hot, pulsing flood deep inside you. He collapsed on you, nuzzling your hair. “Mine,” he breathed.

He didn’t leave. He held you all night, a possessive cage. In the hazy pre-dawn light, he woke you by entering you again, this time from behind, his arm tight around your waist, his teeth on your shoulder. “Morning, beautiful,” he whispered, as he took you.

Before he left, he made you breakfast—eggs and toast. He kissed your forehead. “I’ll be back tonight. Wear something nice for me.” He left as if he were a doting boyfriend.

You sat at the tiny table, staring at the cold eggs, the taste of him still inside you, his scent on your sheets. You were well and truly trapped.

You stopped leaving the studio. Jake visited nightly. Sometimes he was “sweet.” Sometimes, if you resisted, his smile would freeze and he’d punish you—holding your head underwater in the sink until you thrashed, or making you kneel on the rough concrete floor for hours.

You got sick. A urinary tract infection, burning and painful. You had to go to a pharmacy.

The young man behind the counter was beautiful in an almost effeminate way, with sparkling eyes and a bright, welcoming smile. His name tag read ‘Sunoo.’

“How can I help you?” he chirped.

Muttering, face burning, you asked for the medication. His smile didn’t falter. “Of course. Do you have a prescription?”

You showed him the slip from the clinic. His eyes scanned it, and his smile turned knowing. “Oh, honey. These are rough. I have something better.” He produced a different box. “Stronger. More effective.”

You were too embarrassed and in pain to argue. You took the pills he offered.

A week later, the infection was worse. You returned. Sunoo recognized you immediately, his face a mask of sympathy. “Not better? That’s terrible. Come, let me check your file in the consultation room.”

The small, private room had a single chair and a desk. He closed the door and locked it. The click was soft, final.

“You’ve been a bad girl,” Sunoo said, his voice losing its melodic warmth, turning syrupy and sinister.

“What?”

He opened a drawer and pulled out your original prescription. “You didn’t take the medicine I gave you, did you? You went to another pharmacy. That hurts my feelings.” He tore the prescription slip in half. “I replaced your pills with sugar. You shouldn’t be putting those chemicals in your body anyway. Not when it’s meant for other things.”

You stood up to leave. He pushed you back into the chair, his strength surprising.

“I know all about you,” he whispered, kneeling before you, his hands on your knees. “Jake talks in his sleep. He’s so proud of his pretty little breeder.” His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up. “I want a taste.”

“No, please—”

He undid his trousers, freeing a cock that was surprisingly thick. He gripped the back of your head. “Open up, slut. Let’s see if you’re as good at this as he says.”

He forced himself into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. He held you there, fucking your face with short, brutal thrusts. Tears streamed from your eyes. He moaned, playing with your hair.

“Such a good little cocksucker,” he cooed. “Swallow it all. It’s good for you. Full of protein.” He pulled out just before he came, spraying his release over your face, your hair, your open mouth. He rubbed the head of his cock over your lips, smearing it. “Clean it up.”

You sat there, trembling, covered in his semen.

He stood, tucking himself away. “I’ll get you the real antibiotics now. We can’t have an infection in the womb, can we?” He unlocked the door, his bright smile back in place. “Feel better soon!”

You stopped going out entirely. Jake brought you groceries. You were a prisoner in your own skin. You thought about running again, but where would you go? They were everywhere.

You missed books. You asked Jake to bring you some from the library. He brought a stack. One was a dense historical text you hadn’t requested. A note was tucked inside, in neat, precise handwriting: “Page 227. You’ll find it relevant.”

With trembling hands, you opened to the page. It described ancient practices of war trophies, of conquered women. The words blurred. Another note was paper-clipped to the margin: “The quiet ones see the most. – J.”

A few days later, a different book arrived, delivered by courier. No return address. It was a photo album. Your photo album. Pictures of you and Minho, of your family, of you as a child. The last page was a recent photo, taken through your studio window, of you sleeping.

You screamed and threw it across the room.

That night, you tried to call Minho. The line was dead. Jake had cut it.

The next afternoon, there was a knock. Not Jake’s familiar rap. This was sharper. You didn’t answer. The knocking persisted, then stopped.

An hour later, as you sat in the dark living room, you heard the balcony door slide open. You hadn’t locked it.

A figure slipped inside, silhouetted against the sunset. He was of average height but moved with a predator’s grace. Jungwon. You’d never seen him before, but you knew. His face was youthful but his eyes were ancient and intense.

“You’ve been ignoring my messages,” he said, his voice quiet, devoid of inflection.

You backed away. “Get out.”

He didn’t speak again. He just advanced. In his hand, a small, sharp folding knife flicked open. The blade caught the dying light.

You turned to run for the front door. He was faster. He grabbed you, spun you, and pressed the cold flat of the blade against your throat.

“Strip,” he commanded.

With the knife at your throat, you obeyed, shedding your clothes with shaking hands.

He looked you over, his gaze analytical. “On your hands and knees.”

You knelt. He moved behind you. You felt the cool edge of the blade trace a line down your spine, then between your buttocks. You flinched.

“History is written by the victors,” he whispered, his breath on your ear. He used the knife not to cut, but to threaten, to heighten the terror. He positioned himself behind you, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. He was average in length but thick, a solid, unforgiving weight.

He pushed in, not with a brutal shove, but with a slow, relentless pressure that burned and stretched you open. Once seated fully, he paused, one hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back, the other still holding the knife flat against your stomach.

“I’ve conquered you,” he stated, and began to move. His thrusts were deep, measured, each one a claim. He fucked you with a quiet, terrifying focus, his breath steady. He bit your shoulder, hard enough to break the skin, marking you.

“You’re a chapter in my history now,” he grunted, his composure finally cracking as his pace increased. “Mine.” He came with a sharp exhale, his release hot inside you. He pulled out, wiped the knife clean on your discarded shirt, folded it, and pocketed it.

He dressed silently and left through the balcony door as quietly as he’d come.

Jake had taken you out, a rare “treat,” driving you to a secluded cliffside viewpoint at night. “Some air will do you good,” he’d said, his hand possessive on your thigh.

While he was on a phone call, you saw a shadow detach itself from the trees. A young man, tall and lanky, hood pulled up. He walked straight to the passenger door, yanked it open, and dragged you out.

“Hey!” Jake called, but he sounded more annoyed than alarmed.

The boy—Niki—shoved you against the side of the car. Up close, he was all fierce, wild beauty and unchecked malice.

“Think you’re too good, huh?” he spat, his voice rough with youth and venom. “My hyungs can’t stop talking about you. The shared slut.”

He didn’t waste time. He turned you around, bent you over the car’s hood, and pulled your pants down. His cock was long and lean, like him. He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and drove into you without ceremony.

“Fuck!” he grunted, his thrusts immediately frantic, pounding. He slapped your ass, hard, leaving stinging prints. “Take it, you bitch! You’re just a hole for us!”

He was rougher than the others, less controlled, all raw, violent need. He fucked you like he was trying to exorcise something, slamming you against the car with each thrust. He called you every filthy name he could think of.

“Gonna come in this used-up cunt,” he panted. “Mark it so everyone knows you’re ours!”

He came with a loud, guttural cry, biting the juncture of your neck and shoulder hard enough to draw blood. He stayed inside you for a moment, panting, then pulled out. He zipped up, looked at Jake, who had finished his call and was leaning against the driver’s door, watching with a faint smile.

“She’s tight, hyung,” Niki said, as if reviewing a product.

“I know,” Jake said. “Now go home. Your brother’s looking for you.”

Niki shot you one last sneer and disappeared into the darkness.

Jake helped you back into the car, tenderly wiping the blood from your neck. “He’s a bit excitable,” he said mildly. “But he’s family.”