Untitled

The elevator ride to the top floor feels like ascending to your own execution. The numbers tick by - 47, 48, 49, 50 - each floor bringing you closer to her domain. You adjust your tie, check your reflection in the polished steel doors. You look good, you always do. It's one of your strengths, that effortless confidence that got you where you are today. No silver spoons in your mouth, just hard work and natural charm.

The executive floor is all marble and glass, the kind of ostentatious display of wealth that screams "old money." Which is exactly what Ning is - third generation chaebol princess who never had to struggle for anything in her life. Well, almost anything.

Her secretary, a nervous-looking woman in her fifties, barely makes eye contact as she gestures toward the massive oak doors. "She's waiting for you."

Of course she is.

She had been gone all this time, and yet she was never far. Tied up in another corner of her family’s empire, keeping busy, keeping away. But you knew the safety you felt was an illusion - a brittle calm, like standing on the shore while, just beyond the horizon, warships gather under a foreign flag, already cutting through the waves, already coming for you. It would be poetic in a book, but in real life it's fucking scary.

You push open the doors and there she is, exactly as you remember but somehow more. Ning Yizhuo sits behind a desk that probably costs more than most people's cars, and damn if she hasn't grown into herself since college. Her long black hair falls in perfect waves past her shoulders, framing a face that could launch a thousand corporate takeovers. Those same dark feline eyes that used to follow you around campus, but now they hold something sharper.

She's wearing a tailored black blazer that hugs her petite frame perfectly, the kind of designer piece that costs more than your monthly salary. Underneath, a silk blouse in cream that contrasts beautifully with her porcelain skin. Her legs are crossed elegantly, one foot bouncing slightly in what you recognize as barely contained energy. Everything about her screams success, power, control.

And yeah, she's gorgeous. She always was. That was never the problem.

"Close the door," she says without looking up from whatever document she's pretending to read. Her voice has matured since college, gained an edge of authority that comes with having people jump at your every word.

You do as she asks because, well, she's your boss now. Funny how life works out, isn't it? You, the scholarship kid who worked three jobs to pay for textbooks, now answering to the girl who used to have her assignments written by tutors.

"Sit."

Again, you comply, settling into one of the leather chairs across from her desk. The office is enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city skyline. Her desk is positioned so she looks down at visitors, a subtle power play that would be impressive if it weren't so obvious.

Finally, she looks up, and those dark eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. There's something predatory in her gaze, something that sets every instinct you have on high alert.

"Hello, stranger," she says, and her lips curve into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "It's been a while."

"Ning." You keep your voice level, professional. "Congratulations on the promotion."

She laughs. "Promotion? Is that what you think this is?" She stands, moving around the desk with the fluid grace of someone who's never doubted their place in the world. "I didn't get promoted. I inherited an empire."

And there it is, the same entitled attitude that made you walk away all those years ago. Some things never change, do they?

"Right," you say carefully. "Well, congratulations on your inheritance, then."

She perches on the edge of her desk, one leg swinging slightly. The movement draws your attention to her legs, and you're annoyed at yourself for noticing how the black stockings hug her thighs. Focus, you tell yourself. This is business.

Except you know it's not. Not really.

"You know," she says, examining her perfectly manicured nails, "I've been going through personnel files lately. Getting to know my... employees." The way she says the word makes it sound dirty somehow. "And I came across some interesting information about you."

Your stomach drops, but you keep your expression neutral. You've been in corporate long enough to know that showing weakness is blood in the water.

"Such as?"

"The Givens account." She tilts her head, studying your reaction. "You remember the Givens account, don't you? The one where you maybe, possibly, bent a few rules to close the deal?"

Shit. You'd hoped that particular gray area would stay buried. It wasn't illegal, exactly, but it wasn't entirely above board either. The kind of thing that happens in the real world but looks bad on paper.

"I closed that account," you say evenly. "Brought in fifteen million in revenue."

"By falsifying the timeline in your reports." She slides off the desk, moving closer. "By backdating documents to make it look like you'd disclosed certain risks earlier than you actually did."

Your jaw tightens. "The client got what they paid for. More than what they paid for."

"Oh, I'm not questioning your results." She's standing right in front of you now, close enough that you can smell her perfume - smells like danger by the way. "I'm questioning your methods. And wondering what the regulatory board would think if they saw the real timeline."

There it is. The threat, delivered with the same sweet smile she used to give professors when she wanted extensions on assignments she'd never actually started.

"What do you want, Ning?"

She laughs again, delighted by your directness. "Straight to the point. I always liked that about you." She moves behind your chair, her hands coming to rest on the back of it. You can feel her presence like heat against your shoulders.

"You know what's funny?" she continues. "Everyone told me I should fire you the moment I took over. 'He's too ambitious,' they said. 'Too independent. Too... difficult to control.'"

Her fingers trail along the leather of the chair, just barely not touching you.

"But I said no. I said, 'I want to give him a chance.' Because we have history, don't we? We understand each other."

You turn in the chair to look at her, and immediately regret it. She's leaning over you slightly, her face inches from yours, and suddenly you're transported back to that night six years ago. The party at her sorority house, her confession in the garden, the way her face crumpled when you turned her down.

You'd been kind about it, or at least you'd tried to be. Explained that you didn't want to complicate things, that you valued her friendship too much to risk it. All the polite lies people tell when they mean "I'm not interested."

The truth was simpler and crueler: you knew exactly what she was. Spoiled, entitled, used to getting everything handed to her on a silver platter. Dating her would have been career suicide - either you'd be seen as her boy toy, or you'd spend your whole life being compared to her family's wealth and influence.

So you'd said no, and she'd never forgiven you for it.

"We do have history," you agree carefully. "But that was a long time ago."

"Was it?" She moves away, returning to her position behind the desk. The loss of her proximity is both a relief and, annoyingly, a disappointment. "Because from where I'm sitting, it feels very present."

She opens a drawer and pulls out a file folder, thick with documents. Your name is written on the tab in neat handwriting.

"four years with the company," she reads aloud. "Consistent top performer. Respect of your colleagues. A real success story." She looks up. "The American dream in action, right? Poor boy makes good through hard work and determination."

There's something mocking in her tone that makes your hands clench.

"It would be such a shame if it all came crashing down because of one little... indiscretion."

You know what she's doing - the carrot and the stick, the promise and the threat. Corporate manipulation 101, except this feels personal in a way that makes your skin crawl.

"So what's the deal?" you ask finally. "What do you want from me?"

Her smile returns, wider this time, predatory. "I want what I've always wanted." She stands again, smoothing down her skirt. "I want you."

You stare at her, trying to process what she's actually suggesting.

"Ning—"

"No, let me finish." She holds up a hand. "I've thought about this for years. Six years, to be exact. Every success, every achievement, every step up the ladder, I've wondered what it would be like if you were there with me."

She starts walking again, this time moving to the window. The late afternoon sun backlights her figure, turning her into a silhouette against the glass.

"Do you know what it's like," she continues, "to have everything you could possibly want except the one thing that matters? To have power and money and influence, but to lie awake at night thinking about someone who rejected you?"

There's genuine pain in her voice, and for a moment you almost feel sorry for her. Almost. 

"That's not my fault," you say quietly.

She spins around, and the vulnerable moment is gone. "Isn't it? You knew how I felt. You knew, and you walked away like it meant nothing."

"It wasn't nothing. But it wasn't enough."

"Because I wasn't enough. The poor little rich girl, right? Too spoiled, too entitled, too much baggage to be worth your time."

She's closer now, having crossed the room while you were distracted by the pain in her words. Close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, the slight tremble in her hands that she's trying to hide.

"That's not what I thought."

"No? Then what did you think?" She's standing right in front of your chair again, looking down at you with an expression caught between anger and something that might be hope.

You consider lying, coming up with some comfortable excuse that might make this easier for both of you. But something about the way she's looking at you, the genuine hurt beneath all the posturing, makes you tell the truth instead.

"I thought you were dangerous," you say simply.

She blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. "Dangerous?"

"Not in a bad way. Dangerous like... like standing too close to the sun. You were this brilliant, beautiful, powerful thing, and I was just some nobody from nowhere trying to make something of himself. Getting involved with you would have meant getting pulled into your world, and I wasn't strong enough for that. I would have lost myself."

The silence that follows is deafening. She stares at you, processing your words, and you can see the exact moment when understanding clicks into place.

"And now?" she asks quietly.

"Now what?"

"Are you strong enough now?"

It's a loaded question, and you both know it. She's not just asking about your emotional fortitude - she's asking if you're ready to be hers, to accept whatever terms she's about to offer.

You lean back in the chair, studying her face. She's older now, more self-assured, but underneath it all you can still see traces of the girl who used to follow you around campus with hopeful eyes. The girl who wore her heart on her sleeve until you taught her to hide it.

"That depends," you say finally, "on what you're asking."

"I'm asking for everything."

She moves to the side of her desk, pressing a button on her phone. "Lisa, hold all my calls. I don't want to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon. And I don't want anyone, I repeat, absolutely anyone, to come to my office, understand?”

The speaker crackles as her assistant responds: "Yes, Ms. Yizhuo."

Then she's walking toward you again, and there's something different about her movement now. More purposeful. More predatory.

"You want to know what I'm asking for?" she says, stopping just out of arm's reach. "I'm asking for you to finally admit what we both know."

"Which is?"

"That you've thought about it too. About me. About what would have happened if you'd said yes that night."

She's not wrong, and you hate her for knowing it. Because yes, you have thought about it. More than you care to admit. There were nights, especially after particularly brutal days at the office, when you'd wonder what life would have been like if you'd taken the easy path. If you'd let yourself be swept up in the Ning Yizhuo hurricane and damn the consequences.

"Maybe," you admit.

"Maybe?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You're still playing it safe. Still calculating the risks and benefits like this is some kind of business transaction."

She moves closer, and now she's standing between your legs, her hands resting on the arms of your chair. The position is intimate, threatening, and electric all at once.

"But it's not a transaction anymore," she continues. "It's an ultimatum."

Your heart is pounding now, though you're not sure if it's from fear or something else entirely. "And if I refuse?"

"You won't."

The certainty in her voice should be infuriating, but instead it sends a thrill down your spine. Because she's right, isn't she? You both know how this is going to end. The only question is whether you're going to make her work for it.

"You seem pretty confident about that."

"I am." She leans down, bringing her face level with yours. "Because I know you. I know that underneath all that professional restraint and careful calculation, you're still the same person who used to look at me like you wanted to devour me whole."

Her breath is warm against your cheek, and you can feel your resolve starting to crumble. It's been six years since anyone has looked at you the way she's looking at you now - like you're something precious and dangerous and absolutely necessary.

"Ning..."

"Say it," she whispers. "Say you want me."

For a moment, you're transported back to college. To late nights in the library when she'd find excuses to study near you. To parties where she'd gravitate to your side like a satellite to its planet. To that night in the garden when she'd been brave enough to say what you'd both been dancing around for months.

You'd wanted her then. God help you, you want her now.

"This is insane," you breathe.

"Probably." She's so close now that her lips almost brush yours when she speaks. "But you're going to do it anyway, aren't you?"

The question hangs between you like a dare. You can feel the weight of it, the implications of what she's asking. Once you cross this line, there's no going back. Your career, your carefully constructed independence, everything you've worked for - it all becomes subject to her whims.

But maybe that's not entirely a bad thing. Maybe you're tired of being in control all the time. Maybe the idea of surrendering to someone else, to her, is more appealing than you want to admit.

"The Givens account," you say, grasping for one last bit of leverage. "If I do this, that disappears."

She smiles, victorious. "Consider it handled."

"And my position in the company remains secure."

"You'll be more than secure. You'll be untouchable." Her hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin. "You'll be mine."

The possessiveness in her voice should alarm you. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in your stomach. Because there's something incredibly seductive about being wanted this much, about being the one thing that Ning Yizhuo - who has everything - can't quite possess.

Until now.

"Okay," you whisper.

The word is barely audible, but she hears it. Her eyes light up with triumph and something darker, hungrier. For a moment, she just stares at you like she can't quite believe you've finally said yes.

Then she's kissing you.

It's not gentle or tentative like you might expect from someone who's been waiting six years for this moment. It's demanding, aggressive, years of frustrated want poured into the connection between your lips. Her fingers tangle in your hair, holding you in place as she claims your mouth with a desperation that takes your breath away.

You can taste her lipstick, something subtle and expensive that probably costs more than most people spend on groceries. Can feel the way she's trembling slightly despite her outward confidence. This moment means everything to her, you realize. Everything.

When she finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard. Her lipstick is smudged, and there's a wild look in her eyes that makes your pulse race.

"Six years," she says, almost to herself. "Six fucking years I've been waiting for that."

She steps back, and immediately you miss the warmth of her proximity. But the distance gives you a chance to really look at her - at the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, the satisfied smile playing at her lips.

"You know," she continues, smoothing down her blazer, "I used to fantasize about this moment. About having you here, in my office, completely at my mercy." She walks back around to her side of the desk, but instead of sitting down, she leans against it. "The reality is so much better than I imagined."

There's something about the way she's looking at you that makes you feel exposed, like she can see right through all your carefully constructed defenses. It's unsettling and thrilling in equal measure.

"So what happens now?" you ask.

"Now?" She tilts her head, considering. "Now we establish some ground rules."

Oh, here we go. You should have known it wouldn't be that simple with her. Nothing ever is.

"Such as?"

"Such as, you don't see anyone else. Male or female. I don't care how casual you think it is - from now on, you're exclusively mine."

The possessiveness in her voice makes something twist in your chest. It should bother you, this assumption that she can just claim ownership over your personal life. Instead, you find yourself nodding.

"Okay."

"And you make time for me. Real time, not just these little stolen moments between meetings. I want dinners, I want weekends, I want you to be present in my life in a way that matters."

Again, you nod. It's not like you have much of a social life anyway - you've been so focused on your career that dating has taken a backseat to advancement. Maybe it would be nice to have someone demand your attention for once.

"And," she continues, her voice dropping to that dangerous whisper again, "when I call, you answer. When I want you here, you come. When I need you..." She trails off, but the implication is clear.

"Understood."

She pushes off from the desk, moving toward you with that same predatory grace. "Good. I'm so glad we understand each other."

When she reaches your chair, she doesn't stop. Instead, she swings one leg over your thighs, settling into your lap with a confidence that takes your breath away. The movement makes her skirt ride up slightly, and you can see the lace edge of her stockings against pale skin.

"Ning," you start, but she silences you with a finger pressed to your lips.

"Shh. We're done talking for now."

Her other hand slides down your chest, fingers playing with the buttons of your shirt. She's so close that you can count her eyelashes, can see the faint freckles across her nose that makeup can't quite hide.

"Do you know how many times I've thought about this?" she murmurs, working open the top button of your shirt. "How many nights I've laid in bed imagining what it would feel like to finally have you like this?"

Your hands come up to rest on her hips automatically, and she smiles at the contact. Her skin is warm through the fabric of her skirt, and you can feel the subtle flex of muscle as she adjusts her position in your lap.

"Too many," she continues, moving to the second button. "Far too many for someone who's supposed to be a respectable CEO."

The way she says it makes you laugh despite yourself. "And what does a respectable CEO do when she finally gets what she wants?"

Her smile turns wicked. "Whatever the hell she pleases."

The third button comes undone, then the fourth. Her fingers are cool against your chest as she spreads the fabric apart, nails scraping lightly across your skin. The sensation makes you shiver, and she notices immediately.

"Sensitive," she observes with satisfaction. "I like that."

She leans forward, pressing her lips to the column of your throat. The contact is electric, sending sparks racing through your nervous system. Her mouth is warm and soft, and when she opens it to taste your skin, you can't suppress the groan that escapes.

"That's it," she whispers against your neck. "Let me hear you."

Her teeth graze your pulse point, and your hands tighten on her hips involuntarily. She makes a pleased sound at the reaction, her own hips rocking slightly in your lap. The movement creates a friction that makes thinking difficult.

"Ning," you breathe, not sure if you're protesting or encouraging.

"I love the way you say my name," she replies, pulling back to look at you. Her eyes are dark with want, pupils dilated. "Say it again."

"Ning."

She rewards you with another kiss, this one slower but no less intense. Her tongue traces the seam of your lips before delving inside, and you can taste the desperation beneath her confidence. This isn't just about power or revenge - this is about want, pure and simple. Six years of accumulated desire finally being given an outlet.

When she breaks the kiss, she rests her forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard.

"I need you to understand something," she says quietly. "This isn't just about getting you into bed. This isn't some kind of conquest or corporate power play."

She pauses, and for a moment she looks almost vulnerable.

"This is about the fact that I've been in love with you since I was twenty years old, and I never got over it. Not through college, not through business school, not through all the years of building this company and dating other people and trying to convince myself that what I felt for you was just some kind of phase."

"I never knew," you say softly.

"Of course you didn't. I made sure of that." She sits back slightly, her hands still resting on your chest. "After you rejected me, I decided I would never be that vulnerable again. Never put myself out there like that and risk being dismissed as just some spoiled little rich girl with a crush."

"I'm sorry," you tell her, and you mean it. "I never meant to hurt you."

"I know." She traces patterns on your chest with her fingertip, not quite meeting your eyes. "But you did anyway. And now... now I finally have a chance to fix it."

"Is that what this is? Fixing things?"

"I hope so. I really hope so."

The moment stretches between you, fragile and precious. Then she's kissing you again, and this time it's different. Less desperate, more tender. Like she's trying to communicate everything she can't say out loud through the contact of her lips against yours.

Your hands slide up from her hips to her waist, feeling the curve of her body through the silk of her blouse. She's smaller than you remembered, more delicate, but there's strength in the way she holds herself that speaks to the years of building her own empire.

"Touch me," she whispers against your mouth, and the request sends heat racing through your veins.

Your hands move higher, skimming over her ribs to cup her breasts through the thin fabric. She arches into the contact with a soft gasp that makes something primal stir in your chest. Her body is perfect - soft curves and warm skin that fits perfectly in your palms.

"Like that," she breathes, her head falling back as you massage gently. "God, yes, like that."

The blazer is in the way, so you start working at the buttons with slightly unsteady fingers. She helps, shrugging out of the jacket and letting it fall to the floor behind the chair. Underneath, the silk blouse clings to her curves, and you can see the outline of lace beneath the fabric.

"You're beautiful," you tell her.

She smiles, but there's something almost shy about it. "You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it because I have to. I'm saying it because it's true."

The blouse has tiny pearl buttons that require patience to undo. She watches your face as you work, biting her lower lip in a way that makes you want to kiss her again. When you finally get the fabric open, revealing the delicate lace bra beneath, she inhales sharply.

"Beautiful," you repeat, and this time when you say it, she believes you.

The bra is pale pink lace, almost virginal except for the way it showcases her breasts. Your fingers trace the edge of the cups, making her shiver, before you lean down to press your lips to the swell of her cleavage.

"Oh," she gasps, her fingers tangling in your hair. "Oh, that's..."

You don't let her finish the thought, too busy exploring the newly revealed skin with your mouth. She tastes like expensive soap and something uniquely her, a flavor you know you'll crave long after this moment ends.

Her breathing becomes more ragged as you work your way across her collarbone, finding the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. When you bite down gently, she actually whimpers, the sound going straight to your cock.

"We should..." she starts, then loses the thread when you suck a mark into her skin. "We should probably..."

"Probably what?" you ask against her throat.

"Go somewhere more private. Someone could walk in here at any moment. I asked not to be disturbed, but some people here are incredibly stubborn, you know."

She's right, of course. The thought of being caught like this - you with your shirt open and her half-undressed in your lap - should be sobering.

Instead, it's incredibly arousing.

"Let them look," you murmur, and she makes a sound that's half protest, half moan.

"You're terrible," she breathes, but she's rocking against you again, creating a friction that makes clear thinking impossible.

"You started this," you remind her, hands sliding down to grip her thighs. "In your office, in the middle of the day, where anyone could walk in."

"That's different. I'm the CEO. I can do whatever I want."

"And what do you want?"

She looks at you for a long moment, her eyes dark and hungry. "I want you to fuck me on my desk like you've been thinking about for the past six years."

The crude words send a jolt of pure lust through you. This is Ning Yizhuo, ice princess of the corporate world, talking dirty in a way that makes your head spin.

"Have I been thinking about that?" you ask, playing along.

"Haven't you?" She climbs off your lap, moving to stand between your legs. "Haven't you wondered what I'd look like spread out for you? What I'd sound like when you made me come?"

Christ. The image she's painting is vivid and immediate and makes your cock throb against the confines of your pants. You can see it so clearly - her pale skin against the dark wood of her desk, her legs wrapped around your waist as you drive into her.

"Maybe," you admit roughly.

She smiles, satisfied by your reaction. "I thought so."

Then she's stepping back, putting distance between you that feels like a loss. But before you can protest, she starts moving toward her desk with that same predatory grace, and you realize she's giving you a show.

Her hands go to the zipper at the side of her skirt, and she draws it down slowly, holding your gaze the entire time. The fabric falls to pool around her feet, revealing long legs encased in sheer black stockings held up by a garter belt that matches her bra.

"Fuck," you breathe, because you're only human and the sight of Ning Yizhuo in lingerie is enough to short-circuit your brain.

She steps out of the skirt, kicking it aside with one designer heel. Now she's standing there in just her blouse, bra, panties, garter belt, stockings, and heels - a vision that belongs in every executive's fantasy.

"Like what you see?" she asks, though your expression probably makes the answer obvious.

"Come here," you growl, but she shakes her head.

"Not yet. I want you to look at me. Really look." She turns slowly, giving you a view of her from every angle. "I want you to see what you turned down all those years ago."

The panties are the same pale pink as her bra, a small triangle of lace that leaves very little to the imagination. Her ass is perfect, tight, firm and round in a way that makes your hands itch to touch. The stockings make her legs look endless, and the heels add just enough height to make her movements impossibly graceful.

When she completes the turn, facing you again, there's triumph in her expression. She knows exactly what she's doing to you, and she's enjoying every second of it.

"Now," she says, perching on the edge of her desk, "come here."

This time you obey, standing on unsteady legs and crossing the space between you. When you reach her, she spreads her legs slightly, making room for you to stand between them. The position puts you at eye level with her breasts, and you take a moment to appreciate the view.

"Touch me," she commands softly, and you don't need to be told twice.

Your hands go to her waist, spanning the narrow space between her ribs and hips. Her skin is warm silk under your palms, and when you slide them up to cup her breasts again, she arches into the contact with a soft moan.

The bra has a front clasp, you discover, and it takes only a moment to flick it open. The lace falls away, revealing perfect breasts topped with dusky pink nipples that are already hard with arousal.

"Perfect," you murmur, and then you're lowering your head to take one peaked nipple into your mouth.

She cries out, her hands flying to grip your shoulders. Her nipple is sensitive, you discover, responding immediately to the stroke of your tongue. When you suck gently, her entire body trembles.

"Yes," she gasps, "oh god, yes, just like that."

You lavish attention on first one breast, then the other, taking your time to learn what makes her moan, what makes her arch against you, what makes her fingers dig into your shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

She's responsive in a way that makes you want to explore every inch of her, to catalog every sound she makes and every spot that makes her tremble. This is Ning Yizhuo, who commands boardrooms and makes million-dollar decisions without breaking a sweat, and you're reducing her to breathy moans and desperate touches.

"Please," she whispers when you spend particularly long teasing one nipple with your teeth. "Please, I need..."

"What do you need?" you ask against her skin.

"More. I need more."

Your hands slide down her sides to her hips, thumbs hooking under the edge of her panties. The lace is already damp, you can feel it, and the knowledge that she's this affected makes your cock throb painfully.

"These need to come off," you tell her.

"Yes," she agrees immediately, lifting her hips so you can slide the panties down her legs. You take your time with it, enjoying the way she shivers as the lace trails over her skin. When you reach her ankles, you leave the panties dangling from one heel, too impatient to remove them completely.

Now she's spread before you in just her stockings, garter belt, and heels, exactly like the fantasy you never admitted to having. Her pussy is bare, you discover, smooth and glistening with arousal. The sight makes your mouth water.

You drop to your knees before her, and the sight of Ning spread before you like this - vulnerable yet commanding, desperate yet still somehow in control - makes your heart race. Her thighs are trembling slightly, whether from anticipation or the cool air of the office, you're not sure. What you are sure of is that you've never wanted anything more than you want to taste her right now.

"Look at you," she breathes. "On your knees for me. Do you know how long I've fantasized about this exact moment?"

You slide your hands up her thighs, feeling the contrast between the silk of her stockings and the warm bare skin above them. Her breath hitches as your thumbs trace small circles on her inner thighs, so close to where she needs you but not quite there yet.

"Tell me," you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her knee.

"Every night," she confesses, her fingers threading through your hair. "Every fucking night since college. I'd imagine you between my legs, making me scream your name." Her grip tightens as you kiss higher up her thigh. "I'd touch myself thinking about your mouth on me, wondering if you'd be gentle or if you'd devour me whole."

The raw honesty in her voice makes your cock strain against your pants. You can see how wet she is, her arousal glistening in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. The scent of her is intoxicating - clean and sweet with an underlying musk that's purely female.

"And which did you prefer?" you ask, your breath ghosting over her sensitive skin. "Gentle or being devoured?"

"Both," she gasps as you nip at the crease where her thigh meets her pussy. "I want everything from you. Everything I've been denied for six fucking years."

You lean back slightly to look up at her, taking in the sight of Ning Yizhuo - CEO. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted as she breathes heavily, and there's a wild look in her eyes that makes something primal stir in your chest.

"Then everything is what you'll get," you promise, and finally, finally, you lean forward and drag your tongue along her slit.

The sound she makes is inhuman - a broken moan that echoes off the walls of her office. Her back arches off the desk, and her thighs try to clamp around your head, but you hold them open with firm hands.

"Oh fuck," she gasps, "oh fuck, your mouth feels so good."

You take your time, learning the taste and texture of her. She's sweet and tangy, with a flavor that's addictive in the best possible way. Your tongue explores every fold, every sensitive spot, cataloguing what makes her writhe and what makes her cry out.

When you find her clit with the tip of your tongue, she actually screams - a high, desperate sound that would probably be audible in the hallway if anyone were around to hear it. Her hips buck against your mouth, seeking more friction, more pressure, more everything.

"There," she pants, "right there, don't stop, please don't fucking stop."

You circle her clit with broad strokes of your tongue, then switch to quick flicks that make her entire body shake. Her taste is stronger here, more concentrated, and you find yourself getting drunk on it. This is Ning Yizhuo falling apart because of you, and the power of it is intoxicating.

"You taste incredible," you murmur against her pussy, the vibrations making her moan. "Better than I ever imagined."

"You imagined this?" The question is breathless, barely coherent.

"More than I should have," you admit before sealing your lips around her clit and sucking gently.

The effect is immediate and devastating. Her back bows completely off the desk, her hands fisting in your hair hard enough to hurt, and she lets out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, just like that, oh my god, I'm going to come, I'm going to come all over your face."

You increase the pressure, alternating between sucking and licking, and you can feel her thighs starting to tremble uncontrollably. Her breathing becomes erratic, punctuated by little whimpers and gasps that go straight to your cock.

But just as she's about to tip over the edge, you pull back.

"No!" she cries out, her eyes flying open to stare down at you with a mixture of desperation and fury. "What the fuck are you doing? I was so close!"

You smile up at her, your lips glistening with her arousal. "Patience, boss. We have all afternoon, remember?"

The look she gives you could melt steel. "You bastard. You absolute bastard. Do you have any idea how long it's been since someone made me come?"

"How long?" you ask, pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs while she tries to catch her breath.

"Too fucking long," she growls. "And you're going to make me wait even longer?"

"I'm going to make it worth the wait," you promise, then lean forward to drag your tongue through her folds again.

This time you avoid her clit entirely, focusing instead on the sensitive entrance to her pussy. Your tongue delves inside her, and she tastes even better here - richer, more intense. You fuck her with your tongue while your hands grip her thighs, holding her open for your exploration.

"You're evil," she pants, her hips rolling against your mouth. "This is torture."

"This is worship," you correct, pulling back to look at her. "This is me taking my time with every perfect inch of you."

You mean it, too. You want to memorize this moment - the way she looks spread out on her executive desk, the sounds she makes when you touch her just right, the way her body responds to every stroke of your tongue. This is Ning Yizhuo completely at your mercy, and you're going to savor every second.

Your hands slide up to cup her ass, lifting her slightly so you can get better access. The new angle lets you go deeper with your tongue, and she responds with a broken moan that makes your cock throb.

"Please," she whispers, and there's something broken in her voice that makes you look up. Her eyes are glazed with lust, but there's something else there too - vulnerability, need, a desperation that goes beyond physical desire.

"Please what?" you ask softly.

"Make me come. Please, I need it so badly. I need you to make me come."

"Okay," you whisper against her skin. "Okay, baby, I've got you."

The endearment slips out without your permission, but she responds to it with a shuddering breath that tells you she needs the tenderness as much as the pleasure.

You return to her clit with renewed purpose, sealing your lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucking while your tongue works in quick, consistent strokes. Her response is immediate - her back arches, her thighs clamp around your head, and she starts to fall apart with beautiful, devastating completeness.

"Yes, yes, yes, oh fuck, I'm coming, I'm coming, don't stop, please don't stop!"

You don't stop. You work her through it, feeling her pussy clench and pulse against your tongue as waves of pleasure crash over her. She's loud - so loud that you're grateful for the thickness of the office walls - and completely uninhibited in a way that makes you want to give her a hundred more orgasms just to hear those sounds again.

When the tremors finally subside, she collapses back onto the desk, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. You press soft kisses to her inner thighs, tasting the salt of her sweat mixed with her arousal.

"Holy shit," she breathes after a long moment. "That was... holy shit."

You smile against her skin, pleased with her reaction. "Good?"

"Good?" She laughs, the sound slightly hysterical. "I think I just saw God. Or at least the corporate equivalent."

You chuckle, sitting back on your heels to look at her. She's a mess in the best possible way - her hair is disheveled, her makeup is smudged, and there's a pink flush covering her chest and neck. She looks thoroughly debauched, and the sight makes your cock throb with need.

"Come here," she says, making grabby hands at you.

You stand up, and she immediately reaches for your belt buckle with fingers that are still slightly shaky from her orgasm.

"My turn," she says with a wicked grin.

But before she can get your belt undone, you catch her hands in yours.

"Wait," you say.

She looks up at you with confusion and a hint of frustration. "Wait for what? I want to taste you. I want to suck your cock until you come down my throat."

The crude words make your cock twitch, but you shake your head. "Later. Right now, I want something else."

"What?" she asks, though there's a knowing glint in her eyes that suggests she already has an idea.

Instead of answering with words, you lean down and capture her lips in a kiss that's all heat and desperation. She can taste herself on your tongue, and the knowledge makes her moan into your mouth.

When you break the kiss, you rest your forehead against hers. "Turn around," you murmur.

Her eyes widen slightly. "Here? On the desk?"

"Here. On the desk. I want to fuck you exactly where you make million-dollar decisions. I want you to think about this every time you sit in that chair."

The possessiveness in your voice makes her shiver, and she nods eagerly. "Yes. God, yes."

She slides off the desk and turns around, bending over the polished wood surface. The position showcases her ass perfectly - round and firm, framed by the black straps of her garter belt. 

"Like this?" she asks, looking back at you over her shoulder.

"Perfect," you breathe, running your hands over the curve of her ass. "Absolutely perfect."

You take a moment to appreciate the view - Her pussy is still glistening from your mouth and her orgasm, and you can see how swollen and sensitive she is.

"You're so beautiful like this," you tell her, pressing a kiss to the small of her back. "So fucking beautiful."

She wiggles her hips impatiently. "Less talking, more fucking. I need you inside me."

You chuckle at her impatience, but your desperation matches hers, a frantic thrumming deep in your bones. This entire afternoon has been a slow, calculated demolition of your control, and now you stand in the rubble, ready to claim your prize.

Your hands, suddenly clumsy, find the buckle of your belt. The metallic click is deafeningly loud in the quiet office. The leather slides free with a soft hiss, and you work the button and zipper of your trousers with a feverish haste that feels foreign to your usually composed self.

Your cock springs free, hot and aching, straining toward her in the cool, conditioned air. It’s painfully hard, a solid length of need pointed directly at the woman who has orchestrated your undoing.

“Condom?” you manage to ask. A part of you, the wild, reckless part she has so expertly unearthed, prays she says no .

“Pill,” she says. “I’m on the pill. And I’m clean. Are you…?”

“Clean,” you confirm. You reach down, your fingers wrapping around your own length, stroking yourself once, slowly. The slick pre-cum that beads at the tip is for her, all for her. “It’s been a while since…” You let the sentence hang, unfinished. There’s no need to explain. 

“Good,” she says, and the firmness in her tone is a command. A verdict. “I want to feel you. All of you. No barriers”.

Her words are the final nail in the coffin of your restraint. No barriers. The thought is intoxicating. The idea of being inside her, skin to skin, feeling every twitch and clench of her body around you, is enough to make your cock throb.

You step closer, closing the small gap that remains between your bodies. You’re standing directly behind her now, the heat from her skin calling to you. You press the head of your cock against her, not at her entrance yet, but against the soft curve of her ass. She gasps, a sharp, involuntary sound.

“Just want you to feel how ready I am for you,” you murmur, your lips close to her ear. “How hard you make me.”

You move from her flesh to her folds, running the thick, crowned head of your cock through her slickness. She is so incredibly wet, a proof of the orgasm you gave her, her body weeping with arousal. You glide through her slick folds with an ease that makes you both groan, a shared sound of imminent satisfaction.

Her scent rises to meet you, a complex, intoxicating perfume of expensive soap, female musk, and the lingering, sweet tang of her climax. You breathe it in, letting it fuel the fire in your veins.

“Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. She pushes back against you, a subtle, desperate movement that begs for more. “I need you inside me. God, I’ve waited so long.”

You position the head of your cock at her entrance, just the very tip breaking the seal of her body. The resistance is exquisite. She’s so tight, so hot, a perfect, velvet clenching that promises heaven.

You can feel the delicate inner folds of her body giving way to you, the slick heat a welcoming caress. She’s so tight you know you’ll have to go slow, a fact that wages war with the desperate, frantic need to slam into her and claim her completely.

“Relax,” you murmur against the shell of her ear, letting your breath ghost over her skin. One hand comes to rest on the small of her back, a gesture that is both possessive and soothing. “Just relax and take me, Ning. Let me in, baby."

The endearment slips out, unplanned but feeling more right than anything you’ve ever said. Her breath catches in her throat, a tiny, hitching sound, and you feel a subtle shift as some of the tension leaves her body. She is yielding to you. Opening for you.

You take the invitation, pushing forward, slowly, deliberately. You savor every single inch of penetration, every millimeter of your body being swallowed by her heat. She feels impossibly good, a sheath of hot, wet silk gripping you, squeezing you. It takes every ounce of your willpower not to lose your mind, not to thrust into her with all the pent-up frustration of the last six years.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps out, the words punched from her as you stretch her, fill her. Her hands, which had been resting on the desk, are now fisted, her knuckles white. “You’re so big. So much bigger than I ever imagined.”

“You imagined this, too?” you ask. You pause, holding yourself there, just an inch or two inside her, letting her body adjust to the sheer size of you. You want her to feel every bit of you.

“Every night,” she confesses. “Every single night. I’d touch myself and imagine you like this. Filling me up, stretching me, making me yours”.

Her confession is your undoing.

“You are mine,” you growl, the words torn from a place deep inside you, a place of primal, possessive instinct. You thrust forward with that declaration, pushing deeper into her slick heat. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasps immediately. “I’m yours, babe, I’m completely, fucking yours”.

Her submission, so total and immediate, snaps the last thread of your restraint. With one final, powerful thrust, you drive yourself forward, bottoming out inside her, burying yourself to the hilt in her tight, welcoming heat.

She cries out, a sharp, piercing sound that is half pain, half ecstasy. Her body clenches around you, a powerful, involuntary squeeze that nearly pushes you over the edge. 

For a long moment, you don’t move. You can’t. You just stay there, buried deep inside her, your chests pressed together, your heart hammering against her back. You feel the frantic pulse of her own heart, a frantic, hummingbird rhythm that matches your own.

“God, you feel incredible,” you breathe out. The feeling of being inside her is almost too much - so tight, so wet, so hot. You know that if you start moving now, this will be over far too quickly. You want to draw this out, to make this moment last an eternity.

But Ning has other ideas. She has waited six years for this, and patience is a virtue she no longer possesses.

“Move,” she demands. She pushes back against you, her hips rocking in a clear, unmistakable invitation. “Please. I need you to move. I need to feel you.”

You obey. You pull back, slowly, torturously, until just the thick, crowned head of your cock remains inside her, teasing her entrance. She whimpers at the withdrawal, a desperate little sound of protest. Then you thrust forward again, a single, deep, deliberate stroke that makes her see stars.

A matched set of moans fills the opulent office, your deeper groan harmonizing with her higher-pitched cry. You can feel her pussy clenching around your length, milking you, trying to pull you even deeper inside her, if such a thing were even possible.

“More,” she begs. “Harder. Don’t be gentle. I’m not going to break”.

You establish a rhythm, your hips finding a steady, rocking cadence. Slow, deep, punishing strokes that are designed for maximum sensation, for both of you. Each thrust drives you deeper into her core, each withdrawal is a sweet, agonizing torment. The wet, slick sounds of your bodies slapping together fill the quiet room, a filthy, glorious symphony of their own making. It’s obscene. It’s perfect. It is everything you never knew you needed.

Your hands find her hips, gripping the sharp bones as you pull her back onto your cock with each powerful thrust. You are in control, yet you are completely at her mercy.

“You feel so good,” you tell her. “So tight and wet and perfect. It feels like you were made for my cock”.

“I was,” she pants, her words coming in short, breathless bursts. She meets your thrusts with an equal, desperate enthusiasm, her hips bucking against you. “I was made for you. Only you. Only for this.”

The raw, possessive certainty in her voice fuels your own. It ignites a firestorm in your blood. You both know, in that moment, that this is more than just fucking. This is a claiming. This is a branding. There is no going back from this. There is no pretending this is just about scratching an itch or a corporate power play. This is possession. This is surrender. This is two halves of a whole, finally, violently, crashing together.

You lean over her, pressing your chest flush against her sweat-slicked back. Your bodies move together as one. You lower your head, your lips finding her ear.

“Is this what you wanted, Ning?” you murmur, your thrusts never faltering. “Me, fucking you on your desk? In the middle of the afternoon, where anyone could walk in and see us like this?”

“Yes,” she gasps, the word a prayer. She turns her head, craning her neck to try and find your lips with hers. “Yes, I want them to know. I want everyone in this entire building to know that you belong to me. That you’re mine”.

The kiss is awkward from this angle, frantic, a desperate clash of teeth and tongues. But it’s no less passionate for its clumsiness. You can taste her desperation, her want, the years of accumulated longing finally being sated. You taste her lipstick and the faint, salty tang of her sweat. It’s the most intoxicating flavor you’ve ever known.

When you break the kiss, you straighten up slightly, pulling back just enough to change the angle of your thrusts. You push deeper, your cock sliding against a different wall inside her. You feel a ridge, a specific spot that makes her entire body jolt.

You’ve found it. Her G-spot.

She screams, a raw, uncontrolled sound of pure pleasure that echoes off the walls of her office.

“There!” she cries out. “Oh god, right there, whatever you’re doing, don’t stop. Please, please don’t fucking stop!”

You don’t. You aim for that spot with every single thrust, a relentless, targeted assault on her senses. You watch, mesmerized, as she completely falls apart beneath you. Her professionally manicured hands are no longer fisted; they are splayed out across her desk, scrabbling for purchase, fisting the expensive stationery and scattering papers to the floor. She is probably ruining million-dollar contracts, but in this moment, neither of you could possibly care.

All that matters is this. The slick, glorious slide of skin against skin. The symphony of your mingled breaths and desperate moans. The feeling of her, wrapped around you like a second skin, like she was born for this, for you.

You feel the tension in her body begin to build, a new, frantic energy. Her inner muscles begin to flutter around your cock, a prelude to the storm that is about to break.

“I’m close,” she warns you. “So close, I’m right there, please, I need to come. I need you to make me come.”

“Then come for me, Ning,” you growl. One of your hands leaves her hip, sliding around her body, between her legs, to find the slick, hard nub of her clit. You circle it with your thumb, the rough pad of your skin a stark contrast to the sensitive pearl of flesh. “Come all over my cock. Show me how much you want this”.

That final touch, that direct stimulation, is all it takes to push her over the edge.

She comes with a scream that you are certain could shatter the very glass of the windows. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated release, a sound that she has probably never made in her entire, controlled life. Her pussy clamps down on your cock, a series of violent, ecstatic pulses that feels like you’re being milked, drained, worshipped.

The sight of her, the sound of her, the incredible, mind-altering feeling of her coming apart around your cock, is your undoing. It shatters your own control, pushing you right to the precipice.

“Ning,” you warn, the name torn from your lips. Your own thrusts become erratic, frantic, your hips bucking of their own accord.

“Inside me,” she gasps, still riding the aftershocks of her own powerful orgasm. “Come inside me. Please. I want to feel you fill me up. I want all of you”.

That permission, that desperate, pleading invitation, is all you need.

With a final, guttural groan that seems to be ripped from the very depths of your soul, you thrust deep one last time, burying yourself as far as you can possibly go. You hold yourself there as your own orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave of pure, white-hot pleasure. You spill your seed deep inside her, emptying yourself into her heat with a sense of finality, of completion.

She takes it all, her pussy still pulsing, clenching around your softening cock, milking every last drop from you as if it were the most precious substance on earth.

For a long, silent moment, you both stay frozen in that tableau. You, buried deep inside her, boneless and spent. Her, bent over her desk, trembling with the aftershocks of her climax. The only sounds are your harsh, ragged breaths, mingling in the sex-scented air.

When you finally find the strength to pull out of her, the sound is wet and obscene. You look down, and the sight that greets you nearly makes your knees buckle. Your cum, thick and white, is starting to leak from her well-fucked pussy, pearling on her swollen lips before tracing a slow, lazy path down her inner thigh. The sight is so incredibly proprietary, so filthy and so perfect, that your spent cock gives a reflexive twitch of renewed interest.

“That was…” she starts, her voice trailing off into a long, boneless, satisfied sigh. She can’t seem to find the words.

“Incredible,” you finish for her.

Slowly, carefully, she turns around to face you. And the sight of her steals the breath from your lungs. She is a beautiful, glorious ruin. Her meticulously applied makeup is completely wrecked, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, her lipstick a faint, blurry memory. Her expensive, perfect hair is a tangled mess, sticking to her sweat-sheened face. There is a deep, pink flush covering her cheeks, her neck, her chest. She looks thoroughly, utterly, beautifully debauched. And in the center of it all is a post-orgasmic glow that makes her more stunning than you have ever seen her before.

“Come here,” she says.

You take a step closer, your own legs feeling unsteady. She rises up on her toes, her hands coming to rest on your shoulders, and she kisses you. It’s a different kiss from the others. It’s softer, slower. There’s no desperation in it, no frantic claiming. It is a kiss of quiet satisfaction, of deep, resonant connection. It’s a kiss that tastes of your mingled scents, of salt and sex and satisfaction.

When she finally breaks the kiss, she doesn’t move away. She rests her forehead against yours, her eyes searching your face. Her expression is one you’ve never seen on her before. It is vulnerable, and hopeful, and more than a little scared, all at once.

“This changes things,” she says quietly. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact.

“Yeah,” you agree. “It does”.

“I meant what I said before,” she continues, her gaze unwavering. “About loving you. About all of it. This wasn’t just about sex for me”.

You are starting to realize, with a terrifying, exhilarating clarity, that what you feel for this woman, this incredible, infuriating, intoxicating woman, goes far beyond simple lust or even affection. She has been a ghost in your life for six years, a “what if” that you never allowed yourself to explore. And now, in the space of a single afternoon, she has made herself terrifyingly, beautifully real. She has gotten under your skin in a way that should send you running for the hills.

But you don’t want to run.

“I know,” you tell her, because it’s the only truth you can manage right now. The words “I love you, too” are there, perched on the tip of your tongue, but they are too new, too frightening, to set free just yet.

She seems to understand. She gives a small, accepting nod, her eyes softening with a wisdom that seems beyond her years. She finally steps back, creating a space between you that feels like a physical loss.

“We should probably clean up,” she says, a reluctant practicality creeping back into her voice. “Make ourselves presentable”.

You’re about to agree, to nod and start gathering your scattered clothing. But then your gaze falls again to her thighs, to the milky evidence of your climax still glistening on her pale skin. And suddenly, you are not quite ready for this to be over. You are not ready to return to the real world just yet.

“Not yet,” you say.

She raises a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a flicker of the imperious CEO returning to her features. “No? And what, precisely, did you have in mind?”

You don’t answer her with words. Instead, you drop to your knees before her.

Her eyes widen, her lips parting on a soft, sharp gasp of surprise as she realizes what you’re about to do.

“You can’t be serious,” she breathes.

“Dead serious,” you murmur, your voice muffled as you press a soft, reverent kiss to her hip bone, right where the strap of her garter belt digs slightly into her skin. You trail a line of kisses inward, toward the prize. “I want to taste us together. I want to taste you”.

The idea, by all rights, should be repulsive. It’s primal, animalistic, possessive. But instead of disgust, a fresh, potent wave of arousal crashes through you. Your cock, which had begun to soften, gives a hard, affirmative twitch. There is something so incredibly intimate, so fundamentally possessive, about the thought of tasting your own seed mixed with her arousal, of cleaning her with your own mouth. It is the ultimate act of claiming.

“That’s so… dirty,” she whispers, but there is no condemnation in her voice. Only a raw, breathless heat that tells you she is just as turned on by the idea as you are.

“ You love dirty ,” you point out. You reach her inner thigh and nip at the soft flesh, a gentle, playful bite that makes her jump.

She doesn’t deny it. She can’t. Instead, she spreads her legs wider, an unspoken, eager invitation. She is giving you better access, offering herself up to you completely.

You lean forward, your heart hammering against your ribs. And then, you drag your tongue through her slick folds, gathering the mingled fluids of your releases.

The taste is… overwhelming. It’s intense, salty from her sweat, musky from her arousal, and with the unmistakable, slightly alkaline flavor of your own cum. It’s the most intimate taste imaginable, a flavor that speaks of possession and surrender, of a boundary crossed and obliterated. The taste of us . It makes your head spin, and from the strangled, desperate sound she makes above you, you know she feels the same way.

“Oh, god,” she gasps, her fingers immediately tangling in your hair, gripping the strands tightly. “ That’s so fucking hot. Oh, fuck.”

You take your time. You are meticulous. This is not a rushed cleanup; this is an act of worship. Your tongue delves deep, seeking out and gathering every last drop of your seed from within her. You lick her clean with a thoroughness that borders on obsession.

She is so incredibly sensitive now, her nerves raw and singing from your previous ministrations and her powerful orgasm. Every slow, deliberate stroke of your tongue makes her shiver and gasp. Her hips begin to rock, a slow, unconscious grind against your mouth as she seeks more friction. She is chasing another pleasure, another release, even in the aftermath of the last one.

By the time you are finished, she is breathing heavily again, her knuckles white where she grips your hair. Her thighs are trembling. And your own cock, to your astonishment and delight, is fully, painfully hard once more.

You pull back, licking your lips. You look up at her, and she is staring down at you with a look of pure, unadulterated lust.

“My turn,” she says.

Before you can even begin to process her words, before you can protest or agree, she is moving. She slides from her perch on the desk and drops to her knees in front of you, the movement fluid and shockingly graceful.

The sight of Ning Yizhuo, the powerful, untouchable CEO, on her knees in her own office - still wearing nothing but a pair of ridiculously expensive heels and a black lace garter belt holding up her sheer stockings - is enough to make your brain short-circuit completely. It is the most debauched, most incredible thing you have ever seen.

“I have been wanting to do this for hours,” she murmurs. Her small, cool hand wraps around the base of your thick, straining cock. The contrast of her delicate fingers against your coarse flesh is electrifying. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to sit across that desk from you, trying to look threatening, when all I could think about was having you in my mouth?”

You’re about to respond, to say something, anything, but the words die in your throat. Because she leans forward, her dark, silky hair brushing against your thighs, and takes the thick, crowned head of your cock between her lips.

The sensation is a lightning strike, a pure, jangling bolt of pleasure that shoots straight from the tip of your cock to the base of your spine. Any and all coherent thought you might have possessed evaporates into thin air.

“Fuck,” you breathe out. Your hands, acting of their own accord, find her hair, your fingers tangling in the soft, silken strands.

She hums around you, a low, satisfied sound of approval. The vibration travels down the length of your shaft, a deep, resonant thrumming that makes your toes curl in your shoes.

Then, she takes you deeper. Her lips are impossibly soft, her mouth wet and hot. Her tongue, slick and agile, begins to work its magic, tracing the sensitive vein along the underside of your shaft as she swallows you down, inch by agonizingly slow inch.

You are dimly, vaguely aware that she is incredibly skilled at this. Her technique is flawless, practiced, perfect. And the thought of her learning these skills, of her perfecting this art with other men, makes something possessive and ugly and fiercely jealous rear its head in your chest.

As if she can read your mind, as if she can sense the sudden shift in your mood, she pulls off of you with a wet, popping sound that echoes in the quiet room. She looks up at you, her dark eyes knowing, perceptive. A single, glistening string of saliva connects her full, pink lips to the head of your cock.

“No one else has ever made me feel the way you do,” she says. Her hand, which is still wrapped around your base, begins to stroke you, a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “No one else has ever mattered. This mouth? It was always waiting for you” 

Her words, so honest and direct, soothe the jealous, snarling beast in your chest. You reach down with one hand, your fingers stroking her cheek, a gesture of thanks, of acceptance.

“Good,” you say simply, the single word conveying a world of possessive satisfaction.

A slow, wicked smile spreads across her face. She knows you. She understands your need to possess her as much as she needs to possess you. Then, she takes you back into her mouth with a renewed, ferocious enthusiasm.

This time, she goes deeper. Much deeper. With a practiced ease that makes your knees feel weak, she relaxes her throat and takes you all the way down, swallowing your entire length until her nose is pressed against your pubic bone and her lips are flush against your pelvis.

The sight of your own cock completely disappearing between her perfect, crimson lips is almost too much to handle. It is a visual of total submission, total worship.

“Jesus, Ning,” you gasp out, your hips giving an involuntary buck. “Your mouth feels… fuck, it feels incredible”.

She pulls off you again, just enough so she can speak. That glistening thread of saliva stretches between you once more.

“I used to practice,” she confesses, a husky whisper that is for your ears only. “On toys. While thinking about you. I wanted to be perfect for you. For when I finally got the chance to do this. To have you”.

The mental image she paints - of Ning Yizhuo, the untouchable chaebol princess, alone in her room, practicing fellatio, all for you - is so intensely erotic it makes your cock give a violent, convulsive twitch in her hand.

“You are perfect,” you tell her. “So fucking perfect, babe.”

She takes that as her cue. She takes you back into her mouth, and this time, she holds nothing back. She is a woman on a mission, a woman who has waited six years to claim her prize.

She bobs her head eagerly, her movements quick and sure. She takes you deep on every stroke, her throat muscles clenching around you, while her free hand works the parts of you that she can’t fit in her mouth. The wet, sloppy sounds of her efforts fill the office, an obscene and beautiful chorus that is music to your ears.

You can feel your second orgasm building with an embarrassing, shocking quickness. Your body is still humming from your previous release, your nerves are shot, and her skilled, relentless mouth is simply too much. But just as you’re about to warn her, just as you’re about to pull out, she stops.

She pulls away, leaving you throbbing and painfully close to the edge.

“Not yet,” she says, and her grin is pure, unadulterated wickedness. “I’m not done with you. Not by a long shot”.

She stands up, the movement fluid and graceful. You’re about to protest, to beg her to finish what she started, when she turns around and bends over the desk again, assuming the same position as before.

This time, however, she looks back at you over her shoulder, her dark eyes glittering with a new, challenging light.

“I want you to fuck my ass,” she says, her voice blunt, devoid of any softness. 

Your brain, already overloaded with pleasure and sensation, stutters to a complete halt. “What?” you manage to choke out, certain you must have misheard her.

“You heard me,” she says, voice firm. “I want you to fuck my ass. I want you to claim every single part of me. I want you to leave your mark everywhere. No part of me left untouched by you”.

Your cock, which was already painfully hard, seems to gain a new, impossible thickness. But a sliver of your rational mind takes over.

“Ning,” you say. “We don’t have any lube. And I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t hurt you”.

A slow, secret smile touches her lips. Without taking her eyes off you, she reaches to the side and pulls open one of her desk drawers. Her hand disappears inside for a moment before reemerging, holding a small, sleek, silver bottle. It’s personal lubricant. High-end, by the looks of it.

She sees the look of pure, dumbfounded surprise on your face, and she shrugs, a casual, nonchalant movement of her shoulders.

“I’m a woman with needs,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And a very, very stressful job. Sometimes, a girl needs to… relieve a little tension during the workday”.

The thought of her, sitting here in this very office, in her power suit, touching herself, sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. Your mouth goes dry.

“You masturbate at work?” you ask, the question coming out as a strangled whisper.

“When the mood strikes,” she says, completely unapologetic. She holds your gaze, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Usually while thinking about you, if I’m being completely honest”.

That confession, that final, devastating admission, makes your head spin. But before you can fully process the implications, she is pushing the cool, metal bottle of lubricant into your hand.

“Please,” she says, and the command is gone from her voice now. It is replaced by a soft, raw vulnerability that cuts right through your shock and straight to your heart. “I need this. I need you to take me completely. To own me. Please”.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

“I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” she replies, resolute.

You nod slowly. You twist the cap off the bottle and squeeze a generous, viscous dollop of the clear lubricant onto your fingers. It’s cool against your skin.

You approach her slowly, reverently. You start with just one finger, working the slick lube around her tight, puckered entrance. She breathes in deeply, trying to relax her body for you.

“That’s it,” you murmur. “Just relax for me. Breathe”.

Your first finger slides in with a surprising ease. She gasps at the intrusion, a sharp, startled sound. Her inner muscles clench tightly around you for a moment before slowly, consciously, relaxing. You work your finger in and out slowly, letting her get used to the strange, new sensation of being filled this way, before you add a second finger.

She is incredibly, exquisitely tight. You take your time, stretching her carefully, gently, with a patience you didn’t know you possessed.

“More,” she gasps out after a few long, silent minutes. “I can take more. I want to feel you. All of you”.

You add a third finger, and she moans, a low, guttural sound of pleasure and pain mingled together. The stretch is intense, but you can feel her arousal growing with it. Her slickness has started to mingle with the lube. You reach around with your other hand, your thumb finding her clit and brushing over it lightly. She nearly jumps off the desk, her whole body jolting with pleasure.

“I’m ready,” she says, her voice breathless, urgent. “Please. I’m ready now”.

You withdraw your slick fingers with a soft, wet sound. You squeeze a liberal amount of the lube onto your own cock, coating the entire length until it glistens in the afternoon light. Then, you position yourself at her tight, waiting entrance. You press forward, slowly, carefully.

The thick, crowned head of your cock breaches her tight ring of muscle, and she cries out, a sharp, high-pitched sound that is pure, unadulterated sensation.

“Okay?” you ask immediately, freezing in place, your body rigid with the effort of holding back.

“Yes,” she gasps. “Yes, it’s okay. Keep going. Don’t you dare stop”.

You push forward, incrementally, giving her body time to adjust to each new inch of you. It is the most intense, most incredible feeling you have ever experienced. She is so impossibly tight, the pressure almost painful, but in the best way imaginable. The heat inside her is scorching. When you are finally, finally fully seated inside her, buried to the hilt in her tight, welcoming sheath, you both pause, breathless, just trying to process the overwhelming sensation.

“How does it feel?” you ask.

“Full,” she breathes out, the single word conveying a universe of feeling. ]“So fucking full. I can feel you everywhere. In every part of me”.

You start to move, your first thrusts incredibly slow, almost tentative. You pull back until just the head of your cock remains inside her, and then you push forward again, sinking back into her tight, hot depths.

The sensation is unlike anything you have ever felt. It’s a different kind of friction, a different kind of heat. It is almost overwhelming in its intensity.

“Faster,” she demands after only a few slow, torturous strokes. “I need it faster. Harder”.

You increase your pace, your hips finding a new, harder, faster rhythm. Your hands grip her hips tightly, your fingers digging into her soft flesh as you drive into her again and again. She meets your thrusts with a wild, desperate enthusiasm, pushing back against you, taking every inch of you without hesitation.

“Touch yourself,” you tell her. “Touch your clit for me. Come for me while I fuck your ass”.

She obeys immediately, without a single word of protest. One of her hands slides down between her legs, her fingers finding the sensitive, hard nub of her clit.

The combination is explosive. Your cock, buried deep in her ass, and her own fingers working her clit, sends her into a frenzy of pleasure. She moans continuously, a long, unbroken stream of pleasure-drunk sounds that bounce off the walls of her office.

You can feel her climax building, the tension in her body winding tighter and tighter, like a spring being coiled to its breaking point.

“I’m close,” she warns. “Oh god, I’m so close”.

“Come for me, Ning,” you growl, your own orgasm building with a terrifying rapidity. “Come with my cock buried in your ass. Let me feel you come apart for me”.

The permission, the command, is all she needs. She comes with a scream that you are certain must have been heard three floors down. It is a sound of pure earth-shattering release, a sound torn from the very depths of her soul.

Her entire body convulses around you, a series of violent, ecstatic spasms that grip your cock like a fist. Her back arches impossibly high off the desk, her head thrashing from side to side, her perfectly styled hair now a wild, sweat-soaked mess. A stream of raw, unfiltered curses pours from her lips, mingling with desperate, broken pleas and your name, repeated over and over like a prayer.

“Fuck—oh God—yes—please, don’t stop, fuck!”

You feel every single clench of her tight anal muscles, but the feeling of her coming apart around you is not your undoing. It is not the thing that pushes you over the edge.

It’s your fuel.

Her climax, so total and absolute, incinerates the last vestiges of your control. The part of you that was trying to be careful, the part that was tempering your strength, is burned away, leaving only a raw need.

“That’s it,” you growl against her ear. “Take it. Feel my cock in your tight little ass while you come.”

Your rhythm changes instantly. The slow, deep, almost hypnotic strokes are gone. In their place is a brutal, punishing battery. You stop pulling out, instead keeping yourself buried to the hilt and just pistoning the last few inches of your length into her, short, hard, vicious thrusts that are designed to shatter what little composure she has left.

“Feel that, Ning?” you pant. “Feel me fucking you? You wanted this.”

The polished wood of her desk groans under the force of your assault. Your balls slap against her reddening skin with each powerful slam.

She is a wreck beneath you, boneless and shuddering in the aftermath of her orgasm, but she’s still with you. She pushes back, her movements weak but defiant, trying to meet the force of your thrusts.

“Yes,” she sobs. “Yes, please—harder—fuck me harder.”

“You want it harder?” you say. You grip her hips, your fingers bruising the soft flesh, and haul her back against you as you change your rhythm again, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into her with the full force of your body.

Each thrust feels like a lightning strike. Each impact makes her cry out, a fresh wave of sensation washing over her already hypersensitive nerves.

“I’m going to break you on this desk,” you tell her. “I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name. All you’ll know is my cock in your ass.”

“Fuck,” she moans. “Fuck, babe, you're ruining me!”

“Yes,” you snarl. “And you’re going to take my cum, Ning. You’re going to take every fucking drop of it.”

You can feel your own orgasm clawing its way up your spine, a desperate, unstoppable force. Your vision begins to narrow, the edges of the room blurring into a smear of color. All you can see is her, bent over for you, taking you. All you can feel is the incredible, crushing tightness of her body around yours.

The pressure in your balls builds to an almost unbearable point. 

“Gonna cum, Ning” you roar, the words ripped from you as you drive into her one last time, burying yourself so deep you feel like you’re touching her soul. “Fuck, I'm cumming!”

Your orgasm crashes over you, a devastating, all-consuming wave of pure, white-hot pleasure. You come hard, your hips bucking uncontrollably as you flood her tight, hot channel with your seed. Thick, hot jets of your release pump deep inside her, one after another, an seemingly endless torrent. You empty yourself completely into her, filling her, branding her, claiming her in the most absolute way possible.

For a long moment after the pulsing stops, you don’t move. You collapse on top of her, your bodies slick with a shared sweat, your chest heaving as you try to drag air into your burning lungs. You stay buried inside her, your softening cock still nestled deep in her heat, feeling the faint, residual tremors of her orgasm and the gentle pulse of her muscles around you.

Finally, reluctantly, you pull out of her. The sound is wet and obscene, a thick, slick sound of separation. She whimpers at the loss, a soft, breathy sound of protest.

You’re both trembling, boneless and spent. But you’re not finished. Not yet.

“Don’t move,” you whisper.

She obeys, staying bent over the desk, her body trembling with exhaustion and pleasure.

You step back, your own legs unsteady. You look down at her, at the incredible, debauched sight she makes. And then, you reach forward. You place your hands on her ass, your thumbs finding the cleft.

“I want to see,” you murmur. “I want to see the mess I made of you.”

You press your thumbs into her flesh and pull her cheeks apart, spreading her wide open for your inspection.

Her hole is a beautiful ruin. The delicate, puckered ring of muscle is swollen, pink, and gaping slightly from the force of your fucking. It’s glistening, coated in a mixture of her slickness and the clear lube.

And then, you see it.

As you hold her open, a thick, pearly white bead of your cum wells up from inside her. It pushes its way out of her tight, abused hole before beginning a slow, lazy ooze down her skin, a milky testament to your climax. You watch, mesmerized, as more follows, a slow, thick leakage that pools between her cheeks before trailing down her thigh.

The sight is the most possessive, most depraved, most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

“Look at that, Ning,” you breathe. “Look at my cum. Leaking out of your perfect ass. You took it all for me.”

“That was…” she starts, her voice trailing off into a sigh of pure, boneless satisfaction.

“Incredible,” you finish for her, again.

She turns around slowly, her legs visibly shaky from the intensity of the session. When she looks up at you, her eyes are glistening with tears she won’t let fall - you’re not sure if they’re from emotion or the intense pleasure you just gave her.

“I love you,” she says quietly. And this time, it doesn’t sound like a confession or a weapon. It doesn’t sound like blackmail or a fantasy. It sounds like a simple, undeniable truth.

“I…” you start, but you stop. The words are there. They are screaming in your head. But your throat is tight, and you can’t seem to force them out.

She reaches up, her hand cupping your cheek, her thumb stroking your skin gently. “You don’t have to say it back,” she says. “Not yet. But I needed you to know. I needed you to hear it”.

You lean into her touch, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of everything that has just happened between you.

“We should clean up,” she says after a long, silent moment, though she sounds just as reluctant to move as you are.

“Yeah,” you agree.

But before either of you can take a single step toward your scattered clothing, a soft, hesitant knock sounds on the heavy oak door of the office.

You both freeze, your eyes locking in a shared moment of pure, unadulterated horror.

Ning’s secretary’s voice, muffled but clear, comes through the heavy wood. “Ms. Yizhuo? I’m so sorry to bother you, I know you said not to, but there’s an urgent call from the Seoul office. They say it’s an emergency. That it can’t wait” 

Ning stares at you, her eyes wide with panic. Then her gaze darts around the room, taking in the scene of complete and utter carnage. Your clothes and hers, scattered across the expensive carpet. Important-looking papers strewn across the floor and her desk.

“Just a moment, Lisa,” she calls out, and her voice, to your utter astonishment, is remarkably steady. It is the voice of a CEO in complete control, not a woman who was screaming in ecstasy just minutes ago. “Transfer the call to my private line. I’ll take it in a few minutes”.

“Of course, Ms. Yizhou," the secretary replies.

You both hold your breath, not moving a muscle, until you hear the faint, distant click of her heels walking away from the door.

Then, the tension breaks. Ning collapses against you, a sound bubbling up from her chest that is half laugh, half sob of hysterical relief.

“That was close,” she whispers, her face buried in your chest.

“Too close,” you agree, but you can’t suppress the wide, disbelieving grin that spreads across your face.

She looks up at you, and there is a wicked, unholy mischief glittering in her dark eyes. “Good thing these office walls are soundproof”.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are they really?”

She laughs, a genuine, delighted sound. “God, I hope so. Otherwise, the entire executive floor just got quite the show”.

The thought, which should be mortifying, is instead incredibly, intensely arousing. The idea of everyone in this building knowing that she is yours, that you are the one who can make the unshakable Ning Yizhuo scream with pleasure, it's a fantasy that feeds your ego.

“We really do need to clean up now,” she says, but she makes no move to step out of your arms.

“I know,” you say, but you don’t move either.

She reaches up and kisses you again, softly, sweetly. When she pulls away, she smiles, her expression open and hopeful and completely unguarded.

“Dinner tonight?” she asks. “Somewhere private. Somewhere we can talk without the risk of… interruption”.

“Your place or mine?” you ask, and the ease with which the question comes feels both strange and perfectly natural. Her smile widens.

“Mine,” she says. “I want to cook for you. It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for six years”.

“I’d like that,” you say, and you mean it.

“Good,” she says, finally, reluctantly, stepping away from you to begin the process of gathering her scattered clothing. “Because we have a lot to figure out”.

You watch her as she dresses, mesmerized by the startling efficiency with which she transforms herself from a debauched, wanton sex goddess back into the impeccably composed CEO. It is a startling, impressive transformation. By the time she is finished, the only remaining evidence of the last few hours of madness is her slightly disheveled hair and the deep, satisfied glow in her eyes.

“How do I look?” she asks, smoothing down the front of her skirt.

“Like you just had the best sex of your life,” you tell her honestly.

She grins back at you, a wide, triumphant flash of white teeth. “Perfect. That’s exactly the look I was going for”.

You finish dressing yourself, and by the time you are both presentable again, it is almost as if the last few hours never happened. Almost. Except for the way she keeps stealing secret, hungry glances at you when she thinks you’re not looking. Except for the way your skin still tingles where she touched you. Except for the fact that the entire world seems to have shifted on its axis.

“I should take that call,” she says with a reluctance that you share.

“And I should get back to work,” you agree, though the very last thing on earth you want to do is leave the sanctuary of her office.

She walks you to the door, a silent, shared journey across the room. Just as your hand reaches for the cool metal of the doorknob, she catches your hand, her small fingers lacing with yours.

“No regrets?” she asks, uncertain for the first time.

You look down at her. At this woman. This incredible, impossible woman who has turned your carefully constructed, meticulously ordered world completely upside down in the space of a single afternoon. You think about the complications, the consequences, the sheer, insane risk of it all. And you realize that despite all of that, you don’t regret a single, solitary second.

“No regrets,” you confirm. Her smile is so bright, so radiant, it could power the entire city. “Good. Because this is just the beginning”.

You know she’s right. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, it is going to consume you both completely. And for the first time in six long, lonely years, you are ready to let it. 

You are ready to burn.

But just as you reach for the door handle a second time, she stops you again.

“Actually,” she says, and her voice has taken on that low, commanding tone again. That tone that makes your blood sing and your cock stir. “There’s one more thing”.

You turn back to her, your eyebrows raised in a silent question. The look in her eyes makes your pulse quicken. It is the look of a predator who has tasted blood and has decided that it is not yet finished with its meal

“What’s that?” you ask.

Instead of answering you right away, she moves back to her desk. She doesn’t sit behind it, but perches on the polished wooden edge, crossing her long, elegant legs in a way that deliberately, pointedly, draws your attention back to the sheer black stockings that still hug her thighs.

“Close the door.”

You raise an eyebrow, a flicker of your old, defiant self returning. “Ning, your secretary just said there was an urgent, emergency call from Seoul-”.

“The call can wait,” she interrupts, decisive. “This can’t”

There is something in her voice that makes you obey without another word of protest. You close the heavy oak door, the soft click of the latch sounding like a verdict. You turn back to her, and she is watching you, her gaze so intense, so focused, that it makes the fine hairs on your arms stand on end.

“Come here,” she commands.

You cross the room slowly, your footsteps unnaturally loud on the plush carpet. You are hyperaware of her eyes on you, tracking your every movement. When you finally reach her, standing before her at the desk, she spreads her legs slightly, a silent, clear invitation for you to stand between them.

“I lied,” she says simply

“About what?” 

“About being done with you.” Her hands, quick and sure, go to your belt, her nimble fingers working at the buckle with a practiced, devastating efficiency. “I am nowhere near done with you”.

Your cock, which had finally, blessedly, started to soften, immediately begins to stir, to harden again at her words, at her touch.

“Ning, we just-” you start to protest, your mind reeling.

“We just had the most amazing sex of our lives,” she agrees as she frees you from the confines of your pants for the second time in as many hours. “And now, I find that I want more”.

She wraps her small, cool hand around your semi-hard cock, her fingers stroking you slowly, expertly, coaxing you back to a full, throbbing hardness. The sensation is electric, especially since your nerves are still raw and humming from your previous, powerful orgasms.

“You’re insatiable,” you breathe out.

“Six years,” she reminds you. Her grip on you tightens slightly, a possessive, proprietary squeeze. “I have six years of fantasies to work through with you. We’ve barely scratched the surface”.

The reminder of just how long she has wanted this, how long she has wanted you, makes your head spin. You are already fully, painfully hard again, your body responding to her touch, to her proximity, to her sheer, indomitable will.

“What do you want?” you ask, because you know, with a terrifying certainty, that you will give her anything she asks for in this moment.

“I want you to cum deep in my throat,” she says. “And later, at my place, I want you to cum on my face. I want you to cum all over my body. I want to feel you all over my skin.”

The crude, explicit words, the sheer, unadulterated filth of her request, makes your cock give a violent, convulsive twitch in her hand. The image she paints - of her, on her knees before you, your thick, white seed painting her perfect, beautiful features - is so intensely, shockingly erotic that it is almost too much to process.

“I'm not against the idea,” you manage to choke out.

“Great. Let's get started.” She slides gracefully from her perch on the desk and drops to her knees in front of you for the second time that afternoon. “I want to taste you again. I want to feel you lose control in my mouth. I want to swallow you down”.

She doesn’t wait for your permission. She doesn’t wait for your response. She leans forward, her dark, silken hair falling around her face like a curtain, and takes the thick, crowned head of your cock between her lips.

The sensation is, if possible, even more incredible than the first time. It is made more intense by the knowledge that you are still sensitive, still humming from your previous activities. The heat of her mouth, the slickness of her tongue, is a paradise of sensation.

“Fuck,” you gasp out, your hands, as if they have a mind of their own, tangling in her hair, gripping her head, holding her in place.

She hums around you, a low, pleased vibration. Then, she takes you deeper, her agile tongue working its magic along the sensitive underside of your shaft as she swallows you down, inch by agonizing inch. The sight of your own cock disappearing between her perfect, crimson lips is almost too much to handle. It is a sight you know you will never, ever forget.

This time, there is no hesitation. There is no holding back. She is a woman possessed, a woman driven by six years of pent-up desire. She bobs her head eagerly, her movements quick and sure. She takes you as deep as she can on every single stroke, while her free hand wraps around your balls, cupping you, weighing you, claiming you.

“That’s it,” you encourage her. Your grip in her hair tightens, not painfully, but firmly, possessively. “Take it all, Ning. Take all of me”.

She responds to your command by relaxing her throat muscles completely, taking you even deeper than before. She takes you until her delicate, aristocratic nose is pressed against your pelvis, until her full, soft lips are flush against your skin. You are completely, utterly engulfed in the wet, hot heat of her mouth. The feeling of being so completely consumed by her makes your knees feel weak, your legs tremble.

You can feel your third orgasm of the afternoon building with a terrifying, shocking speed. The sensitivity from your previous climaxes has made every touch, every sensation, a hundred times more intense.

She seems to sense how close you are. She can feel the way your hips have started to buck, the way your muscles have started to tense. She doubles her efforts, her mouth working on you with a new, frantic energy. She sucks harder, her head moving faster, her tongue working in a dizzying, hypnotic rhythm.

“I’m close,” you warn her, and she doesn’t stop. Instead, she looks up at you, her dark, beautiful eyes wide and dark with lust and a fierce, unwavering determination.

And the sight of her, looking up at you with such raw, naked adoration while she swallows your cock, is your final, complete undoing.

Your orgasm crashes over you with a devastating, tidal force. You roar out your release, your head thrown back, your eyes squeezed shut, as you come hard and fast down her willing, eager throat.

She takes it all. She swallows every single drop of your release, her throat muscles working around you, clenching and pulsing as she milks you completely, greedily.

When you are finally, finally spent, your body trembling with the aftershocks of your release, she pulls off of you slowly, deliberately. She licks her full, plump lips with a look of deep, feline satisfaction. She has conquered you. She has consumed you. She has won.

“Delicious,” she purrs. She rises to her feet with a fluid, startling grace.

You’re about to respond, to say something, anything, when she surprises you by stepping forward and kissing you deeply, passionately. And you can taste yourself on her tongue. It is the most intimate, most shockingly dirty, most perfect flavor imaginable. You realize, in that moment, with a terrifying, exhilarating clarity, that you are completely, irrevocably addicted to this woman, and to everything she does to you.

When she finally breaks the kiss, she looks up at you. 

“Now I really am done,” she says, and a slow, wicked grin spreads across her face. “For now”.

The promise, the threat, in those last two words makes your spent, aching cock give a final, reflexive twitch of renewed interest.

This woman, you realize with a sense of dazed wonder, is going to be the death of you. And you find, to your utter astonishment, that you don’t care. Not even a little bit.

“You’re incredible,” you tell her, and you mean the words with every fiber of your being.

“I know,” she says, with a flash of her old, mock arrogance. Then, her expression softens. “But so are you. You were better than I ever dreamed”.

“That call,” you remind her reluctantly, the real world intruding once more.

“Right. The call.” She smooths down her hair, adjusts her clothing, and in the space of a few seconds, she transforms back into the composed, powerful CEO. The transformation is, as always, both startling and incredibly arousing.

“Dinner. Eight o’clock,” she says, all business once more. “I’ll text you my address”.

“I’ll be there,” you promise.

She reaches up and kisses you one last time

“Good,” she whispers against your lips, her breath warm and intoxicating. “Because we still have a lot to learn about each other, babe. If you know what I mean.”

As you finally, finally leave her office, your head spinning from the events of the last few hours, you realize, with a sense of dazed wonder, that your carefully constructed, meticulously ordered life is about to become beautifully, gloriously, chaotically complicated.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, you are looking forward to every single messy, passionate, unpredictable moment of it.

The elevator ride down feels completely different than the one up. It feels like you are descending from Mount Olympus, back into the world of mortals, a world that has been fundamentally, irrevocably changed while you were gone.

Your reflection in the polished steel doors shows a man who looks thoroughly, comprehensively satisfied. A man who looks dazed, and humbled, and completely, utterly conquered. You wonder, with a flicker of amusement, if everyone you pass on your way out of the building will be able to tell what just happened in that top-floor office.

As the numbers on the display count down - 50, 49, 48, 47 - your mind replays the events of the afternoon. You think about dinner tonight. You think about the raw, unguarded promise in Ning’s eyes. You think about the way she tasted, the way she felt, the incredible, uninhibited sounds she made when she came apart in your arms, in your mouth.

You think about six long years of missed opportunities, of unspoken desires, of paths not taken. And you think about the incredible, miraculous good fortune of getting a second chance.

The late summer heat is dense, pressing against your back as you walk the side streets of Gangnam, hoodie clinging to your skin, bag heavy from whatever errands you didn’t finish. You’re not really paying attention. It’s one of those days — too hot, too quiet, and your brain’s half-fogged with sweat and leftover thoughts.

You’re almost past the alley when a voice cuts through the still air.

"You. Stop."

Firm. Clear. Female.

You freeze.

There’s a moment — not even a second — where you think no way, and then she steps into your line of sight.

Boots first. Then toned legs wrapped in fitted navy pants, a matching belt, a black walkie dangling at her side, and a crisp short-sleeved shirt tucked in tight. Shiny badge at her chest. Cap tilted just enough to shadow her face.

And sunglasses. Of course.

She’s in full uniform. Not sloppy. Not casual. It looks official. Too official.

She lifts a brow. “You’re ignoring a direct order from law enforcement?”

You glance around. No one else in the alley. You look back at her.

She doesn’t flinch.

You swallow. “Uh, no, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” she echoes. And there’s something dangerous in how she says it. Something entertained. Like she’s waiting for you to fuck up further.

“I mean—officer.”

Her mouth quirks. Not quite a smile.

She steps closer. Not fast. Measured. You feel yourself stiffen, posture going awkwardly straight, like some old muscle memory from high school kicking in.

“Empty your pockets,” she says.

You blink. “Seriously?”

“You've been drinking?”

“No.”

“Drugs?”

“What? No.”

She stares. Too calm.

“Then you’ve got nothing to hide. Empty your pockets.”

You hesitate. Then sigh and start digging. Wallet. Keys. Phone. A stick of gum.

You hold them out like a student showing a teacher clean hands.

She glances down, barely even registering them. Then her gaze flicks back to yours.

She lifts her shades — slow — and it finally hits you. That face. That mouth. The curve of her cheek, the shape of her brow. Familiar in a way that tugs somewhere deep in your chest.

But it doesn’t land. Not yet. Like a dream you forgot the second you woke up.

She clicks her tongue. “And what were you doing loitering back there?”

“Just walking. Not loitering.”

She steps forward.

Close.

Her presence is heat and authority, and it’s ridiculous how your pulse reacts. There’s nothing playful in her posture — just calm control.

“Turn around,” she says.

You hesitate. “Are you actually—”

“Do you want to be detained?”

The back of your throat goes dry.

You turn.

Your bag slides off one shoulder. You hear the soft click of cuffs.

Cold metal. Real weight. Around your wrists.

Your heart kicks up.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, trying not to panic. “Seriously, what is this—”

She steps in close behind you. You can feel her body at your back. Not pressed, but there. Solid. Present.

Her breath brushes your neck. “You really don’t remember me?”

You freeze.

“What?”

She hums. Low. Like a private joke.

“I’ll give you a hint,” she whispers. “We used to build blanket forts. You always made me the bad guy.”

Your breath hitches. You turn your head slightly, but she doesn’t let you see her.

Too late.

Your brain scrambles, reaching — old memories, old summers, a girl with scraped knees and a laugh that made your chest ache even when you were eighteen.

But it doesn’t make sense.

She presses the cuffs tighter.

“Still nothing?” she says, almost pouting.

And then she bites your ear. Not hard. Just enough.

You jolt.

She lets out a breathy laugh and finally circles back around you, face full in the light now, shades gone. Hair a mess, smile wicked.

And goddamn — the recognition finally punches through.

But before you can say her name, she tilts her head and says, “Don’t say it. Not yet.”

Then, while you’re still stunned, she tugs you by the front of your hoodie and pulls you deeper into the alley — out of sight, out of breath, out of time.

The alley stretches longer than it should, or maybe you’re just too stunned to track distance. You’re half-walking, half-dragged, wrists still cuffed behind your back, tripping a little over your own feet. Her grip is firm on your hoodie, knuckles brushing the bare skin at your throat as she holds you close, like you’re some idiot who might run.

But you’re not running. You can’t. You wouldn’t even know where.

She stops suddenly and turns. The back wall of the alley is just brick and shadow, and your chest brushes hers with how close she’s pulled you.

You look down at her. She hasn’t said another word.

Just staring.

There’s a flicker in her eyes—something waiting to see what you'll do now that you’ve had a second to catch up.

“I—” you start, but your voice cracks.

She raises a brow. “You?”

You look away, chest tight. She doesn’t give you time to regroup.

“Still confused?” she asks softly. There’s no mockery this time. Only heat.

Your breath catches. The realization of who she is still hasn’t settled. She’s older now. Sharper. Everything that used to be soft has been carved into something dangerous. Something magnetic. But that smile, that lilt in her voice—it’s still there underneath, like a ghost.

You nod, slow. “Yeah. I mean... yeah.”

She leans in just enough to brush your cheek with hers, the cap brim skimming your temple. “I didn’t think you’d actually forget me,” she murmurs. “That’s the part that stings.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

She exhales sharply and pulls back—less playful now. Her hand slides down your chest, fingers skimming the hem of your hoodie like she’s testing it for weak spots.

“You always used to stare when I wore your clothes,” she says. “I used to wonder if you knew.”

“I didn’t—”

“But now?” Her fingers curl at your waistband. “Now you’re doing more than staring.”

You flinch at the contact. Not because it hurts. Because it doesn’t.

And that scares the hell out of you.

She tugs your hoodie up with both hands, exposing your stomach. Her eyes drop there. You’re breathing too fast. Your arms are still behind you, and she hasn’t even loosened the cuffs.

“You’re really not going to say anything?” she asks, voice quieter, throatier now.

“I’m trying to figure out if I’m hallucinating,” you admit.

She lets out a small laugh. “You’re not. You’re just in trouble.”

Then she drops to her knees.

Your brain lurches.

“Wait—” you start, but she’s already unbuttoning your jeans, slow, fingers confident. Not rushed. Not uncertain.

You look down at her. Her expression is pure mischief, tempered by something hotter. Hungrier.

She doesn’t break eye contact as she pulls your zipper down.

“Ning,” you say her name like it slipped out without permission.

She stills. Just for a second.

Her eyes flash.

“You weren’t supposed to say it yet,” she whispers.

And then her hand is inside your waistband.

Everything in you goes tight.

You stagger slightly, cuffed hands straining against the metal behind you. “Shit—”

She hushes you with a single glance.

“You’re not in control right now,” she says, fingers wrapping around your cock. “So don’t act like you are.”

You groan as she strokes you once, slow. Then again, firmer.

The heat in your stomach is immediate.

You feel fucking helpless—cornered, locked up, twisted in place by memory and need and whatever this is becoming.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” she says, almost to herself. “I didn’t plan to. I just... saw you. And you didn’t recognize me. And I thought, fuck it.”

Her thumb swipes across the head of your cock and you nearly choke on a moan.

“And now,” she adds, voice like a promise, “I’m not stopping until I’ve made sure you never forget me again.”

She’s still got you cuffed. Wrists locked tight behind your back. Chest heaving. Jeans half-off. And she’s looking up at you like this is the first time she’s ever seen something worth worshiping.

And for a second—one long, blistering second—you feel powerful.

But then she tilts her head, and you realize she’s in control of everything. Even that. Especially that.

She gives your cock a slow stroke, base to tip. Her thumb presses down against the vein with maddening pressure before circling the head with just enough slick to make your knees almost buckle.

You hiss, breath jerking out of you like she punched the air from your lungs. “Fuck…”

She hums like it’s a satisfied answer.

Then leans in, just close enough for her breath to graze the tip of your cock without letting her mouth touch.

You twitch in her hand. Your whole body feels strung up, wired. She’s barely done anything and already you’re starting to break apart.

“You’re quieter than I expected,” she murmurs, voice low and sweet and unbothered. “I figured you’d talk more.”

You try. You really do. But the words catch on your tongue.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, thumb brushing lazily under the head. “Too much?” Her tone is soft mockery, but there’s something beneath it. Warm. Intimate. A little cruel.

“You’re fucking insane,” you manage.

“I’m thorough,” she corrects, still smiling, still not letting up.

She tightens her grip for a moment—not to hurt, just enough to command your attention—and then strokes you again, slower. Like she’s savoring it. Like she’s tasting the reaction before even taking you in.

You press your back to the wall, legs shaking. “You’re seriously just gonna… do this? In an alley?”

“You want me to stop?”

You hesitate.

She waits, gaze never leaving your face.

“…No,” you admit.

There it is. That wicked little grin spreads like wildfire. “Good boy.”

The phrase lands harder than it should.

You don’t even like being called that.

But when she says it—

God.

You don’t get to dwell. Because she shifts forward on her knees and finally puts her mouth on you.

No warning. No build-up. Just heat and pressure and wet, perfect suction. Her lips seal around the head and she sinks down slow—inch by agonizing inch—until her nose is pressed against your skin and your knees are fucking shaking.

You grunt, hips twitching despite yourself, and she lets out a low hum like she’s encouraging it.

Her tongue works you like she remembers every sensitive spot you never told anyone about. She bobs once, twice—then pulls off with a wet pop that makes your head thunk against the wall.

You’re gasping now. Hard.

“I said don’t act like you’re in control,” she murmurs, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. “That means no thrusting.”

“I didn’t—”

She cuts you off by wrapping her mouth around you again, this time faster. Her hands settle on your thighs, fingers splayed like anchors, and you get the message: stay still.

And you try.

But she’s relentless. She sucks like she’s proving something. Like she’s been thinking about this. Like she needs to know what sounds you’ll make when she finally pushes you past the edge.

Your cuffs bite into your wrists with every shaky breath. Your spine’s bowed tight. Vision blurring. You moan—loud this time—and her eyes flick up to watch your face while she does it again.

It’s unbearable.

And fucking perfect.

“Ning—” you breathe, but she doesn’t let you finish.

Instead, she pulls off and rises to her feet in one fluid motion, grabbing your jaw with one hand as she leans in, lips just brushing yours.

“I want you to remember something,” she whispers.

You nod, dazed. “Anything.”

She bites your lower lip. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just enough.

“You don’t come,” she says. “Not until I say.”

You groan, hips jerking forward. She slaps your stomach lightly with the back of her hand.

“Don’t test me,” she says.

You believe her.

She shoves your jeans the rest of the way down and kicks your ankles apart. Her hands are rougher now—impatient, greedy—and you can’t stop the shiver that runs through you when she grabs your cock again and gives it a possessive pump.

You’re leaking. Desperate. Your brain’s not working.

And she knows it.

“Didn’t think I’d come back looking like this, did you?” she mutters as her hand works you with firm, punishing strokes. “Thought I’d stay small and sweet forever, huh?”

You pant, shaking your head. “I didn’t think—I wasn’t—”

She cuts you off by squeezing right under the head until your legs nearly give out.

“Quiet,” she says. “Let me enjoy you.”

You fall silent. What else can you do?

Your breath comes in shallow bursts. Her hand is merciless. She jerks you off with all the control in the world, letting your tip brush her stomach every time your hips jerk forward like you’re chasing friction.

And then, right when your abs start to tighten and the pressure starts to crest, she stops.

Lets go.

Steps back.

You choke.

“No, no, don’t—”

She tuts. “I said don’t come. You were getting close.”

You nod furiously. Too fast. “I didn’t. I swear.”

“Good.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, she sinks to the ground again and opens her mouth, tongue out, eyes gleaming.

You make a sound that’s not even human.

But before she lets you in, she says one more thing:

“If you so much as twitch without permission…” She drags her tongue up the underside of your cock. “I’ll stop. And you’ll walk home like this.”

You nod.

She smirks.

And then she starts again—faster this time.

No teasing.

No mercy.

And you realize you’re going to die in this alley.

Or worse—survive, and never stop thinking about this moment for the rest of your fucking life.

You don't know how long she keeps you there.

It could be seconds. Minutes. Your sense of time’s completely shredded—dissolved somewhere between the way her mouth moves and the way your arms are still cuffed, tension building in your spine like a snapped wire just waiting to recoil.

She’s working you like she owns you now.

And maybe she does.

Because you can’t remember ever being this hard, this desperate, this fucked up over someone with nothing but a mouth and a voice and a memory she’s dangling just out of reach.

You try not to move. You try not to breathe wrong. But it’s getting harder every time her tongue slides under the head and she sucks, cheeks hollowing like she’s draining the resistance right out of your body.

You whimper—actually whimper—and she pulls off again, lips wet, spit stringing from her mouth to your tip. She grins like she’s proud of the mess she’s making.

“Still holding it in?” she asks, breathless.

You nod, too frantic to speak.

“Good boy,” she murmurs again. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

She rises without warning and pulls your hoodie the rest of the way off, the fabric catching at your elbows while your wrists are still cuffed. You stumble slightly, exposed, vulnerable, the damp heat of the alley clinging to your skin. Your cock’s still out, still leaking, pulsing with every heartbeat.

You’re fucking ruined, and she hasn’t even taken off her uniform yet.

She shoves you back against the wall, hard enough that it knocks the wind out of you for a second. Her hand lands flat on your chest to keep you there.

“You always thought you were the careful one,” she says. “But look at you.”

You meet her eyes. There’s something in them—wild, electric—but under that, something else. Something that flickers the moment your gaze softens.

She sees it too. And it pisses her off.

“Don’t,” she snaps, voice dropping. “Don’t give me that look like I’m still the girl you remember. I’m not. I’m the one you forgot.”

“I didn’t—”

“Shut up.”

Her mouth is on yours before you can argue. Hot. Messy. Nothing delicate about it. Her teeth drag against your bottom lip. Her tongue pushes in like it belongs there. You kiss back like you’re drowning.

Because you are.

You lean into it, as much as your cuffs will allow, and she moans—actual sound this time, full and guttural—and fuck, it does something to you. The way she grinds against your thigh, still in those tight navy pants, breath catching, like she’s the one coming undone now.

You chase that.

She breaks the kiss with a gasp and shoves her fingers into your hair, gripping hard. “You think you can turn this on me?”

You nod. Then shake your head. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to anymore.

She laughs. “Pathetic.”

But she doesn’t sound mad. Not really.

She steps back, grabs your jaw, turns your face to the side. You feel her mouth on your neck, teeth scraping skin like she’s trying to mark you. And she might be. You wouldn’t stop her.

You’d let her do anything right now.

She palms your cock again. Just once. Just enough to remind you how fucking close you are.

“Don’t beg,” she whispers. “It won’t work.”

You almost laugh. But then her other hand snakes between your legs and cups your balls—gentle at first, then not—and the sound you make isn’t laughter at all.

“Sensitive,” she murmurs, almost admiring. “God, you always were.”

You want to say something. Anything.

But then she reaches behind herself and undoes her belt with one smooth pull. It clinks to the pavement, loud in the quiet. Your mouth goes dry.

She keeps her eyes on yours as she tugs her pants down—just enough to sit low on her hips. Her underwear’s black, soft cotton. No lace. No drama.

But you can already see the damp patch spreading across it.

Your breath stutters.

She notices.

“Touch me and I’ll break your fingers,” she says.

Your wrists are still cuffed.

You couldn’t even if you tried.

And that makes it worse.

She presses against you, crotch to thigh, grinding slowly, her slick soaking through. She grabs your jaw again and kisses you hard, biting at your tongue this time like she’s daring you to flinch.

You don’t.

She pulls back.

“You’re shaking.”

You are.

“So close it hurts?” she whispers, hand sliding between your bodies, brushing over your cock again with maddening care.

You nod, jaw tight.

She strokes you twice—firm, slow, cruel.

Then stops again.

You groan. Actually groan.

“Ning…”

She smirks. “Say that again.”

You hesitate.

“Say it.”

“…Ning.”

She kisses your throat. “Louder.”

“Ning.”

She strokes again. You thrust helplessly into her grip.

“Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I—”

She squeezes. Your breath catches.

“Tell me.”

“I missed you,” you gasp. “Fuck, I missed you.”

She hums, pleased. “Good boy.”

She doesn’t let you come.

Not yet.

Instead, she turns you around again—slow, intentional—and presses your chest to the wall.

You feel her unzip her own pants fully behind you, hear the shift of fabric.

Her hand reaches between your legs, lifts your cock from behind, jerking it with ruthless control while she ruts herself against your ass, panting, soaking, still half-clothed, the two of you hidden in this goddamn alley like feral animals.

And when you twitch again—when your body starts to seize from the edge—

She stops.

Again.

“Still not yet,” she whispers in your ear.

You let out a broken noise. Barely a word. Barely human.

She licks the shell of your ear, lips brushing the curve with something almost tender.

And just when you think she’s done—

She unlocks the cuffs.

Letting your arms fall forward. Numb. Shaking.

And then, stepping back into your line of sight, she says:

“Your turn.”

She’s in front of you now. Pants undone. Shirt still tucked in, badge still gleaming, like this is still her scene.

But the second the cuffs click open, something shifts.

Not in the air. Not in her stance.

In you.

And she knows it. You see it flicker in her eyes the moment your arms fall forward, wrists red from where she held you. She straightens, but doesn’t move back. Doesn’t run. Just watches.

You step forward.

Slow.

Measured.

You reach for her face — not rough, not sweet — just certain. Fingers curling under her jaw, thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth, still wet from everything she just did to you.

“You don’t get to start something like that,” you murmur, “and walk away when it turns.”

She smiles like she doesn’t believe you.

But she doesn’t stop you either.

You kiss her.

And this time it’s yours.

She makes a sound — a small surprised breath against your lips — and you don’t let up. You grab her wrist with your free hand and shove it above her head, pinning it to the brick behind her. She gasps, and that’s when you use the moment to step between her legs, pressing into the wet heat of her core.

Her hips twitch.

"Already soaked," you whisper against her lips. "And you’ve barely even been touched."

She grins like she’s still the one in control. “You’re not that scary.”

“Good,” you say. “I’m not trying to scare you.”

Your mouth dips to her neck. You bite her there — just hard enough to make her flinch, make her gasp — and she grabs at your shoulders, nails digging in.

She pushes back, but not to escape. It’s the kind of resistance that’s begging to be overpowered.

So you do.

You hike her leg up around your waist and push her hard against the wall. Your cock’s still out, still slick, and she’s right there, heat and wetness pressed to the length of you, still caged behind her underwear.

She pants in your ear.

“I thought you weren’t gonna beg,” you murmur.

She huffs, laughing into your shoulder. “I won’t.”

“Liar.”

You drag your hand between her legs and rub her through the soaked fabric, the friction making her tremble.

She tries to stay quiet.

You don’t let her.

You find the edge of her underwear and tug it aside — slowly, deliberately — baring her to the humid air and your fingers. She’s drenched. Swollen. Pulsing.

You slide two fingers inside without warning.

She bites your neck to keep from crying out.

“Still want to pretend you’re in charge?” you breathe against her hair, curling your fingers inside her just right.

She grabs your shirt like she might rip it.

But she doesn’t answer.

You pull your fingers out and shove them into her mouth.

“Suck.”

She does.

God, she does.

Her tongue swirls over them, lips tight, and you almost lose it right there. Her eyes flick up to yours, dark and defiant, and the sight of her like that — uniform half-undone, panting around your fingers, still pretending not to need you — it shatters something in you.

You yank her panties down with one hand and line yourself up.

She pulls off your fingers just long enough to mutter, “Don’t make me wait.”

You don’t.

You thrust into her in one deep, sharp motion — and she gasps, back arching hard against the wall, legs tightening around your hips like she’s trying to keep you inside forever.

You brace one arm behind her back and fuck into her — deep, steady, mean. No softness. Just the sound of your hips slamming into hers, wet and filthy and real.

She moans into your neck, biting to muffle it, and you feel her walls clench around you.

You kiss her again, devouring her moans, your fingers still holding her jaw as you rut into her like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

She whimpers — actually whimpers — and that’s when you know.

She’s close.

So you stop.

Dead still.

Her head jerks back in shock. “What—”

You smile. “You don’t get to come yet.”

She groans, hips rolling, trying to chase the friction.

You pull out halfway and slam back in, slow and punishing.

Her voice breaks.

“Please.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Say it again.”

She stares, defiant.

You pull out. All the way.

“No—fuck, fine—please. Don’t stop.”

You lean in close, breath against her lips. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

And then you give her what she begged for.

You pound into her, this time faster, deeper — all frustration and heat and all the things she stirred up the second she walked into your life again. You watch her come undone — nails scraping your skin, body trembling, voice cracking into gasps and moans she can’t hide anymore.

When she breaks, it’s messy.

Loud.

Raw.

Her head drops to your shoulder, and she curses your name like it hurts.

You hold her through it. Fuck her through it.

And when you finally let yourself go — when you come inside her so deep you swear you forget your own name — it’s like everything goes still.

Like the world narrows to the two of you in this alley. Tangled. Sweaty. Shaking.

You stay there, forehead pressed to hers, breath mixing in the sticky air.

Neither of you says a word for a long time.

You’re still buried deep inside her when her breath starts to steady. Her grip on your back loosens, legs falling slightly from around your waist, but you don’t move. You’re not done.

Not even close.

You lean in, voice a low rasp against her ear. “Don’t think that was it.”

She shivers. “No?”

You draw your hips back slowly — not out, just enough for her to feel the drag — and then slam forward, sharp and brutal, knocking a gasp out of her.

Her hands scramble against your shoulders. “F–fuck—”

“Keep up,” you growl, catching both her wrists and pinning them above her head again. She’s slick, trembling, stretched to her limit, but her expression is wild now — open and needy, every bit of her screaming yes even if her mouth won’t.

You move again. Harder. A brutal rhythm, each thrust landing with obscene sound. Her body jerks with the force, head falling back against the wall, mouth parted in shock as you fuck her like you’re trying to break her in.

And maybe you are.

Her cuffs dangle forgotten near your feet. Her badge is still clipped to her shirt — barely hanging on — and you can feel the heat of her through every point of contact.

You press your forehead to hers. “You’re mine right now.”

She moans, voice cracking. “Then take me.”

You do.

You grab one of her thighs and lift it again, angling her just right, and drive in deeper — punishing, relentless. She cries out, loud, raw, fingers clenching your forearm as her entire body bucks into yours.

“I missed this,” you mutter against her jaw. “You ruined me back then. And now you’re gonna pay for it.”

“Then shut up,” she snarls between gasps. “And fucking ruin me.”

You slam into her so hard she knocks the back of her head against the brick. Her eyes roll back, a stuttered curse flying from her lips, and you catch her by the waist before she can slump.

You flip her around again.

Face-first to the wall.

No warning.

She yelps — surprised — but arches her back, grinding her ass against your cock with a filthy little whimper like she was hoping you’d do this.

“Look at you,” you whisper, grabbing her hip. “Dripping down your legs and still begging for it.”

“Shut up,” she pants.

You spank her. Once. Sharp.

She gasps.

“Say please.”

“No.”

Another spank. This time harder.

Her breath shudders. Her thighs are slick. Her hands press flat to the brick like she needs it to stay upright.

“Say it.”

“…Please.”

You thrust back into her like a threat.

She screams.

You fuck her with everything you’ve been holding back — anger, memory, lust, the years between you crashing into a single vicious rhythm. Her moans are ragged, desperate, punched out of her with every slam of your hips. You snake a hand around to rub her clit and she jolts like you hit a nerve.

“Gonna come again?” you growl.

“Yes—yes—don’t stop—”

But you do stop.

She wails, slamming her hips back against you, trying to chase it.

You grab her by the hair and pull her upright, flush to your chest, your cock still buried inside her.

“Not yet.”

She’s sobbing with frustration — breathless, furious, soaked — and fuck if she doesn’t sound more turned on than ever.

“I hate you,” she pants.

You lick the shell of her ear. “No, you don’t.”

She laughs — broken, wrecked — and slams herself back onto your cock anyway.

You bite her shoulder and fuck her from behind, hand between her legs, working her clit with ruthless precision.

“Now,” you whisper. “Now you can come.”

And when she does—

She screams.

You hold her through it, riding her out while she clenches around you, shaking so hard you have to pin her against the wall just to keep her standing.

But you’re still hard.

And you’re not done.

Not until you’ve made sure she can’t walk out of this alley the same girl she was when she came in.

You slam your hips up into her, and the sound she makes is damn near broken. Her nails dig into your shoulders, then drag across your back as if she’s trying to mark you, but you barely register the sting. All you can focus on is the heat of her, the grip of her cunt, the way her voice cracks each time you hit just right.

You're fucking her like your sanity depends on it. Because maybe it does.

Her head falls back against the wall with a dull knock, and you lean in, lips grazing her jaw as you thrust harder, rougher. She’s soaking around you—wet, tight, relentless—and her breathless little gasps are nothing like the smug control she had earlier. You’ve got her unraveling now, squirming, writhing, clutching at you like she doesn’t know where the ground went.

“Eli—fuck—too deep—”

“Take it.”

You grit it out against her throat, biting down just below her ear. She whimpers, legs tightening around your waist, and your rhythm doesn’t falter. Not for a second. You’re inside her so deep it feels like there’s nothing else, no outside world, no heat, no alley—just this. Just her. Just the way she opens up around you like she was built for it.

She tries to grind her hips against you, tries to ride your cock even though you're the one in control now, but you pin her tighter to the wall with a savage snap of your hips that makes her cry out.

“You started this,” you growl. “You wanted my attention? You got it.”

Ningning moans, eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet yours—and god, there’s fire in them. Wild. Desperate. Beautiful. “Then don’t fucking stop,” she pants.

You don’t.

Your thrusts turn ruthless—deep, punishing, hungry. Her nails are leaving lines down your back, her legs are trembling around your waist, and her moans have turned hoarse, like she’s losing her voice with every pulse of your cock inside her.

You feel the way her body starts to lock up, how her pussy flutters around you like she’s on the edge again. But this time you don’t give her permission.

This time, you pull out.

She gasps, eyes wide, like you just yanked air from her lungs.

“What—? Eli, no—”

You flip her around before she can protest, her chest smacking against the rough wall, hands scrambling to steady herself. Your hand snakes into her hair, not cruelly, but firm—anchoring her in place as your other hand guides yourself back in from behind. She sobs out your name, high-pitched and cracked, and you bury yourself in her again with one brutal thrust.

She screams.

Not from pain—from need. From shock. From sheer fucking want.

Your hand slides down her spine, pressing between her shoulder blades as you fuck her into the bricks, her cheek scraping slightly against the surface as she whines, helpless now, wrecked.

You lean in close, lips to her ear. “You made such a big deal about control earlier,” you breathe. “Thought you’d tease me a little, play the cop, make me squirm. But look at you now.”

She whimpers as your hand slips down, finds her clit, and circles it once. She almost crumples.

“You gonna come like this?” you ask. “Pinned, fucked stupid, dripping down your legs?”

She can’t speak. Just nods.

You spank her once—sharply, fast—watching the way her ass jiggles, the sound echoing off the alley walls. She gasps.

“You don’t get to come yet,” you whisper.

“Eli—”

“You’ll come when I tell you.”

She trembles.

You fuck her harder.

Each thrust is brutal now, no pretense left. Just bodies colliding. Just hips slamming. Just need. You feel her start to shake again, her walls clenching around you, her legs almost giving out.

She’s babbling now. “Please—fuck—please, let me—let me—”

You twist your fist in her hair and yank her back just enough to whisper, “Now.”

She comes like an explosion—loud, desperate, like her body’s folding in on itself. She clenches so hard around you it rips the orgasm from you too. You groan as you slam into her one last time and spill inside, filling her with every pulse, every twitch, until your whole body is pressed against hers and you’re both shaking.

Silence hits.

Just panting.

Heavy breathing, sweat dripping, the slow cooling of fevered skin.

You don’t let go of her right away.

You keep her there—against the wall, against your chest, arms around her waist now instead of her throat or hair. Her body sags against yours, boneless and quiet.

Then she laughs.

Soft. Wrecked. Beautiful.

“You’re fucking insane,” she whispers.

You press your lips to the nape of her neck. “You started it.”

Her giggle’s lazy now. Content. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Guess I did.”

She leans back into you, breathing slowing, head resting against your shoulder now.

You don’t remember sliding down the wall. Just the way her body went soft against yours — like the fight had finally drained out of her, or maybe you’d both left the last of it in the air between you. Your knees give a little, and the next thing you know, you’re both on the ground, tangled in each other and sweat and the faint smell of city grime.

She’s half in your lap, legs still hooked loosely around you, head against your shoulder. Her cap is gone. Her shirt’s riding up, bra strap twisted. Your jeans are unzipped, your boxers sticky. Her thighs are a mess between them.

No one says anything for a while.

Just breath. Wind. The faint buzz of traffic somewhere distant. The world still exists out there — people living lives, eating dinners, watching dramas, never knowing two idiots just fucked each other half-conscious in the back corner of Gangnam.

Eventually, she shifts. Not much. Just a slow drag of her fingers along your arm, brushing past the edge of your sleeve like she’s testing if you’re real.

You let her.

Then you clear your throat. “You okay?”

She huffs a breath against your collarbone. “...Guess.”

“You were the one who cuffed me and dragged me into an alley.”

“And you liked it.”

You don't answer. Because yeah — you fucking did.

But there’s something quieter now, in the space between you. The adrenaline’s gone. The bravado too. She’s not the playful cop anymore. You’re not the half-lost, hoodie-clad boy wondering what the hell is going on.

You’re just… two people. With a long, messy, beautiful history stitched somewhere between the sweat and bruises.

“I didn’t think it would feel like that,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“All of it.” She swallows. “You. This.”

You look at her. Really look. There’s no smirk now. No sunglasses. No teasing voice. Just a girl with wrecked makeup and tangled hair, breathing slow in your arms, like she’s not sure what comes next.

“I still can’t believe it’s you,” you say.

Her lips twitch. “Then say my name.”

You hesitate.

And then, gently: “Ning.”

She closes her eyes. Just for a second. And when she opens them again, there’s something unguarded in her face. Something almost soft.

“God,” she mutters. “It really is you.”

You lean your head back against the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“Because I didn’t know if I wanted to.”

You look down.

She shrugs one bare shoulder. “You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t come back for closure or a grand reunion or some epic scene. I saw you. I was in a car—on my way somewhere I didn’t want to go—and I saw your face on the street like it hadn’t been ten years. And I thought... fuck it. Just once. Just one time.”

Her voice cracks a little on the last part. She catches it quick, breathes through it. But you notice.

And it sits in your chest like a stone.

“Ning…” you start, but she cuts you off.

“You didn’t write,” she says. Not angry. Just… honest. “After I moved. After that summer. You didn’t call. Didn’t try. And yeah, I know we were basically kids. But still.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

“I thought you hated me,” you admit.

“I did.” She looks up at you. “But only because you stopped being the one thing I thought was real.”

Your stomach knots.

She sits up slowly, tugs at her shirt, fixes it absently. Not shy. Not modest. Just trying to breathe.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says finally, gesturing between you. “And I’m not asking for a label or an apology or a second chance. I just… I needed to see if you were still you.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

But you reach out anyway. Not with words — with your hand. You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture’s awkward, a little clumsy, but she leans into it all the same.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

She nods. “Me too.”

Then, quietly: “Did you really not recognize me?”

You shake your head. “Not at first. But… I think some part of me did. Deep down.”

She exhales. “That’s something.”

You sit there together a while longer, legs tangled, bodies cooling. At some point, you pull your hoodie off and give it to her. She slips it on without a word, pulls the sleeves over her hands. The smell of sweat and sex and summer wraps around her like a second skin.

When she speaks again, her voice is almost sheepish. “I don’t really have anywhere to be tonight.”

You glance sideways. “That a question or a statement?”

“Bit of both.”

You hesitate. Then: “You want to come back with me?”

She raises a brow. “That a question or a statement?”

You smirk. “Bit of both.”

Her laugh is softer now. Real.

“Yeah,” she says after a pause. “I’d like that.”

You both stand, a little sore, a little slow. She adjusts the hoodie, and you zip your jeans. She takes your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And as you leave the alley — her beside you, not behind or ahead — you realize the night hasn’t cooled much.

But it feels different now.

Like maybe, just maybe, this isn’t over yet.

Not even close.

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