Having roommates is never easy. You would know, having circled through five in the span of a year.

An issue always seemed to arise after enough time had passed, each girl that moved in and out of your apartment reminding you in a new and exciting way of how coexisting with someone else in a small space can be a nuisance. Some were tidy to the point where it felt like moving a plate out of its designated place was a cardinal sin, while some were messy enough to make you feel embarrassed to have friends over. Others were far too extroverted, gifting you a pounding headache after a long night of gregarious chatter and loud laughter.

But just as you were about to give up and move into an even smaller apartment, in came Aran.

She was the new sales analyst at the company you worked for, and you soon became close. It wasn’t quite a friendship, more like coworkers who kept each other company during office hours but never hung out otherwise. But from the time you spent together, you learned you two were quite alike — both in tastes as well as in the way you lived.

She was struggling to pay rent, and so were you. It was an obvious choice.

It was supposed to be the end of your problems, and maybe even the start of a new friendship seeing as you two would spend every day together.

But along with Aran, her boyfriend also waltzed into your life the night she moved in.

As soon as he walked through your front door, your eyes were immediately drawn to the way the sleeves of his black shirt strained against his biceps. His jawline tensed as he adjusted a particularly heavy box in his veiny hands, face grimacing in a way that shouldn’t have been so damn attractive. You observed from your seat on the couch as he placed the box in front of your coffee table, the back of his hand wiping his forehead while his tongue slid across his dry lips. The tiny beads of sweat collecting on his honey skin were like dewdrops that trickled down his neck, onto his perfect collarbones, before disappearing into the fabric of his shirt that clung to his chest. He tilted his head back, a groan falling from his lips before he yelled out to Aran something about collecting too many anime figures.

The moment Lee Minho’s eyes met yours for the first time, a sly grin playing on his lips as he eyed you from head to toe, you knew you were utterly fucked.

Aran was the perfect roommate.

Her boyfriend was the perfect catastrophe waiting to happen.

—

The way Minho acted around you left a huge question mark floating above your head.

Your stubborn mind insisted on justifying it; he wasn’t overly nice or intimate with you, as he should be. Small talk about what to eat for dinner and meaningless jokes shared during your Saturday night movies — always warm and friendly, but never anything more than harmless interactions. He was simply your roommate’s boyfriend, after all. 

But that wasn’t inherently true.

Whenever you two were alone together, waiting for Aran to come home after a late shift or while she overslept during the weekends, Minho’s behavior around you was the perfect antithesis of that.

Heavy raindrops cascaded outside the day Minho officially began teetering on the edge of the invisible line between you two.

Aran complained into the phone about being stuck at work because of the sudden downpour, upset that your plans of binge-watching Outlander were ruined, and you did your best to comfort her. As you hung up the phone — just as you caught yourself thinking about how nice it felt to get along with your roommate — Minho slammed the front door with a loud groan. Because of renovations in his apartment, he had been basically living with you and Aran since she moved in.

You’d be lying if you said that bothered you.

Your eyes shifted toward his soaking figure, his white shirt that was rendered see-through, highlighting every inch of his skin. Pushing his hair away from his face, Minho grumbled about the weather, placing ripped and soggy grocery bags on the counter before padding across the living room floor and into the bathroom.

Minho popped back into view as you closed the fridge. His silhouette, clad only in black boxers, walked into the room. His expression was nonchalant, and his steps were almost lazy as he made his way to the small kitchen. You could swear you caught a glimpse of a faint smile on his lips as he came closer until he was caging you up against the cold refrigerator door, his left arm reaching up toward a cabinet.

“You want one?” he asked, lips wrapping around a gummy worm, his teeth pulling the candy apart until it broke. Another subtle grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he licked the remnants of sugar off his thumb, his eyes piercing into yours before he cocked an eyebrow.

You fought the urge to ogle at his lips, quickly shaking your head. “I don’t like gummies.”

Minho let out a quiet laugh, touching the rest of the candy to your lips for a second before eating it. You absent-mindedly licked your lips.

“I heard you listening to Hozier last night,” he mentioned casually, as if his body wasn’t pressed up against yours, as if this entire situation was normal — as if you could focus on anything other than the faint spice of cologne lingering on his slightly damp skin.

“Yeah,” you drawled out, losing the war you waged against yourself and unabashedly eyeing his pink lips.

Minho chuckled lightly, closing the cabinet door. Before you knew it, his fingertips danced along your waistline with a featherlight touch, as if it was a habit. As if it were normal.

That snapped you back into reality. 

“Minho,” you called out, and his soft voice hummed. “What are you doing?”

He cooked his head to the side as if your words were nonsensical.

“Talking to you,” he answered matter-of-factly. 

A sigh fell from your lips — partly because of his reaction, partly because of how his fingers now traced the edge of your shirt. 

“This is wrong.”

“We’re just talking.”

“Minho.”

The corner of his lips perked up once more.

“Cute,” he all but whispered, fingers squeezing your waist for the briefest second before he separated from you. His eyes darted to the rain still pounding the window, then returned to you, a fleeting, unreadable expression crossing his face. “The rain wasn’t so bad after all.”

—

Since that day, Minho has been toeing that invisible line — his touches lingering longer whenever the two of you were alone. All it took was Aran not being around for him to corner you against the bathroom counter under the weak excuse of needing his toothbrush, or to watch you with a gaze far too hungry when you walked into the kitchen in your pajamas.

And it would be a lie to say you didn’t enjoy this attention. Minho was attractive, painfully so, and as much as you hated to admit it, the forbidden edge of what you were doing turned you on even more. There was something intoxicating about the way Aran was completely oblivious to her boyfriend’s stolen glances and touches.

Even when you had to lie in bed and listen to Minho fuck her for hours.

Tonight was one of those nights.

It almost didn’t phase you — sure, it was her he was fucking, but the thought that he might be thinking about you instead was enough to have you shivering. And when Minho texted you mere minutes after they were done, you couldn’t stop yourself from believing that those nasty thoughts might be true.

minho:

i was listening to this song earlier today

thought about you

i’m still thinking about you actually

You gnawed at your bottom lip.

A new text message broke your trance; only then did you realize you’d been staring at your phone for a few minutes, mindlessly rereading his words.

A link to a song by Hozier appeared before your eyes — Francesca.

You caught yourself grinning. It had been a while since you heard that song.

It was one of your favorites, telling the story of two lovers in the second circle of Dante’s Inferno, Lust, damned to suffer because of the sinful nature of their relationship. The woman vowed that she would endure the fiery torments of hell for all eternity, just to be with her lover.

You couldn’t be faulted for thinking Minho was either fucking with your head, sending you a message, or both.

Either way, he’s succeeded. 

—

It’s okay.

You justify it in your head, like a relentless mantra.

Lying in your bed, home alone for the night, your imagination runs wild with images of Minho in that damn maroon button-up as he left for a date with Aran earlier. He had cornered you in the bathroom yet again, taking your hand in his and undoing a couple of buttons on his shirt before pressing his forehead to yours.

“Date nights are always boring,” he'd said with a chuckle.

His face grows closer each time this happens, and the feeling of his breath against your lips intensifies as the space between you diminishes.

You groan, kicking your blanket off your body, your clit pulsing at the mere thought of Minho. His calloused fingers rubbing gentle circles on your lower back, the feeling of his toned chest against your fingertips.

How you could swear you felt him subtly grind his cock against your thigh before Aran called out his name.

It’s okay, you repeat, pushing your sleeping shorts to the side before your fingers caress your clit with delicate strokes, picturing his tongue lavishing you instead. You let yourself get carried away in the fantasy, your mind reverberating the moans and groans you heard fall from Minho’s lips most nights. Your sensitivity to even the phantom of Minho’s sighs sent slick cascading over your neglected cunt. Soon enough, two fingers enter you, the heel of your palm rubbing against your sensitive clit. 

It’s not like he’s actually touching you, so it’s okay. 

It’s okay to think about how his cock would fill you to the brim, or how his tongue would ruin you, and his fingers reduce you to a whimpering mess underneath him.

It’s okay to scream his name while your body shudders, your orgasm washing over you like a crashing wave.

“So you think about me, too, huh?”

As the voice that had only inhabited your imagination moments before materializes, your brows furrow, and your eyes flutter open to the sight of Minho’s dark gaze.

You can only remain frozen as his figure slowly approaches your bed, the soft settling of his right hand on the mattress beside you filling the silence. His breathy laugh mingles with the sharp scent of white wine, making your already woozy head spin faster. With a tentative touch, his left hand travels down your body, fingers ghosting your skin over your pajamas, as if he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

Minho’s cold fingers wrap around your wrist and leisurely bring your fingertips to his plump lips, a heavy haze of want clouding his gaze. His tongue pokes out, lapping at your fingers once, twice. And then his lips envelop your digits, and a soft, satisfied hum falls from his lips as he savors your taste.

With a small kiss to the palm of your hand, Minho bends his face to you, lips ghosting against yours as he whispers, “Maybe date nights can be fun.”

—

Saturdays mean movie night roulette for you, Aran, and Minho. And although you don’t particularly enjoy having to sit through two hours of whatever garbage movie the wheel on your phone lands on, you do enjoy a few aspects of it.

Like your little game of cat and mouse with Minho.

Since the night he caught you weeks ago, your relationship has undeniably shifted, yet your intimacy remains fleeting: little stolen kisses in dimly lit rooms and lingering touches.

It was as if he only needed a sign that you were interested too, and it seemed that coming home to you calling out his name during an orgasm was the green light he needed to finally bridge the gap between you.

You’re sitting next to Minho on the couch tonight, your knees brushing every so often when he adjusts Aran’s legs on his lap. The touch of his skin brings with it a searing burn, but his absence leaves you feeling frozen.

Minho’s rough hand finds your knee under the shared blanket, half an hour in. His low voice whispers in your ear, muffled as the explosions of the obnoxious action movie fill the room.

“Sleep.”

You furrow your brows at him, but his only response is a squeeze to your upper thigh, causing a stifled yelp to escape from your lips. You unknowingly find yourself obeying his command with your eyes closed and your head resting on the couch cushion.

Minho’s exploring fingertips trace the swell of your thighs, dipping between them, coaxing them open, and hoisting one over his knee, right by Aran’s legs. Your breath stills as you feel her body shift.

“Bored?” Minho asks her, his tone soft and caring. It makes you purse your lips. “I knew you would hate this movie, baby.”

Aran hums, snuggling against her boyfriend. 

Her boyfriend, whose fingers currently skate around the hem of your sleeping shorts, moving dangerously close to your cunt. A half-swallowed whimper escapes from your mouth when a calloused finger nudges your clit, arousal seeping down your slit as Minho breathes out a quiet chuckle.

It’s the moment the line ceases to exist entirely. What was once a safe figment of your imagination suddenly blooms into full color, vivid and undeniable.

And impossible to take back.

Uncertain if he’s looking at you, you keep your eyes closed even as his forefinger slowly slips inside you, finding no resistance with how wet you had gotten.

The answer to your question is a kiss, but not on your lips.

“Min,” Aran warns in a whisper.

Minho’s thumb finds your aching clit as he presses another wet kiss to Aran. Your cunt pulses — the feeling of his finger buried deep inside you while his lips are on another woman awakening something in you.

“Look at her,” he answers between kisses. His finger curls inside of you, and your slick walls squeeze around the stretch of his finger. “She’s asleep, it’s okay.”

You hear a faint sound as Minho’s lips meet hers again while he languidly pumps his digit inside your wetness. Your eyes softly open, and when a second finger enters you, then a third, your lips part with a choked sigh. By the time he falls into an unrelenting pace, your fuzzy brain can only just register Aran’s position now — perched on Minho’s right thigh, his tongue sliding over her lower lip while she lets out a hum.

Amidst the movie and their deepening kiss, the vulgar, slick sound of his fingers between your thighs is thankfully drowned out.

Your hand instinctively reaches down to his wrist, your cunt clenching tightly around Minho’s fingers, and the intense pressure in your core explodes like fireworks as you teeter on the edge of your climax.

Minho’s brown eyes open, and in that moment, his gaze darts towards you while his lips and tongue continue to lavish Aran, and your release overflows like molten lava. Brows furrowed, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you tremble, coming undone onto his fingers.

He draws out the last remnants of your orgasm gently before removing his fingers. Minho’s hand glistens with your cum when it comes to rest on Aran’s hips. For a split second, his lips curl into a barely-there grin before he deepens the kiss again.

It’s akin to a perversion, something tainted and sacrilegious.

But it’s a sin you’d gladly kneel for every time.

—

It’s Aran’s birthday.

When she asked you to bake her cupcakes — the ones you make every other weekend — your heart swelled. As you heard her gush about how much she loved something you made, a small seed of guilt took root in your stomach.

But you doubt anything could ever make you feel so awful that you’d give up how good Minho makes you feel.

You’ve done everything but penetrative sex. Deep down, you know the sole reason is that it would make things too real, polluting what’s already damaged past repair or concealment.

You try not to dwell on it too much.

The oven’s beep jolts you back to the present moment. Aran is working late again tonight, so you’re sure you have enough time to finish the cupcakes and shower before she arrives. But as the tray lands on the marble counter with a thud, the sound of the front door unlocking makes you wonder if your timing was off.

Until Minho’s soft voice fills the apartment.

“Oh, you’re making your cupcakes?” He asks, tugging at the backwards cap perched atop his messy hair. You hum in response. “I’ve been meaning to get your recipe, y’know. Even Jisung praised them, and the guy hates sweets.”

You chuckle, shaking your head dismissively. It’s still strange to you how you and Minho can be so casual around each other while sneaking around his girlfriend’s back, while—

The word always dies somewhere in the labyrinth of your subconscious before it can reach the forefront of your mind.

Cheating — it’s what it is.

But you can’t bring yourself to call a spade a spade.

Minho ultimately offers to help you make the buttercream. He maintains a comfortable distance, paying earnest attention to every step of your recipe. When you tell him your secret is simply to brown the butter, he lets out an earnest chuckle. It’s cute — annoyingly so — the way his eyes turn into crescent moons and his smile when he leans back against the countertop.

“Brown the butter…” He repeats, “Is that what makes it so sweet?”

You shrug with a chuckle. “I honestly don’t know, just thought about doing it one day.”

Minho nods slowly, a small smile playing on his lips. With his gaze fixed on you, he dips a finger into the buttercream, savoring the taste with a low hum as his tongue sweeps across his digit. Cocking his head, Minho dips two fingers back into the bowl, this time gently nudging them against your open lips. Your tongue tentatively laps at the sweet cream, but Minho shakes his head.

“No, no,” he steps closer to you, eyes hungry. You wiggle your toes, his dark gaze boring down on you, making you feel small. “Taste it properly,” he commands softly, pushing both fingers into your mouth. “Tastes so good, right?”

Your tongue traces Minho’s digits, becoming familiar with the calluses from hours spent boxing at the gym. As the sweetness melts on your tongue, the taste of salt mixed with the lingering bitterness of nicotine gradually takes over. You find yourself softly moaning around his fingers, and Minho grins. Delicately smearing the remaining buttercream on your bottom lip with his thumb, his lust-clouded eyes flicker to your mouth.

Minho bends his face to yours almost hesitantly. Agonizingly slow, his tongue traces the curve of your lower lip. It’s tantalizing and torturous. You’ve never properly kissed before, and you know this is another risky step in this tiptoeing game.

But it’s a game where you’ve already broken so many rules. What’s yet another one?

You’ve both bitten the apple already. 

Either way, you’re both going to be crucified for this.

“So, so sweet,” Minho murmurs, left hand finding your jaw and guiding you to him. You blindly follow. His tongue delicately traces the seam of your lips, and you willingly open your mouth, giving him access. 

You use his shoulders as your anchor, wrapping both arms around him and drawing him closer. Minho’s tongue meets yours like a wildfire, tasting like smoke and sin. His hands trace every curve of your body — your arms to your waist, then down your hips — as if he were trying to etch every inch of you into his fingertips. 

“Can’t let this sweetness go to waste, huh?” Minho rasps between kisses, sucking your bottom lip with a hum. He pushes you against the counter, fingers smearing more buttercream over your parted lips before pulling you into another messy kiss.

His fingertips gingerly push the straps of your tank top down your shoulders, causing goosebumps to prickle down your arms. You break the kiss with a whine when Minho’s thumbs circle your nipples, smearing buttercream over the pebbling buds. His teeth sink into his bottom lip as his hazy eyes watch each lazy swipe of his finger. You arch your back with a drawn-out whine, hips bucking forward to meet him, but Minho pulls back with a light pinch to your nipples.

His mouth soon finds your skin again, warm breath tickling you as he dots your neck with soft kisses. You luxuriate in the feeling of his lips when he finally reaches the swell of your breasts. Minho sucks each of your nipples into his mouth, delicately flicking them with his tongue agonizingly slow. He takes his time lavishing you, hums falling from his lips as he diligently laps at the cream. A rush of wetness pools in the fabric of your panties, and you want nothing more than for him to ruin you against the counter.

“Minho,” you all but beg, gripping his neck forcefully. “Please.”

His only response is to bite down gently, rolling your nipple between his teeth, followed by a muffled chuckle when your nails dig into his skin.

“You’re so eager,” he clicks his tongue, rough hands finding your shoulders and pulling you into a small kiss. 

Then your face is pressed up against the cold marble before you can make sense of anything, Minho’s hand pushing down on the small of your back. He bends his face to yours, his hardening cock brushing against your ass through the thin fabric of your clothes. 

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he breaths out, teeth lightly nipping at your earlobe, and his words have you clenching around nothing. “Been driving me fucking insane.”

Leaving a trail of wet kisses, he makes his way down your back, and you mentally curse at not being able to see the image of Minho falling to his knees for you. His fingers are keen to pull down your shorts, and you suck in a breath when he nuzzles his nose against your damp panties. A pleased groan emanates from his chest, the vibrations resonating through your core making you grip the edge of the counter. 

The crotch of your panties is gently pulled aside, and you suck in a deep breath. His thumb traces slow circles around your already swollen clit, while two fingers tease your entrance. Minho gingerly spreads you, his shaky breaths making goosebumps bloom on your skin again. Arousal trickles down your slit when his tongue finally flicks your clit, a surge of pleasure coursing through your body like lightning. 

A growl rumbles in Minho’s chest, his hands gripping your hips, blunt fingernails digging into your skin. He presses your heat flush against his lips and runs his tongue up the length of your pussy. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles against your skin, “you taste so good.”

Your only response is a pathetic whimper when his tongue circles your clit with tiny swirls, your hand blindly reaching behind you to wrap around Minho’s head as he greedily maps every inch of your sensitive skin. You feel the rush of ecstasy that builds up like a wave with each swipe of his tongue, each time he sucks the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth.

Stars ignite behind your eyelids when he probes your tightness with his tongue, lapping up your leaking arousal. Minho sucks your clit between his teeth, and two fingers slide among your slick before pressing into you slowly. He works your tight hole with his digits, and the waves of pleasure finally crash, your trembling legs threatening to give out on you. Each lap of Minho’s tongue is followed by an almost animalistic groan, reverberating through your cunt and making you babble incoherently with pure need.

You’ve never wanted anyone more than you want Lee Minho.

He pumps his fingers in and out of your cunt, curling them up to press against your sensitive walls. Colors burst behind your closed eyes like fireworks as he pushes his digits in as far as they’d go, drawing a choked-out cry from your throat when he gently sucks your clit between his teeth. Another groan against your folds is enough for your mind to become hazy with pleasure as his skilled tongue probes you. You come with a whine muffled by your hand, Minho lapping up every drop of your release being the sole sound in the small kitchen.

When you finally catch your breath, still too dizzy to fully comprehend what happened, his lips are already on yours as he cages you against the counter once again. You can taste yourself, his tongue savoring your mouth as he had your cunt, licking into you before breaking the kiss with a grin.

“I think this is sweeter.”

—

In the hazy heat of summer, your sin comes to a full bloom. 

The last time you slept soundly through the night seems like a distant memory. It feels like a prison, with your own thoughts as the captors — every time you close your eyes, the only thing your brain can conjure up is Minho, Minho, Minho.

You sigh in front of the bathroom mirror, cold water dripping down your collarbones. A grin tugs at the corner of your lips, your dream replaying over and over in your mind. Fuck Minho for holding you hostage inside your fantasies, the only place where you let yourself completely submit to him.

“Can’t sleep?”

His voice is like a hallucination come to life, and a startled sound slips past your wet lips.

You simply hum, eyes locking with his in the mirror. Minho leans against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest as he studies your expression.

“Bad dream?”

You stifle a laugh, turning your body toward him.

“Quite the opposite.”

For a second, his expression betrays him, his face flickering with a fleeting, almost imperceptible rise of one eyebrow. It’s barely there, but you’ve learned to decipher his artfully veiled emotions. The nice thing about getting to know Minho was realizing he wasn’t as composed as he liked to let on.

But, as always, he recovers too fast. One second, he’s locking the bathroom door with a quiet click, the next, he’s crowding into your space, his hands pushing you up against the marble counter.

“You’ve been tormenting my dreams, too.”

The words land low and rough, almost swallowed by the sound of your breathing. You can only muster a weak hum in response when Minho’s hands find the skin underneath your tank top, fingertips calloused and warm against your skin.

“How many more dreams is it gonna take before we finally give in?”

“Pretty sure we've done that already.”

“You know what I mean.”

And, fuck, you do.

The room falls painfully quiet after that, his words hanging heavy in the air. The only sounds are the gentle rhythm of his breathing, the distant hum of traffic outside the window, the slow drag of his thumb against your waist. Minho’s close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that every shaky inhale tastes like him. 

Neither of you moves.

His eyes flick once to your lips. Yours do the same. It’s akin to surrender, a peaceful submission to the desires you’ve held onto for so long.

You break first.

Your hand curls into the front of his black shirt, pulling him down, and the breath Minho lets out sounds almost wrecked before your lips finally meet his — not rushed or careless like all the times you’ve kissed before. Worse. Slow enough that you feel every second of it. Minho kisses you like he’s trying to memorize something he already knows he’ll have to quit. His left hand braces against the counter beside your body while the other stays firm on your waist, fingers gripping your skin hard enough to make your breath catch.

You melt into him.

So many stolen touches, lingering glances behind Aran’s back, hands and lips that always wandered too far. But never so far that you couldn’t still take it back if. At some point, every line had blurred together until neither of you could remember who crossed first.

But you both knew this was always where it was going to end. And maybe that’s the tragedy of it.

Your forehead rests against his when the kiss finally breaks, your labored breathing making your mind even more hazy in the suffocating heat of the bathroom.

“This is a bad idea,” you whisper, but neither of you moves.

Minho lets out a quiet laugh, half-lidded eyes flicking down to your lips again.

“A bit late for that.”

He bends to kiss you again, and you arch your body into his, the hand that gripped your waist settling between your thighs. Minho groans against your lips when he finds you already wet and leaking your arousal onto the fabric of your shorts. 

“Already making such a mess,” He purrs against your lips. Pushing your shorts to the side, two fingers spread your arousal before slipping inside your cunt. 

Minho swallows every quiet moan you make against his lips, kissing you harder when you lean into him so willingly. And you almost forget that you have to be quiet — his girlfriend is just down the hallway, after all. 

You rock your hips back and forth, each thrust a silent plea for him to go deeper, but Minho pulls you off his fingers instead. Though you whimper from the loss, your disappointment doesn't last. Minho’s hands roughly turn you around, pulling your back firmly against his body, the firm bulge of his cock pressing hard against your ass. In the mirror, his lust-clouded eyes find yours, and a grin spreads on his lips. 

“Want you to look at yourself while I fuck you,” he rasps, softly nipping your earlobe, the touch causing goosebumps to ripple through your skin and the words coaxing a sigh from your lips.

Minho reaches down, freeing himself from his sweatpants. He fists his cock behind you, sticky precum soaking through the fabric of your shirt, before his swollen tip finally slides against your folds for the first time. The moment you feel each other, everything stills — the feeling lush, heavy, and impossible to deny. He wastes no more time, lips falling open as he grips your hips and lines himself with your dripping cunt.

His cock slips inside your heat, and Minho’s dark, hungry eyes bore into yours in the mirror, unrelenting — like a fruit you know is forbidden, but you bite into anyway. And you taste not just the sweetness, but the consequences. 

He moves slowly at first, gently allowing your body to adjust to him little by little. But his restraint faltered quickly, hands clamping onto your hips and yanking you hard against his frame. The sudden movement steals the air from your lungs as he buries himself fully inside you. 

The stretch of Minho’s cock is all-consuming, and the way his gaze stays fixated on yours in the mirror has a shiver rippling down your spine. He eyes you as if he’s famished, his spit-slick lips slightly parted and his dark eyes lingering on every feature of your face like he’s trying to memorize it. The sight of Minho’s face, set ablaze with pure, unbridled lust, is an image that will burn in the back of your mind long after this is over.

Something that won’t let you forget that you chose this.

And only for a brief moment, heaven seems to manifest amidst the hell you have created.

With a single, swift motion, Minho pulls out only to push into you again, the tip of his cock caressing your deepest core in a way that has your toes curling. A loud whimper falls from your lips, hands drifting down in search of him, your fingers slipping between his own where they rest against your skin.

“Shh,” he whispers against the curve of your ear, heavy breaths tickling your skin. “Gotta be quiet, baby,” he murmurs, the warning softened by the heat in his voice before his hand slips over your parted lips, muffling the cry that nearly escapes you again.

It’s a slow kind of torture, the way Minho eases into you with shallow, deliberate thrusts, barely pulling back before thrusting into you again. Like he’s savoring every shaky, muffled breath he pulls out of you. Tears well up in your eyes, your vision blurring, and Minho’s image in the mirror becomes a muddled mess. Your awareness wavers, and you're consumed by the sensation of his thick cock pushing your body to its breaking point torturously slowly.

He draws his hips back again, forcefully snapping his hips forward this time, burying himself deep enough to make you dizzy. The moan that slips out of you is loud and broken, but quickly swallowed by the hand pressed tightly over your mouth as he starts pistoning his cock into you.

“Fuck,” Minho cusses, hand tightening against your mouth as his forehead drops to your shoulder. But he doesn’t stop thrusting, hips meeting your ass in a relentless rhythm, each thrust pulling another muffled sound from you.

Minho’s thumb presses down on your sensitive clit, and he growls when your inner muscles clench around him. His free hand tangles in your hair, tightening to pull your head back and make your gaze meet the image in the mirror again. He’s watching you through half-lidded eyes again, dark with pure want as his thrusts grow more forceful. The cramped bathroom feels stiflingly hot, thick with labored breaths and the lewd sound of skin slapping together.

“Aran never let me come inside of her,” he rasps, and you can’t help the soft whine that slips past your lips at those fucking words. “Shit,” he groans, the sound rough and wrecked as his grip against your mouth tightens. “Why are you clenching so hard when I say her name, huh?” He asks with a growl, thrusts turning sloppy and desperate, pounding into you. “You like this, don’t you? Like sneaking around behind her back, being my dirty little secret, hearing her name while I’m inside you.”

And you find yourself nodding before you can stop it, tears freely running down your cheeks now. It’s not right. But the way Minho’s voice roughens with each phrase, the way his cock twitches inside of you, tells you those words affect him just as much.

Your release washes over you all at once like divine punishment, sudden and all-consuming, leaving your body trembling in Minho’s arms. It steals a broken sound from your throat, weak and breathless, as pleasure coils tighter and tighter inside you — sinful and overwhelming — before it finally breaks over you like a reckoning.

Minho’s cock twitches inside you as he shudders. His agape lips mindlessly wander from your temple to your cheek, leaving behind a trail of careless, messy kisses, warm and wet against your flushed skin. His grip tightens at your hips hard enough to leave aching crescents behind, a reminder you knew would haunt you for days after.

His hips falter with one final broken thrust before he goes still, breathing ragged against your skin as he releases inside your cunt. 

The feeling of Minho filling you up is dangerously close to devotion. It’s wicked and sacred all at once — a testament that, for now, he is yours.

La petite mort.

You’re both already buried in hell.