#comment4more

Hyunjin’s breath is shallow across from you, strands of hair sticking to his flushed cheeks. The choreo is intense—hips grinding, bodies pressed too close for “just practice.” Every lift, every grip, every stare lingers too long.

He’s watching you again. Not just your moves. You.

“Again,” he says, voice low, lips parted like he’s just come out of a dream. He doesn’t look away. “Let’s run the second chorus.”

You nod. Pretend like your heart isn’t trying to break free from your ribs.

The music starts. Heat coils in your gut as you lock eyes in the mirror. He’s behind you, chest against your back, hands splayed over your hips as the choreo dictates. But his fingers twitch—grip tightening. Improvised. His breath brushes your ear.

“You’re getting better,” he murmurs.

“Practice makes perfect,” you manage, though your voice wavers. He chuckles, low and dark, and you swear it vibrates through your spine.

AFTER HOURS

The others are gone. The lights are dimmed. The only sound now is your shared breath and the soft scuff of sneakers on the floor. You stretch, pretending not to notice Hyunjin still watching you from across the studio, water bottle in hand, shirt damp with sweat.

“You’re staying late again?” he asks, approaching.

You shrug. “Wanted to clean up the footwork on that last eight-count.”

He steps closer. “I can help.”

Too close now. His gaze flicks to your lips, then to your collarbone where your tank has slipped. You don’t move.

“Or,” he says slowly, voice dipped in something dangerous, “we could run the whole thing… no counts. Just… feel it.”

You nod, heart in your throat.

The music swells. This time, you let yourself fall into it. There’s no routine now—only instinct. Your bodies move in sync, heat to heat. His hand slides down your side as your hips roll into his. His mouth is at your neck. The mirror reflects every breathless moment—every flicker of hunger in his eyes.

At the final beat, he doesn’t let go.

You turn to face him. Neither of you speak.

He leans in. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

When his lips finally crash into yours, it’s all teeth and tongue and need. He backs you against the mirror, hands on your ass, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around him on instinct.

“Been wanting this since the first practice,” he growls.

Your nails rake down his back as his hips grind into yours. His hardness is undeniable, pressing right where you need him.

“Take it off,” you whisper, tugging at his shirt. He obeys, and your top follows. Skin against skin, sweat-slick and desperate.

He turns you around, hands gripping your waist as he bends you forward just enough to see everything in the mirror. The glint in his eyes—feral. He kisses down your spine, slow, reverent.

"Look how perfect you are," Hyunjin breathes, voice dark and reverent as his eyes drink you in through the mirror.

Your hands pressed against the cool glass, a strong contrast to the fever in your skin. His hands are firm on your hips, thumbs stroking soft circles like he's calming a storm he started. His cock throbs against your folds, teasing—but not giving in just yet.

“Say it,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips brush your ear. “Say you want this.”

You whimper, voice catching. “I want it, Hyunjin. I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

He slides in, slow, deliberate—inch by inch. The stretch is maddening. He’s big, and you’re already soaked, but he moves like he wants to feel every second of it. Your eyes flutter shut, a moan slipping from your lips as he bottoms out.

“No,” he growls, hand tangling in your hair, tugging your head up to face the mirror. “Eyes open. Watch me ruin you.”

You do.

You watch as his hips pull back, the head of his cock just barely inside you, before slamming forward again, sharp enough to make your knees buckle. He catches you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other sliding up your chest to palm your breast through your bra, fingers teasing your nipple until it's pebbling under the lace.

"You love this, don’t you?" he pants, fucking into you with deep, rhythmic thrusts that make your ass bounce against his hips. “Being bent over like this—put on display for me. So needy.”

You’re moaning now—filthy, desperate. “Yes, fuck, Hyunjin—don’t stop.”

He slaps your ass, the crack echoing in the studio. You gasp, then moan louder. The sting mixes with the heat pooling in your belly.

"That's it. Be loud for me, baby."

He shifts the angle, fucking up into that spot that makes your toes curl, and suddenly your entire body tenses. He feels it—smirks against your shoulder as he kisses a mark into your skin.

“You gonna come already?” he taunts. “You that cockdrunk for me?”

You nod frantically, tears brimming as your legs tremble. “I—I can’t hold it—”

“You don’t have to,” he whispers, hand slipping between your legs again, fingers flicking your clit in tight, ruthless circles. “Come all over my cock, baby. Let them all hear what I do to you.”

You fall apart.

Your body jerks, waves of pleasure ripping through you as your vision goes white and your knees give out. He holds you there, fucked-out and gasping, while he fucks you through your orgasm, never once slowing down.

Then he’s pulling out suddenly, flipping you to face him, hoisting you up by your thighs with that dancer strength. You wrap around him like it’s second nature, nails clawing at his back as he slams back inside you, fucking you against the mirror now, eye to eye.

“Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up,” he groans, sweat dripping from his temple as his thrusts grow erratic. “You want that, baby? Want me to come in you?”

You moan like it’s the only word you know. “Yes—please, fill me up, I want it—”

With a deep, broken moan, he buries himself inside you one last time, hips jerking as he spills into you, hot and thick. You feel every pulse of it, every twitch as he holds you tight, panting into your neck like he’s never come that hard in his life.

You’re both trembling, stuck between overstimulated and insatiable, but he doesn’t let go.

Instead, he kisses you—soft, almost tender.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Practice really does make perfect.”

You giggle breathlessly, still impaled on his cock. “So what now? More practice?”

He smirks, that devilish glint back in his eye.

The office was colder than it had any right to be at 9:04 in the morning.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you stood by the front desk, trying to figure out if the receptionist had given you the wrong floor. Your ID badge hung awkwardly from your neck, and you were already regretting taking this 90-day temp assignment.

Paper-pusher. Data entry. Eight hours a day in a room with no windows and coffee that tasted like burnt regret.

Someone coughed behind you.

"New temp?" came a voice, amused.

You turned — and immediately felt your gut twist.

He was tall, all lean lines and a devil-may-care slouch. His black button-down was rolled to his elbows, revealing veins and slim wrists, and his lanyard was tucked into his pocket like he didn’t give a shit about protocol. He had the kind of face that didn’t belong in a place like this. Sharp jaw. Full lips. Dark, knowing eyes that flicked over you like he was trying to place a bet.

"I’m Jeongin," he said, offering you a lazy, one-handed wave. "Also a temp. Also trapped in this soulless office graveyard. You’ll love it."

You blinked. "You’re way too cheerful for someone on a contract job."

He smirked. "What can I say? I like to suffer with a little flair."

Your eyes narrowed slightly — not out of annoyance, exactly. He had that thing. That careless, insufferably attractive thing. The kind of guy who knew he was hot and witty and liked to poke at people just to see how long it would take to get under their skin.

You didn’t shake his hand. Just turned back toward the elevator, muttering, "Ninety days. That’s all I have to survive."

From behind you, you heard a low whistle.

"Counting down already? Damn. You’re colder than the printer room."

You ignored him.

But you also didn’t miss the way his eyes followed you as you walked away.

The office was worse than you expected.

Gray carpet. Beige walls. Monitors the size of microwaves. And the people? Mostly lifeless, polite smiles and flat laughter. You tried to focus on your spreadsheet training — but it was hard to concentrate when he was seated two desks away, spinning in his chair and humming quietly to himself.

By lunch, he’d already made himself known.

You were eating in the breakroom when he appeared beside you, biting into a granola bar and flopping into the chair across from you with no invitation.

“So,” he said. “Where’d they drag you in from?”

You chewed slowly. "...Temp agency. You?"

He leaned back, arms stretched behind his head. "Freelancer. Usually graphic stuff. This is my ‘I need rent money’ gig."

His shirt lifted slightly with the stretch. You tried not to look. Failed. Looked back at your sad pasta salad.

“Anyway,” he said, licking peanut butter off his thumb. “I like you. You’re mean.”

"I’m not mean."

"You haven’t smiled once."

"Maybe you’re not funny."

He grinned. “See? Mean. I’m keeping you.”

You stared at him.

"Jeongin, this is a 90-day contract. Not The Bachelor."

He leaned forward, chin in hand, eyes dancing.

"Exactly. Ninety days. Let’s make it interesting."

It didn’t take long for him to become the most tolerable part of your day.

Not that you’d admit it out loud.

He was constantly showing up at your desk — under the pretense of “asking for a stapler” or “needing backup” when talking to clients. But he never stayed on topic. It was always jokes, quips, a constant stream of banter laced with something… warmer.

Something that made your stomach turn in the best possible way.

You caught yourself laughing more than usual. Blushing when he looked at you a second too long. You told yourself it was just boredom — office life was so dull that any distraction would feel like a spark.

But the truth was, Jeongin wasn’t just charming. He was thoughtful in subtle ways. He memorized your coffee order. He slid your favorite pens onto your desk without a word. He’d whisper stupid things during team meetings just to make you smile behind your hand.

And he was always watching you.

Quietly. Casually. Like he already knew exactly what kind of thoughts were starting to creep into your head every time he leaned a little too close.

You hated how much you noticed him.

The smooth stretch of his throat when he laughed. The way his fingers drummed rhythmically when he was focused. How his voice dipped when he got serious.

God. You were in trouble.

It came to a head in the stockroom.

Week three. You were reaching for toner. He was there — again — pretending to “supervise,” because apparently flirting counted as a workplace hobby.

Your fingers brushed as you reached for the same box.

You froze.

He didn’t.

Jeongin leaned in, so close you could smell him — that warm scent of cedar and citrus and something subtle that had become your new favorite weakness.

"You always get this breathless when I’m around?" he asked, voice low.

Your hand tightened around the box. "You’re in my space."

His lips quirked. “You’re in mine.”

You turned — and suddenly, the shelf was at your back, and his body was in front of you, close enough to feel heat in every inch of air between you.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.

"You gonna stop me if I kiss you?" he asked.

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t say anything.

So he did.

It wasn’t gentle. It was heat and want and frustration all tangled in a kiss that felt like it had been waiting for weeks. His hands found your waist, yours curled into his shirt, and you gasped when his tongue slid against yours, slow and teasing.

You were halfway to climbing him when he pulled back.

His breathing was rough. So was yours.

But he only smiled.

"Not yet," he said softly. “That’d be too easy.”

And just like that, he left you in the stockroom, heart pounding, lips tingling, thighs pressed tight.

You could still feel the ghost of Jeongin’s lips on yours hours later.

It was ridiculous. You had a job to do, spreadsheets to finish, and yet every time you looked at your computer screen, your mind rewound to that stupid, reckless kiss in the stockroom. The way his hands had settled on your waist, firm but not too tight — the way his breath had caught when you’d pressed closer.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But you’d been lying to yourself since Day One.

Jeongin didn’t make things easier.

If anything, he made them worse.

He was suddenly everywhere.

Leaning into your personal space during meetings. Whispering dirty jokes that made your cheeks burn. Sliding his fingers dangerously close to yours under the table, his touch a mere brush — enough to electrify, not quite enough to break the fragile boundary.

That morning, he sauntered into the break room, wearing a grin so crooked you suspected it was a challenge.

“Got a minute?” he asked, voice low, sliding onto the chair beside you.

You glanced around. “Shouldn’t we be working?”

He shook his head. “Nah. We have time. And I have an idea.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Let’s make a deal.”

Your interest piqued, despite yourself.

He pulled a pen from his pocket and clicked it thoughtfully.

“I propose a bet. We’re stuck here, counting down these miserable days, right?”

You nodded.

“So,” he said, leaning closer until you could see the shimmer in his eyes, “no sex until Day 90.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Think about it.” He smiled wickedly. “If we make it without breaking the rules, on the last day — I get to ruin you.”

You laughed — nervous, breathless, because you knew he wasn’t joking. “Ruin me?”

He brushed your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering too long. “I want you so desperate by then you won’t know your own name.”

You swallowed hard.

“You’re insane.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m good at winning.”

The days that followed were torture.

Jeongin’s touches became teasing — light grazes on your arm, fingers tracing patterns on your back when he passed by. His whispers were promises and threats woven together.

“Bet you’re thinking about me right now.” “Don’t even pretend you didn’t want me to kiss you again.” “You look like you need a release, and I’m the only one who can give it.”

You tried to focus on work. You really did.

But the ache between your thighs was becoming impossible to ignore.

Every glance, every brush of his hand set your skin on fire. You caught him watching you, hunger smoldering in his eyes, and you had to bite your lip to keep from falling apart right there.

One night, two weeks before Day 90, you found yourself texting him.

This is torture.

His reply came almost instantly.

You love it.

You hated him.

You loved him.

And then finally...

Day 90 arrived.

You clocked out.

Jeongin’s hand found yours in the parking lot.

His eyes were dark, full of that same reckless promise.

“Ready to be ruined?”

You smiled, breathless.

The little bell above the bakery door chimed, just like it always did, like clockwork.

You barely looked up from where you were smoothing icing onto a batch of cupcakes. You already knew who it was.

Every Sunday. Without fail.

“Morning, beautiful,” a warm, teasing voice called across the counter.

You sighed — dramatically, just for show — and finally lifted your head.

There he was.

Jeongin. Or as he insisted you call him — I.N.

A black hoodie slung over broad shoulders, messy hair tucked under a beanie, and that same damn mischievous grin he wore like a badge of honor.

“Back again?" you asked, eyebrows raised.

He shrugged, stepping closer. "Can’t help it. The pastries are sweet…" His eyes flicked deliberately over your face, lingering just a second too long. "...but you’re sweeter."

You rolled your eyes, fighting the tiny, traitorous smile threatening to tug at your mouth. "You really need some new material."

"Why? This seems to be working just fine," he shot back smoothly.

You hated how charming he was. Hated how your chest tightened just a little whenever he leaned his elbows on the counter and tilted his head to look at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

At first, you thought he was just another cocky customer trying to score free pastries. But week after week, he'd show up, buy the same strawberry-lemon tart, toss a few more shameless flirts your way — and leave you flustered in the kitchen after he was gone.

You didn’t want to admit it, but somewhere along the way, you started looking forward to it.

Started looking forward to him.

Still, today you were tired. It had been a long Sunday rush, and the idea of closing up alone wasn’t exactly thrilling.

Maybe that’s why you were a little sharper than usual when you said, "If you’re not buying anything, you’re holding up the line."

He glanced around dramatically at the empty bakery, then smirked. "Yeah. Real busy today, huh?"

You gave him your best deadpan stare. "I'm serious, Jeongin."

That mischievous glint in his eyes only grew.

"Alright, alright. I'll make it up to you," he said, pushing off the counter. "Tell you what—I'll help you close up."

You blinked. "What?"

"Yeah. I’ll sweep, wipe down tables, whatever you need." He flashed that annoyingly perfect smile. "Free labor."

You crossed your arms suspiciously. "And why would you do that?"

"Because," he said, stepping around the counter like he belonged there — and you were too startled to stop him — "if you get out of here faster, maybe you’ll have time for dessert."

You narrowed your eyes. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet," he said, plucking a rag from the sink and tossing it over his shoulder, "you’re still letting me stay."

You should’ve kicked him out. You wanted to kick him out.

But instead, you just grumbled under your breath and turned back to the cupcakes.

The bakery grew quieter as the minutes passed, the last bits of golden light filtering through the windows. You wiped down the counters while Jeongin swept the floor — badly. You caught him sneaking glances at you more than once.

"You’re terrible at this," you said, tossing a damp cloth at him.

He caught it easily, grinning. "You wound me, love."

"You wound me every time you miss a spot."

"I could be better," he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "If you… supervised."

You shot him a look, heart kicking up in your chest. God, he was so annoying.

And so stupidly handsome.

And so close.

You tried to ignore the way the air between you seemed to thrum, the way the smell of sugar and flour clung to him, the way his fingers brushed yours when he took the tray of cupcakes you were holding.

"You got something here," he said suddenly, voice low.

You frowned. "Where?"

Without warning, he reached out — his thumb brushed gently along your jawline, slow and deliberate, wiping away a smudge of icing.

The touch was so light, so intimate, it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

When he pulled his hand back, he sucked the icing off his thumb, eyes locked on yours.

Your mouth went dry.

"You sure you let me tease you like that, noona?" he asked, voice soft, almost a dare.

You swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing down on you.

It would be so easy to close the distance between you. So easy to give in.

But you were still you. You tilted your chin up, masking your pounding heart with fake bravado.

"Maybe you're the one getting teased," you said, voice light, daring him.

His grin widened. "Careful."

He dipped a finger into the tub of frosting sitting on the counter — deliberately, shamelessly — and held it up between you.

"Your move," he whispered.

Your eyes flickered between his frosting-covered finger and his gaze — heavy, hot, and waiting.

You hesitated — just for a second — feeling the pulse pounding in your ears.

And then, before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward, lips parting.

Your tongue darted out, slow and tentative, licking the frosting clean from his finger.

The taste of vanilla and sugar hit your tongue — but even sweeter was the sharp inhale Jeongin took, his jaw tightening as he watched you.

You pulled back just slightly, looking up at him through your lashes.

His hand twitched at his side, like he was physically holding himself back.

"You really shouldn't tease me like that, noona," he said, voice low, rough around the edges now.

"You started it," you whispered back, breathless.

Something in him snapped then — or maybe it was you — but suddenly his hands were on your waist, firm but gentle, lifting you effortlessly onto the counter like you weighed nothing at all.

You gasped, gripping his shoulders for balance — but you didn’t push him away.

You didn’t want to.

He was standing between your legs now, so close you could feel the heat of him, smell the faint clean scent of his hoodie mixed with the bakery sugar.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, forehead resting lightly against yours.

You didn’t say anything.

Instead, you slid your hands into his hair, tugging him down.

And when his mouth finally found yours, it was soft, searching at first — like he couldn’t believe you were real — before deepening, pulling you under.

His lips moved against yours with slow purpose, tasting, savoring, teasing. His hands roamed carefully — over your thighs, your hips — like he was memorizing every inch of you.

You kissed him back hungrily, months of tension pouring out all at once.

He pulled away just slightly, panting, pressing tiny kisses along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

"You’re dangerous," he whispered against your skin.

"You’re annoying," you whispered back, shivering under his touch.

He chuckled, low and sweet, before capturing your lips again.

His hands slipped under your apron, bunching the hem of your dress up your thighs. His fingers brushed along your skin, feather-light, testing your reaction.

You arched into him, breath hitching.

"Can I?" he asked, voice breaking slightly with restraint.

"Yes," you breathed, almost desperate.

He kissed you again — longer, deeper — as his hands explored your body with reverence, slipping the thin straps of your dress down your shoulders. You shivered as the cool air met your flushed skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, mouth parted, chest rising and falling.

"You’re so pretty," he murmured, almost like he couldn't believe it.

You flushed, heart swelling painfully in your chest.

Jeongin leaned in again, pressing kisses down your collarbone as he pushed your panties aside with gentle fingers.

You whimpered into his mouth when he touched you — slow, deliberate strokes that had you squirming on the counter.

"Shh," he whispered against your ear, "Let me take care of you."

And he did — sweetly, tenderly — as you clutched at his hoodie, gasping against his neck.

When you were trembling, nearly undone, he paused just long enough to fumble with his jeans, pulling himself free.

He lined himself up with a deep, shaky breath, pressing his forehead back to yours.

"I'll go slow," he promised, voice so soft it made your chest ache.

And he did.

The stretch of him was slow, patient, filling you perfectly. He moved carefully, waiting for every little nod, every breathless kiss you gave him to keep going.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him down to kiss you again, desperate to feel closer, closer.

He rocked into you in slow, delicious strokes, kissing you between every thrust — your lips, your jaw, your forehead — murmuring how good you felt, how beautiful you were.

The bakery smelled like sugar and frosting and something new — something electric and wild blooming between you.

Your name spilled from his lips like a prayer when you tightened around him, the pleasure crashing over you hard and fast, stars exploding behind your eyelids.

He followed seconds later, groaning softly against your neck, hips stuttering before stilling.

You clung to each other, breathless, trembling.

Neither of you moved for a long moment.

When he finally pulled back to look at you, his eyes were so soft it nearly broke you.

"You drive me crazy," he said, grinning that familiar cocky grin — but this time it was different. It was real.

"You’re not so bad yourself," you whispered back, smiling despite yourself.

He laughed, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

"Stay a little longer?" he asked, voice hopeful.

You laughed, pressing your forehead to his. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

"You’re lucky you’re mine now," he said, so quietly you almost missed it.

But you heard it.

[ POV: YOU ]

It starts with a look.

Jisung’s sitting across the long conference table, pen spinning between his fingers, legs spread in that obnoxiously casual way that only he can make sexy. His hair is pushed back, tie loosened just enough to break office protocol—and your focus.

His eyes flick up, and the moment they meet yours, he smirks. That infuriating, knowing, cocky little smirk.

You narrow your eyes.

The meeting’s been dragging for over an hour. A late-night strategy session, half the team glassy-eyed and guzzling coffee while your manager drones on about deadlines.

You’re trying to listen, really. But Jisung? He’s not helping.

Your phone buzzes on the table. A message from him.

Jisung [10:06 PM]: Dare you to rest your hand on my lap. Under the table. 😇

You glance up sharply, heart skipping. He’s staring at his screen like he didn’t just send a declaration of war.

Your fingers hover over your phone.

You [10:06 PM]: You’re insane. Jisung: Scared?

The nerve.

You wait. Ten seconds. Twenty.

Then, when no one’s looking, you slowly slide your hand off your lap… and beneath the table.

At first, you rest it on his knee. Nothing bold. Just pressure.

But his reaction is instant.

His leg tenses. You hear the tiniest breath hitch. Then he shifts in his chair, ever so slightly, spreading his thighs wider like an invitation.

You accept.

Your hand slides higher. His slacks are warm beneath your palm, his thigh solid and twitching under your touch. You keep your face neutral, pretending to scroll through the presentation slides—while your fingers climb, slow and steady, until you find him.

Hard. Already.

You fight a grin. He’s always so easy to rile up.

Your fingers trace the outline of him through his pants, gentle at first, just teasing. You feel him twitch under your touch, and when you risk a glance up—you’re met with fire.

Jisung is struggling.

He’s staring directly at you now. His eyes are dark, jaw tight. But to anyone else? He looks normal. Calm. Maybe even bored. Only you can see the subtle way he grips the table. The way his lips part just slightly as you squeeze him—firmer now.

He looks like he wants to kill you.

Or kiss you.

You lean forward slightly, hand working slower now, drawing circles with your thumb against the outline of his cock. You feel him pulse beneath the fabric.

His hand comes under the table—he grabs your wrist.

At first you think he’s going to stop you.

But he doesn’t.

He guides you. Adjusts your grip. Tightens your hand around him.

And then he lets go.

You almost laugh. But instead, you keep going.

Your strokes are deliberate now, fluid and firm. You can feel his body trembling under your hand, his thighs flexing with restraint. You’re careful with your movements, making sure it’s subtle enough that no one notices—though you're half certain the guy next to him is too deep in his spreadsheet to care if Jisung exploded beside him.

Then the manager calls on him.

“Jisung—thoughts?”

You freeze. But your hand doesn’t leave his lap.

He clears his throat.

“I—uh… yeah. I think those adjustments work. M-makes sense.”

His voice is tight, frayed at the edges. And you can’t help it—you brush your thumb over the head of his cock again, and his breath catches.

You swear his hand fists under the table.

You feel him growing harder. Leaking. Throbbing. You know he’s close.

But you don’t stop.

His thighs are tensing rhythmically now, his abs pulling tight with every stroke. His hand curls into a fist against the leg of the table and stays there.

You look up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“Doing okay?”

His glare could set you on fire.

[ POV SWITCH — JISUNG ]

You're going to be the death of him.

You—sitting across from him like you’re not currently jerking him off in a conference room full of coworkers. Like you’re just taking notes. Like you don’t have your hand wrapped around his cock right now, stroking him slow, squeezing the base, brushing over the tip like you know exactly how to ruin him.

Because you do.

And he’s barely holding it together.

He wants to fuck you against this goddamn table.

Instead, he’s gripping the edge of it like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.

Your touch is maddening. Soft and firm in all the right places, your thumb rubbing circles over his tip through his pants until he’s about to come undone.

He’s aching. His cock is painfully hard, trapped behind slacks that weren’t meant for this kind of torture. He can feel how soaked his boxers are already—how close he is. And the worst part?

He can’t make a sound.

He has to sit here. Face blank. Voice steady. While you play with him under the desk like it’s a goddamn game.

He wants to growl your name. Wants to grab your wrist and pin you against the wall and ask if you really thought you could get away with this.

But then he looks at you.

You’re not even looking at him.

You're pretending like you're still reading the meeting slides—like you’re not jerking him off with the kind of skill that makes him question every single life choice that brought him here.

It’s unfair.

His breath is coming faster now. He can feel his orgasm building—tight and fast and unstoppable. He presses his thighs together, trying to fight it off.

But you stroke him just right. And it hits.

He comes with a silent gasp, biting his tongue so hard it might bleed. His thighs shake. His hand slams onto the table hard enough to make the intern next to him jump.

“Y—you alright?” the guy asks.

“Yeah,” Jisung croaks. “Just dropped my pen.”

Liar.

He rides it out in silence, thighs trembling, sweat dotting his temple. He can feel the mess in his boxers. The shame. The desperate need to kiss you until you forget your own name.

When the meeting ends and everyone starts to leave, you walk past him like nothing happened.

But you lean in close—just enough for him to hear:

“Meet me in the supply closet. Five minutes.”