#work husbands

He’d sulked for most of the flight, arms crossed, hoodie up, headphones in. Every time you so much as adjusted your blanket, he’d shot you a theatrical side-eye, like you’d stolen his birthright instead of just the window seat.

Typical. Completely and utterly typical.

You and Changbin had somehow morphed from casual coworkers into a chaotic work-marriage no one at the office dared question. You got placed on all the same projects, shared the same relentless travel schedule, and had grown unreasonably good at finishing each other’s sentences and snacks. And yeah, maybe there was a little too much banter, a little too much comfort—but it was harmless. Easy. Familiar.

This trip was supposed to be just another notch on your shared itinerary—three days in a new city, back-to-back meetings, and one brutally long conference presentation. The company had handled the booking: flights, hotel, transportation. All you had to do was show up and try not to strangle each other before day three.

But the universe had other plans.

“There must be a mistake,” you’d said when the front desk clerk handed you one key card instead of two.

The clerk had looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m really sorry. There was an overbooking with our standard rooms. The only available one is a double occupancy—two beds, same room.”

You’d glanced at Changbin.

He’d just shrugged. “Not a big deal. We’ve shared worse.”

He wasn’t wrong. That time you both passed out in the same hotel armchair after a midnight movie marathon haunted your spine for days. So you’d agreed. Took the key. Went up. Unpacked. Brushed it off.

Until it started raining.

Not just a drizzle—a storm. Angry, dramatic, cinematic. Lightning cracked across the sky, thunder rolling in deep waves. And then, of course, came the leak.

Right above Changbin’s bed.

“Is that…?” he’d asked, frowning up at the slow, rhythmic drip-drip-drip landing dead center on his pillow.

You’d just groaned. “Oh, come on.”

Ten minutes later, you were both back at the front desk, windblown and damp, with matching scowls. The clerk, to their credit, looked genuinely mortified and offered you an upgrade on the spot.

“The honeymoon suite,” they’d said. “It’s the only available room we have tonight. At no extra charge.”

You hadn’t even hesitated. Just nodded, grabbed the new key, and marched back to the elevator, two complimentary glasses of wine clinking in your hand while Changbin dragged your bags behind you.

“You think they’ll have better pillows?” he’d muttered, side-eyeing the golden panel on the elevator wall as you ascended.

“If there’s a leak in this one,” you’d deadpanned, “we’re getting on the next flight home.”

The elevator dinged.

The hallway was soft-lit and velvet-carpeted. Somewhere, from speakers you couldn’t see, romantic piano music drifted through the air.

“This feels fancy,” you’d muttered.

“This feels suspicious,” Changbin had countered, holding up the room key like it might bite him.

You slid the card into the lock. You barely registered the soft click of the key card before Changbin pushed open the hotel room door, dragging both your suitcases behind him like the absolute mule he always insisted on being.

“Okay, new room, no leak, no mildew, no funky smells—” he started, glancing back at you with a grin, until his voice cut off.

You walked in behind him.

And froze.

There was a towel swan on the bed.

Two towel swans, actually. Nuzzling. Beaks forming a heart.

Rose petals were scattered across the king-sized mattress like a florist had a breakdown. The lights were dimmed. There was a chilled bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket on the side table. A card in gold script read “Congratulations on your forever!”

You and Changbin looked at each other.

Silence.

Then he blinked. “Did we… just get married?”

You snorted. “I feel like I should at least get a kiss first.”

He stared at you for a beat. “I’d settle for a thank-you. I did carry your bag.”

“Oh my God.” You threw your purse on the velvet bench at the foot of the bed and collapsed onto the edge dramatically. “They really gave us the honeymoon suite.”

Changbin was still standing there, staring at the bed like it might explode.

“You think it’s too late to ask for separate rooms?”

You glanced at the wall where a MASSIVE hot tub sat right in the open, complete with rose petals floating in the water.

“…Yes.”

Another beat. Then he exhaled hard through his nose and set the luggage down.

“Well. At least there’s wine.”

You eyed the champagne. “And bubbles.”

He raised a brow. “If you think I’m sharing a bathtub with you—”

“Relax, Binnie. I wouldn’t subject you to that much of my bare skin.”

He snorted. “Please. I’ve seen worse.”

You froze. “You have?”

He smirked. “Yeah. The time you accidentally FaceTimed me while shaving your legs with your camera flipped.”

You gasped. “You SWORE you didn’t look!”

He just laughed and flopped onto the bed next to you.

You threw a pillow at him. It missed. He was still laughing.

And god—despite the heart-shaped pillows and mildly alarming amount of romance, it still felt easy. It was still you and Changbin.

Just you two.

Like always.

But… maybe not for much longer.

—

The room was ridiculous.

That was your first thought as you wandered in fully, suitcase forgotten just inside the doorway. Golden light poured from hidden fixtures, casting a warm glow over the white marble floors and the enormous bed—plush, pristine, and obnoxiously heart-shaped. Seriously. A heart-shaped bed.

Changbin wheeled the bags in behind you and stopped dead. “They weren’t kidding.”

“Nope.” You turned in a slow circle, eyes skating over every absurd romantic detail—rose petals on the bed, champagne on ice, a bathroom the size of your apartment with a jacuzzi tub that looked like it came from a music video. “We’re living someone else’s honeymoon.”

“Do you think we’re allowed to eat the chocolate swans?” he asked, already making a beeline for the tray beside the champagne.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you ever not lead with food?”

He popped one into his mouth before answering. “You’re welcome to be mad about it, but it’s the only way I know how to cope with emotional distress.”

You snorted and dropped onto the velvet loveseat by the window, kicking off your shoes. “Is that what this is? Emotional distress?”

“Uh, yeah?” He gestured to the bed with dramatic flair. “I’m sharing a honeymoon suite with my work wife. You think that’s not psychologically damaging?”

“I’m your work wife now?” You looked over at him, biting back a smile.

“Don’t act surprised. Everyone knows it. I’ve seen the way people look at us when we bicker on Zoom.”

“They look at you with pity.”

He threw a pillow at you. It missed and thudded softly onto the floor.

You didn’t pick it up.

Instead, you reached for the envelope on the nightstand—handwritten, sealed in gold. You cracked it open and read aloud, doing your best overly breathy romantic voice: “Welcome, lovers. May your stay be filled with intimacy and bliss.”

You and Changbin locked eyes for a beat.

Then burst out laughing.

“Should we write them a thank you card?” you managed between wheezes. “Tell them you snore like a chainsaw and I steal all the blankets?”

“You’re not stealing my blankets,” he said, already tugging one corner of the duvet onto his side like he was marking territory.

You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at him in return.

He caught it with one hand.

“Truce?” he asked.

You held out a pinky.

He linked his with yours.

And just like that, it was easy again.

⸻

Later, after you’d both settled in—bags unpacked, room-service menu discarded, and the novelty of the ridiculousness dulled to a low, comfortable hum—you found yourself standing in front of the mirrored bathroom, wrapped in the hotel’s soft white robe, hair still damp from your shower.

When you walked out, he was already lounging on the bed, robe on, one arm thrown behind his head like this was a normal Tuesday night and not a total departure from reality.

He looked at you and grinned. “You clean up alright.”

You rolled your eyes. “You look like a skincare commercial.”

“I am the skincare commercial.”

You padded barefoot across the plush rug and slid onto the other side of the bed, careful not to touch but not exactly far either.

Between you sat the half-empty bottle of the complimentary wine and two crystal glasses, condensation beading down the sides.

Changbin handed you yours without looking. His thumb brushed your fingers as you took it.

You didn’t mention it.

“Cheers,” he said softly, lifting his glass.

“To what?”

He shrugged. “Surviving the leak. The free chocolate. Not murdering each other. Take your pick.”

You clinked your glass to his. “To the best fake honeymoon ever.”

The wine was sweeter than you expected. Rich and smooth, settling warm in your chest. Silence stretched between you, not awkward, not tense—just full.

You turned your head, finding him watching you in that lazy, amused way he always did when he wasn’t thinking too hard about it. Except… maybe he was thinking. You couldn’t tell.

“So,” he said eventually, voice low and thoughtful. “If this were a real honeymoon, what do you think we’d be doing right now?”

You raised a brow. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Is it?”

You took a slow sip, giving yourself a moment. “Well. Statistically? Probably fighting about what side of the bed we want. Or deciding which spa package to book. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or…” You glanced down at your glass, swirling the wine gently. “Or doing exactly this, I guess. Drinking wine in robes. Pretending we’re not thinking weird thoughts.”

The words had slipped out before you’d really processed them. You half expected him to laugh it off or make a joke.

But he didn’t.

He just watched you for a moment longer, head tilted, like you were suddenly a question he hadn’t realized he wanted to answer.

You cleared your throat, suddenly too warm. “I mean. Not weird weird. Just—like—hypothetical weird. You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” he asked, voice dipping into something softer, something unreadable.

You dared a glance his way. He was still leaning back, still relaxed—but his eyes had changed. Darker. Curious.

The robe slipped slightly off one of his shoulders. Not on purpose. Not seductive. Just real.

And that was somehow worse.

Your voice felt quieter now when you spoke. “How much wine have you had?”

He looked at his glass. “Not enough.”

The wine had mellowed into a comforting buzz in your veins. You’d stretched your legs across the bed somewhere between the second glass and your last laugh, robe slipping just enough to bare your calf. Changbin was still beside you, close but not too close—legs crossed, head tilted lazily against the headboard, the neck of his robe loosened in a casual, effortless way that made it hard not to glance twice.

He looked… peaceful.

And a little too good.

You weren’t used to that. Not this version of him. This wasn’t at work Changbin, cracking jokes to ease the pressure. This wasn’t on a panel Changbin, charming and sharp and annoyingly put together.

This was something softer.

Something real.

“So,” he said, voice smooth and unhurried. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced at him over your glass. “Is this the part where you confess a deep, dark secret and ruin the friendship forever?”

“Not yet,” he teased, then shifted a little to face you better. “What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

You blinked. “Wow, we’re just going there, huh?”

“It’s a honeymoon suite,” he said with a shrug. “Feels wrong to talk about quarterly projections.”

You huffed a laugh and tilted your head, thinking. “Okay. There was this one guy who took me to a jazz bar and then spent the entire night telling me how women don’t really like jazz.”

Changbin winced. “Oof.”

“And then he made me split the bill because, and I quote, ‘chivalry is dead, but feminism isn’t.’”

“Double oof.”

You laughed, swirling your wine. “Your turn.”

“Worst date?”

“Mmhmm.”

He took a slow sip. “There was a girl who brought her ex-boyfriend to our first date.”

You stared. “Like… in spirit?”

“No. Physically. In the flesh. Said she needed me to see why I should be better than him.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

Your wine almost came out your nose.

He looked smug.

“You ask one now,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Make it good.”

You turned toward him, mirroring his posture without realizing. “Okay. Be honest—how many people have you actually been in love with?”

That stopped him.

His mouth tugged into a thoughtful little line as he leaned his head back against the wall. “One. Maybe. I think.”

“You think?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think I loved the idea more than the person. But at the time… it felt real.”

You nodded, gaze dropping to your glass. “I know what you mean.”

He looked at you again, carefully. “How about you?”

You bit your lip. “One. Definitely. And it wrecked me.”

Silence hummed for a moment. Not heavy. Just present.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling, “we’re getting too real. I need something spicy.”

You laughed. “Oh, now you want spicy?”

He grinned. “What’s the most inappropriate thought you’ve ever had in a professional setting?”

You nearly choked. “You can’t ask me that!”

“I just did.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. There was one time—don’t judge me—I zoned out in a meeting and started imagining what our boss would look like tied up in duct tape.”

Changbin lost it. “WHAT?!”

“It wasn’t sexual!” you said, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. “I was bored and I had intrusive thoughts!”

He was wheezing beside you, his whole body shaking with it. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

You bumped your foot against his leg. “Okay, your turn. Juicy. No backing out.”

He gave you a slow, deliberate look. “Alright. Be honest. Have you ever thought about hooking up with a coworker?”

The room suddenly felt warmer.

You blinked once. Twice. “Define thought about.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You took a sip of your wine to dodge the question, but your smile gave you away.

He laughed again, soft and low. Then leaned in just a little, not enough to be invasive—just enough to feel it. “Want to tell me who?”

You raised a brow. “That’s not how this game works.”

“Then ask me something equally dangerous.”

You thought for a second, your voice dropping a note. “Have you ever fantasized about someone you shouldn’t?”

His answer didn’t come immediately.

His gaze flicked to yours. And held.

“Yes,” he said. Quiet. Honest. No smile.

Your heart skipped, just once.

You were both still smiling—but it wasn’t the same smile as before. There was something else beneath it now. Something new.

And neither of you had touched yet.

You swirled what was left in your glass, eyes drifting to the long fingers wrapped around his. You’d seen those hands type like a madman during crunch time, juggle a phone and a coffee and still manage to open doors for you without missing a beat. Efficient. Reliable. Strong.

But tonight—bare, relaxed, just resting on his thigh—they looked different.

They looked like trouble.

“You keep staring,” he murmured, breaking the silence. There was no tease in his voice this time. Just quiet observation.

You blinked, caught. “Sorry,” you said, though you didn’t look away.

He didn’t move either. Didn’t hide them. Just let you look.

Blame it on the wine. Blame it on the robe. Blame it on the goddamn honeymoon suite and the way his thigh flexed every time he shifted.

You tipped your head slightly, swirling your wine again. “Can I ask you something I wouldn’t normally ask?”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “That’s what we’ve been doing, isn’t it?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, then let the words slip, soft but deliberate.

“What else do you use your hands for, Changbin?”

The room went still.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. He didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t brush it aside. Just let the question hang in the charged air between you.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, not smug—curious.

“Is that a real question?” he asked, voice just a little deeper now. “Or are you fishing?”

You shrugged, playing coy. “Maybe I’m just trying to see if you’ll answer.”

He looked down at his hand, then flexed his fingers like he was considering their résumé. “I guess it depends,” he said, tone still light but eyes heavy. “Do you want the PG version or the one that might ruin our work relationship forever?”

You felt your breath catch. Just for a second.

Then you smiled—something slow and unhurried. “I think you already know which one I want.”

He studied you like you’d just shifted into someone he hadn’t met before. Not in a bad way. In a what else have I been missing? way.

But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t close the space. His voice stayed calm, cool.

“You sure you’re ready for that answer?”

“Are you?” you asked back, matching his energy perfectly.

Another beat of silence stretched—this one taut.

And then, finally, he leaned back against the headboard again, robe falling open just a little more at the chest. “Maybe you’ll have to ask again when the bottle’s empty.”

A challenge.

A dare.

And it tasted better than the wine.

It was him who poured the next glass. He didn’t ask. Just reached over and filled yours before topping off his own, eyes flicking up to meet yours while he did it. You watched the dark red swirl in his glass as he leaned back again, lips already parted like he was waiting for your next move.

“Your turn,” he said, voice like warm velvet. “You asked about my hands. I get to ask about your mouth.”

You raised an eyebrow, smile tugging at your lips. “That wasn’t the rule.”

“It is now.”

You let your teeth graze your bottom lip, then sat up straighter, tugging your robe just a little tighter—like it could hold in all the heat threatening to spill over.

“Well,” you started slowly, tipping your glass toward your lips, “My mouth… talks too much.”

He nodded, playing along. “I’ve noticed.”

“It gets me into trouble.”

“I believe that.”

You paused, gaze sliding down his chest and back up again. “And sometimes, when the moment’s right, it makes very bad decisions.”

There it was again—that flicker of something dark in his eyes. His knuckles brushed his jaw as he stared at you, thumb dragging lightly across his bottom lip.

“Define ‘bad,’” he said.

You pretended to think. “Kissing someone I’m not supposed to.”

“Who says you’re not supposed to?”

You cocked your head. “I don’t kiss my coworkers.”

“Not even your work husband?”

You laughed—light and quick, like the sound could make the tension less thick. It didn’t.

“I especially don’t kiss my work husband.”

He let the silence settle again. Let it stretch, let it breathe.

“Shame,” he finally murmured, so quiet you barely heard it over your own pulse. “I’ve always wondered.”

Your throat went dry. The wine wasn’t helping anymore. You set your glass down, fingers lingering on the stem.

“My turn,” you whispered.

His eyes snapped to yours.

“What else do you think my mouth could do?”

You asked it sweetly. Too sweetly.

He didn’t answer right away.

But when he did, it came in a slow exhale. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might tell you.”

And you knew—you knew—if you asked again, this night wouldn’t end the way it was supposed to.

But wasn’t that the point?

⸻

The bottle was nearly empty now—just enough for one more glass, but neither of you reached for it. It wasn’t the wine anymore. It was him. The way he leaned, one elbow hooked over the back of the couch, robe falling open just enough to tease the curve of his chest, the ripple of muscle along his arm. You kept pretending you weren’t looking. He wasn’t pretending anymore.

“I’ve got another one,” he said, voice lower now, like he was scared the walls might hear. “You ever think about someone at work when you’re… alone?”

You blinked slowly, a breath catching in your throat.

He gave you that smile—that one. Lazy and slow, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You don’t have to answer. But I think I already know.”

You stared at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast. The robe was sliding from your shoulder and you let it, warmth blooming beneath his gaze when his eyes dropped—slow, like he was memorizing the skin there.

“What gave me away?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at you like you were the answer to a question he wasn’t supposed to ask.

“You talk about me like I’m a safe space,” he said. “But you look at me like you’re dying to be unsafe.”

Oh.

You didn’t have a comeback for that.

Instead, you let the silence hold, the tension hum and twist and pull tighter between you, wrapping around your neck like silk.

“Your turn,” he added, voice now a rasp.

You wet your lips, eyes locked to the soft plush of his mouth, your thoughts nowhere innocent.

“Do you ever…” You hesitated. “Touch yourself to the thought of someone you shouldn’t?”

His jaw flexed. His hand shifted on his thigh—big hand, strong, veins trailing up thick forearms like a map of your current obsession.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Once or twice.”

“Just once or twice?”

He grinned. “More if I’m being honest.”

You swallowed hard. “Someone from work?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Your thighs clenched under your robe. You shifted just slightly, trying to ignore the ache building there. You shouldn’t be asking this. Shouldn’t be feeling this. But God, you were. Every look, every word, every pause between them—it was dragging you deeper.

“I like your hands,” you said softly. “They’re big.”

His eyebrow ticked up. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Bet they’re good at a lot of things.”

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, the space between you closing like a whisper. The scent of wine and hotel soap and something him filled your head.

“You have no idea.”

Your breath hitched. “Then tell me.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached out—slow, deliberate—and tucked your robe back over your shoulder, fingertips grazing your collarbone like he was giving you a warning.

Or a promise.

The touch barely lasted a second. But your skin burned for minutes after.

He didn’t answer you with words.

Just leaned back on the couch, his eyes locked to yours, like he was reading your pulse through your throat. You were holding your breath, thighs clenching beneath the soft fabric of your robe, fingers twitching where they rested on the cushion between you.

“I can show you,” he murmured, voice low, deliberate.

Then he reached out—big, sure hands gripping just under your knees—and pulled.

You gasped as your body slid toward him, robe parting with the motion, baring the soft skin of your thighs, your breath catching as you ended up half in his lap, one leg thrown over his. His hand settled there, fingers splayed wide against your thigh. The heat of his touch seared into your skin, slow and possessive, like he was claiming the right to touch you just because you let him.

You were still holding your robe closed at your chest, but the loose tie was slipping, barely hanging on.

“Changbin…”

His hand moved higher, fingers gliding up your thigh beneath the robe, until he was brushing where your inner thighs met, close enough to feel the heat of you through the thin fabric of your panties. Your hips bucked, just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

“I knew you were soft,” he whispered, mouth close enough to your ear to make your skin shiver. “But I didn’t think you’d let me feel you like this.”

You tilted your head, lips parting. “Would you stop if I said no?”

His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and fuck, he was hard. So hard it almost scared you.

Almost.

“No,” he said, rough and honest.

And then his fingers slid further, pushing past the edge of your panties, slow, slow, until they dipped between your folds. You were wet—ridiculously so—and the groan that ripped from his throat made your whole body tremble.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re soaked.”

You clutched at his shoulder, nails digging into thick muscle. “You did that.”

“I know.” He looked smug. Devastating.

Then his fingers moved—two of them rubbing slow circles right over your clit, while his other hand kept you anchored in his lap like he was never letting you go. Your robe fell further open, your chest heaving, your mind slipping.

It should’ve been impossible to feel so exposed and so safe at the same time.

But that was the problem with Changbin—he was always your soft place to land.

Until now.

Now he was the one making you fall.

—

You should have stopped him.

You should have at least said something—drawn a line, made a joke, laughed off the tension and blamed the wine. But his fingers were already moving between your legs like he belonged there, like he’d been waiting for this longer than he was willing to admit.

And maybe… so had you.

You opened your eyes—when did they even close?—and found him already watching you, gaze pinned to your face like he was memorizing every twitch, every gasp, every shiver.

“Keep looking at me,” he murmured, voice thick and dark, like it curled out from the pit of his chest. “I wanna see what it does to you.”

You did.

You couldn’t look away, not with the way his fingers slipped down—deeper—before pressing up inside you with careful, measured pressure. You clenched around them immediately, a choked sound escaping your lips as your hips rolled down into his palm.

“Fuck,” you whispered, hands gripping the robe at your chest, holding it closed like that could protect you from the way he was pulling you apart.

“You’re not hiding anything from me,” he said, dragging his thumb right across your clit as he pumped his fingers inside you. “Not anymore.”

Your mouth dropped open, a moan barely catching in your throat. He didn’t speed up. He didn’t need to. Every movement was precise, deliberate, deep—like he was learning you, claiming you, devouring you with nothing but his hand and that look in his eyes.

The robe slipped from one shoulder, the tie loosening completely. You felt it fall open, heat licking up your chest as your breasts bared to the warm air between you.

Changbin looked down.

Then back up at your face.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

The softness in his voice broke you. The wave of pleasure hit harder, thighs trembling as you ground helplessly against his palm. You gasped, full-body shuddering, your legs twitching as you came undone under his hands—his perfect, thick, merciless hands.

He didn’t stop right away. He let you ride it out, watched every second of it like it was the only thing he ever wanted to see.

And then, finally, when you collapsed forward against his chest, panting, dizzy, heart racing—he held you there. One big hand resting on your back, the other sliding out from between your legs, slow and slick with you.

You lifted your head.

He brought his fingers to his mouth.

And sucked them clean.

You moaned, helplessly, mouth falling open as your entire body lit up again.

“I think you were about to tell me what else that mouth can do,” he said, lips wet, voice low and dangerous.

You bit your lip, dizzy and brave and aching for more. “If I show you, you better not hold back.”

His eyes flared.

“Then get on your knees.”

You didn’t move right away.

You stayed right there in his lap, your bare chest brushing his robe, your breath mingling with his—cheeks flushed, lips parted, his fingers still glistening where he’d tasted you. His command hung in the air like thick smoke. Get on your knees.

But you weren’t done taking control.

So instead, you cupped his jaw with both hands and pulled him into you.

The first kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy or slow or hesitant. It was hungry—all tongue and teeth and gasping mouths, the kind of kiss that knocked the breath from both of you. His hands gripped your waist hard, pulling you down tighter against the bulge pressing thick and hot beneath his loosened robe.

He groaned into your mouth.

“You’ve been holding that in, huh?” you whispered, brushing your nose against his, lips swollen from the heat.

“So have you,” he growled, and kissed you again—slower this time, like he was savoring it, like he never wanted to stop.

But you did.

Because now it was your turn.

You pulled away with a smirk, slipping off his lap and lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs. The robe around his waist had already parted just enough to tempt you, revealing his thighs—thick and muscular, tanned and gorgeous—and the heavy shape of his cock beneath the last thin layer of fabric.

Your fingers traced along his legs first. Just to feel. Just to watch him twitch and tense as your nails dragged along muscle and skin.

Then your hands went to his robe.

You parted it slowly.

And there he was—thick, heavy, flushed, and fully hard, resting against his stomach like he was built to be worshipped.

Your mouth watered.

“Oh my God, Changbin…”

He smirked, cocky and breathless, one hand curled into the edge of the couch, the other sliding through your hair.

“You gonna keep staring?” he said, voice rough. “Or are you gonna show me what else your mouth can do?”

You looked up at him through your lashes.

And leaned in.

The first kiss was to the base—soft and slow. Then your tongue dragged up the side of him, long and wet and filthy, until your lips wrapped around the head and you gave him just a taste of what was to come.

He moaned—loud, guttural, wrecked—as his hips bucked up and his fingers tightened in your hair, the other gripping the edge of the couch like he was trying to stay tethered to this plane of reality. You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, your lips stretched wide around his cock, the wet sounds echoing obscenely off the marble and glass of the suite.

“Fuck,” he groaned, thighs trembling under your palms. “You’re gonna make me come—”

You looked up at him with a glint in your eye, slow and teasing as your tongue flicked over the swollen head.

He growled.

“Shit—shit, babe, stop—fuck, I’m gonna—”

But you didn’t stop.

You bobbed your head, taking him deeper, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, until his voice cracked into a moan that was so wrecked, so desperate, it made your thighs clench in response.

And then he broke.

With a low, dangerous groan, he yanked you off of him—your lips wet and swollen, breath coming in short gasps—and pulled you up onto your feet.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he muttered, voice rough, pupils blown.

You opened your mouth to tease him again, but he spun you around before you could speak.

His hands slid under your robe, parting the fabric, exposing the bare curve of your ass.

“Changbin—” you gasped, but your voice hitched when he bent you forward over the back of the couch, your cheek pressed to the soft fabric, your breath catching.

“Been dying to know what you feel like,” he muttered, his chest pressing to your back, cock hard against your thigh. “You want this?”

“Y-Yeah,” you breathed, already aching for him.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m done playing nice.”

He dragged the thick head of his cock along your soaked folds—teasing, even now—but his hands gripped your hips like a man on the edge.

And then, in one deep, slow thrust—

He filled you.

You gasped—moaned—arching back into him as he bottomed out, thick and perfect and so deep it left you trembling.

“Oh my God, Changbin—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice low and primal. “Feel me, babe. Take every inch.”

And then he moved—slow at first, letting you adjust, dragging almost all the way out before slamming back in, each thrust harder than the last. You clung to the couch, the sound of skin meeting skin, of your moans tangled with his, echoing loud in the suite.

“Could’ve fucked you in that damn robe,” he growled, his hand slipping around to toy with your clit, “but you wanted to get on your knees and ruin me first, huh?”

You tried to answer, but all that came out was a whimper—broken, breathless, begging for more.

And baby?

He gave it to you.

Your moans were unraveling now—high, helpless, and shameless—as Changbin’s thrusts rocked you forward, your robe long forgotten, his cock stretching you wide from behind. He was relentless, chest heaving, sweat beading at his temple, muscles flexing as he pistoned his hips into you.

But then he paused—deep inside you, breath ragged—and his hands slipped lower, gripping your thighs.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he lifted you like you weighed nothing, muscles straining deliciously under your gaze as he carried you to the bed. You clutched at his shoulders, drunk on him, on the raw strength of him.

He laid you down gently—like you were precious—before dragging your legs apart, kneeling between them, cock glistening with your slick.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “So fucking pretty. Open. Dripping. All for me.”

He didn’t wait.

He plunged back in with a growl—slow, deep, delicious—his gaze locked to yours like he wanted to watch every flicker of pleasure cross your face.

You cried out, hands flying to his arms, nails digging into thick, corded muscle as he started to fuck you again, steady and purposeful, hips grinding into yours like he owned your body.

“Taking me so well,” he breathed, one hand trailing up your stomach to squeeze your tits, thumb rolling over your nipple as his other arm slipped under your waist to hold you steady. “You were made for this—for me.”

You whimpered, back arching, the coil in your belly tightening.

“Bet you’ve thought about this,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “About what these hands could do to you. About how good I’d fuck you.”

You whimpered a “yes,” eyes glassy.

He smirked—dark, devastating—and slammed into you harder.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say what this cock does to you.”

“It—It ruins me,” you gasped. “Changbin, fuck—you’re ruining me.”

“That’s right,” he whispered, burying his face in your neck. “Look at you. Moaning under me, tits bouncing, eyes rolling back. Just a desperate little thing who loves getting split open by her fucking work husband.”

You cried out—louder now—hips lifting to meet every thrust, dizzy with the stretch, the heat, the filth in his voice.

He reached between you again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, dirty circles as he fucked you into the mattress.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped. “Wanna feel you come around my cock. Wanna watch you fall apart while I’m buried so fucking deep inside you.”

You were close—so close—knees trembling, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. And still, he didn’t let up.

“Please, Changbin—fuck—don’t stop—don’t ever stop,” you gasped, legs trembling around his hips, your voice cracked and soaked in desperation.

And god, the way he looked at you—like you were his favorite sin—his most addicting addiction. His fingers rubbed faster, his hips rolled deeper, until your entire body was locking up beneath him.

“Yeah?” he rasped, dark eyes drinking in every twitch and whimper. “You wanna come for me? Make a mess all over my cock, baby? Do it—come on. Be my filthy little girl.”

That was it.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave—sharp and consuming—ripping through your body in shuddering waves. You screamed his name as your body seized and your vision blurred, hips jerking up uncontrollably—

—and then it happened.

Your muscles clenched and released and the gush of liquid burst free, soaking his cock, his thighs, the sheets. You tried to stifle the cry of embarrassment, but Changbin froze, cock twitching inside you as his jaw dropped.

“Fuck—fuck,” he hissed, pulling out to watch your release drip down your thighs. “You just fucking squirted for me?”

You whimpered, face flushed, barely able to catch your breath.

“Holy shit,” he growled, eyes wild now. “You’re insane—you’re fucking perfect.”

And then he was on you again, kissing you hard, tasting your whimpers, before pulling back with a ragged breath and gripping your jaw.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, voice thick with lust. “Let me finish in that sweet fucking mouth of yours.”

You obeyed, lips parting, tongue out—and he groaned, cock twitching at the sight of you so willing, so ruined and ready to be filled.

He knelt over you, pumping his cock fast and desperate, eyes locked to your face.

“Look at you—fuck—mouth open, tits bouncing, all wrecked and dripping for me. Gonna shoot it all down your throat, baby. Gonna fill you up like you deserve—ah, fuck—”

And then he came.

Hard.

Thick, hot spurts painting your tongue, your lips, some hitting your cheek as he moaned your name like a prayer. You swallowed it down greedily, humming as his body shook from the force of it, hand still in your hair.

When he finally stopped, chest heaving, he looked down at you—licking his release off your lips—and let out a low, devastated sound.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, collapsing beside you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

⸻

You didn’t even realize how quiet the room had gotten until the only sound left was your heartbeat, still pounding in your ears. Your body felt like it was floating, boneless and warm, draped across tangled sheets and a man who had just made you forget your name.

Changbin.

His arms were already around you, strong and solid, like they’d always known how to hold you after wrecking you that good. His fingertips traced lazy shapes across your spine, dragging goosebumps over your skin with every stroke.

“You okay?” he murmured against your forehead, voice thick with exhaustion and a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Mmm,” you hummed, barely able to lift your head, “I think you broke me.”

He chuckled, deep and raspy, and kissed your temple. “Nah. You’re unbreakable, remember?”

You smiled softly, letting your fingers trail along his chest—slick with sweat, firm with muscle. The kind of body that should be framed in a museum. Or worshipped. Which, you did. Very well, if the dazed look in his eyes was anything to go by.

He shifted, pulling the covers over you both, then tucked you closer like he couldn’t stand to have even an inch of you too far. His hand rubbed your hip, soothing and possessive.

Then came his voice—quiet, laced with affection and mischief.

“Normally…” he began, brushing a kiss to your hairline, “I’d take you out on a date first before fucking you into a mattress.”

You laughed softly, nuzzling into his chest.

“But,” he continued, smiling now, “I guess we can reverse the order… There’s that place you mentioned earlier—the popular restaurant with the fancy drinks and overpriced desserts?”

Your breath caught, warmth blooming in your chest. You lifted your head, eyes meeting his.

“Are you asking me out?”

He smirked, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “I’m saying tomorrow night, I’m gonna show up like a gentleman. Pull out your chair, get you dessert, and pretend I didn’t already have you on your knees in a hotel suite.”

You grinned, heart pounding for an entirely new reason now. “Smooth.”

“I try.” He kissed you again, slower this time. Softer. Sweeter. Like he was sealing a promise.

And in that moment, wrapped up in hotel sheets and each other, you both knew—this wasn’t just a work trip anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: so i watched the YouTube video with Changbin and the noona from 2nd gen and there was just something about the way changbin was laidback and holding a conversation that got me thinking ❤️

I hope you enjoyed this, many of you dont like to read Binnie but i promise his fics are hot! So dont forget to like, comment (love those) and reblog!!! I’ll drop the link to my masterlist below☀️🐷🐰