Sihwan's eyes go dark, pupils swallowing the irises whole. That flicker of challenge ignites—raw Alpha pride warring with the haze of his recent orgasm—and he moves before I can blink.
His hand wraps around my cock, grip firm and sure, calluses from the gym rough against my skin. Sihwan's hand moves with that same cocky confidence he does everything else—sure of himself even when he's out of his depth. His grip is tight, and precum spills over my tip, slicking his palm as he drags the calloused pad of his thumb across the slit just to hear me hiss.
Once, twice—he guides me through the slick mess between his thighs, the head of my cock nudging at that fluttering rim like temptation incarnate. The heat radiating off him is maddening, a hair's breadth away from taking me in, and every instinct in my body screams to snap my hips up and spear into that tight heat right fucking now.
But that’s not the game tonight.
So I dig my thumbs into the thick muscle of his waist instead, the same way I might steady a motorcycle leaning too far into a turn—firm, but letting him set the pace. His skin is tacky with sweat under my palms, the ridges of his hips sharp enough to leave crescent marks if I press any harder. "Your move," I rasp. My voice is shot to hell, throat still raw from earlier when I had him writhing against my tongue.
Predictably, Sihwan doesn’t hesitate—just arches one eyebrow like I’ve issued a challenge.
And then he sinks down.
Slow. Deliberate. Every inch a calculated flex of his thighs as he takes me, his body opening up in stages—first the tight resistance of his rim stretching around the crown, then the molten slide of him adjusting, swallowing me deeper with each shallow rock of his hips. He’s still wet from earlier, loose enough that the glide burns just right without real sting, but the press of him is borderline suffocating, hot silk clamping down on me inch by greedy inch until I’m buried to the hilt and his ass is flush against my thighs.
"Fuck," he breathes, all punched-out and ruined before we’ve even really started.
I couldn’t agree more.
We both freeze. His breath punches out in a sharp hiss, thighs quaking against mine, forehead creased in that mix of strain and bliss he wears so well. Sweat beads on his collarbone, trickling down the valley between his pecs. I lie back fully, arms drapedover the couch arms, watching every twitch of his face, every flex of his abs as he adjusts.
Christ. He's the most erotic thing I've ever seen.
Thick thighs bracketing mine, chest heaving under skin flushed red, that ridiculous chestnut hair falling into his eyes as he rolls his hips experimentally. No frantic rut haze, no wrestling for dominance—just him, taking what he wants. His cock—half-hard again—slaps heavy against my stomach with the first upward lift, smearing sticky trails.
Lust coils tight in my gut, hot and vicious. I don't thrust. Don't guide. Just hold him steady as he finds his rhythm—short grinds at first, testing, then longer rolls that drag my cock along his walls, brushing that spot inside him that makes his head tip back on a guttural moan.
"Fuck," he pants, hands splaying over my chest, nails scraping the tiger tattoo. "Feels—"
"Keep going," I grit out, pulse thundering. His ass clenches around me on the downstroke, milking, and stars burst behind my eyes.
He shifts higher, driving down with brutal force now—abandoning the slow, teasing pace for something desperate. The couch groans beneath us, springs squealing their complaint with each punishing drop of his hips. The sound of our bodies colliding fills the empty apartment—skin slapping skin, slick with sweat and precome, wet and filthy and perfect.
A bead of sweat slips from his chin, splashing hot against my collarbone. The salt of it lingers on my tongue when I drag my mouth up the column of his throat, nipping at his pulse point just to hear that hitch in his breath.
Between us, his cock jumps—hard and flushed, smearing sticky trails across my abdomen with every frantic bounce. He's chasing the friction now, rocking forward to rut against me onthe downstroke, adding another layer of heat to this impossible fire.
I'm wrecked. Undone. Every nerve-ending burning white-hot where he clenches around me, thighs quivering with effort, lips parted around ragged curses. He looks fucking divine like this—lost in pleasure, brow furrowed, muscles taut—and I can't look away. Wouldn't if I could.
Sihwan feels it first—that electric current crackling up his spine, the tightening low in his belly that means there’s no turning back now. His grip on my shoulders turns desperate, nails biting into ink-stained skin as his eyes fly wide, pupils blown black with want.
"Fuck—" He slams down hard, grinding deep, ass clinging tight like he’s trying to force the inevitable. His breath comes in ragged bursts, lips parted around a moan that turns into a command—no, a plea. "Yes—fuck, knot me—"
That does it. Something primal snaps in me, drowning out thought, drowning out everything but the need to claim, to fill, to lodge myself so deep inside him he won’t forget where he belongs. I surge up, arms locking like steel bands around his waist, and we shatter together—messy, brutal, perfect.
His orgasm hits like a damn tsunami, whole body jerking as he spills hot across my chest, ropes of it streaking my tattoos white. Mine rushes up just as vicious, pulsing thick into him—once, twice, a third time—forcing his thighs to quiver as my knot swells, stretching him obscenely wide, sealing us tight where we’re joined.
And then—collapse. He crumples slightly, swallowing shuddery breaths while aftershocks wrack his frame. Locked together. Full. Mine.
I stroke lazy circles down his spine, breathing him in—scorched rum and satisfaction. "Good boy," I murmur against his temple.
Sihwan huffs a laugh, wrecked and boneless. "Shut up."
Sihwan slumps forward like a puppet with cut strings, his forehead thudding against my shoulder, breath hot and ragged against my neck. His weight pins me deeper into the couch cushions—dead weight, all muscle gone weak from the stretch of my knot still locked inside him. Sweat slicks our skin where we’re fused, his chest heaving against mine, heart hammering a frantic rhythm I can feel in my ribs.
I slide a hand up his nape, fingers threading through the damp mess of his chestnut hair—finally free of that stiff gel, spiking wild in every direction. It’s soft, thicker than it looks. I brush it back from his temple, tucking the strands behind his ear.
“Was that better?” I murmur right against the shell of his ear, voice low and gravel-rough from holding back. “Did you like having control?”
