"Fuck," I gasp, thighs trembling. His thumb presses my taint, other hand muffling my mouth. Scissoring stretch burns sweet, prostate throbbing under the assault.
"Good boy," he breathes, free hand pinching my nipple through my shirt. Asshole. I glare, but all that comes out is a choked moan as he adds a third finger, stretching me wide. My cock leaks against his wrist, hips grinding down shamelessly. A bell rings distantly—class starting—but who gives a shit. He nips my jaw.
"Come for me. Quick." His fingers piston faster. I shatter, biting his palm, spilling hot over his hand. He milks me throughit, kissing my throat soft now, almost tender. He pulls out slowly. Zips me up like it's nothing. He steps back, smirking, wiping his hand on his thigh.
"See you in lecture." Winks. Saunters out. I slump against the wall, pants sticky, legs jelly.Our agreement's fucked. I don't even care.
The next afternoon I'm buried in this godforsaken marketing textbook, surrounded by Seungchan and the usual suspects, highlighters scratching paper like nails on a chalkboard. The library's dead quiet, all fluorescent hum and page flips, my friends muttering about some group project. I nod along, pretending the words on the page aren't blurring into gibberish.
I hear footsteps approach. Slow and deliberate, I recognize the tread. Donghwa strolls past our table, black coat slung over his shoulder, not a glance my way. Cool as ever. But then—fingertips ghost my jaw. Barely there. Electric and secret.
I don't flinch. Don't even blink. My heart slams anyway.
Under my lashes, I track him. His tall frame vanishing around the tall shelf at the end of the row.
Seungchan's yapping about font choices. I count. One minute. Two. By five, my skin itches, cock half-hard just from that touch. Fuck our "agreement." Fuck everything.
"Shit, forgot a reference book," I mutter, shoving my chair back. "Be right back."
They barely look up. Perfect.
I weave through the stacks, pulse thundering, dodging study carrels like landmines. The air's thick with old paper and dust, that musty library tang that clings to your throat. My sneakers squeak soft on the linoleum, every shadow jumping like it's about to rat me out.
One corner, then another. My heart's in my ears now, cock straining against my zipper.Stupid. Reckless. What if Seungchan follows? What if—
Strong arms snag me from the dark. I slam chest-first into Donghwa's grip, his palm clamping my mouth before the yelp escapes. I bite back a moan—fuck—as he spins me, shoves me face-to-wall against the bookshelf. Spines dig into my pecs, cool metal shelves biting through my shirt. His chest molds to my back, all heat and hard lines, pinning me solid.
"Shh," he breathes, lips brushing my ear. Goosebumps riot down my arms. His erection grinds against my ass, thick and insistent through our pants, rolling slow like he's mapping me out.
I squirm, half-protest, half-grind back.Bastard knows exactly what this does.His free hand dives straight into my waistband, no fumbling, fingers wrapping my cock in a vise grip. His rough palm strokes up, thumb swiping the leaking slit, and my knees buckle. My vision whites out for a beat.
"Donghwa," I hiss into his hand, muffled and frantic. My hips jerk forward on instinct, chasing the drag. He's relentless—twist at the head, long pulls base to tip, his breath hot on my neck as teeth scrape the tendon there. He sucks a mark, hidden under my collar later, but right now? Claiming.
Pheromones flood the tight space, his winter bite cutting through the book stink, making my balls draw tight. I buck into his fist, precum slicking the way, the wetschlickcrude against the distant page-turns from the study tables.Anyone could turn the corner. Hear this. See the me humping a freshman's hand like a bitch in heat.
He chuckles low, the vibration rumbling through me. He nips my earlobe. "Quiet, hyung. Or come trying."
His thumb presses the frenulum—fuckfuckfuck—and I shatter, biting his palm hard enough to bruise. I spill hot over his knuckles, twitching, thighs quaking. He milks every drop, lazy squeezes, till I'm shuddering boneless against the shelves.
He pulls out slow, zipping me up. He steps back cool as ice, licking his fingers clean while I pant, wrecked. He winks. "Good boy. Back to studying."
Saunters off like he didn't just blueprint my ruin. I slump, forehead to a dog-eared art history tome, aftershocks buzzing.I'm so fucked.
Two days. That’s all it takes for my resolve to crumble.
I’m sitting in the back row of our Brand Management lecture, buzzing out of my skin. My leg bounces under the desk, a restless, jerky rhythm that’s probably annoying the hell out of the beta sitting next to me, but I can’t stop.
My eyes are glued to the back of a head three rows down.
Kang Donghwa.
Usually, the arrogant prick sits near the back, within arm’s reach, or at least close enough that his winter-air scent drifts over to settle my nerves. Today he’s practically in the front row, sandwiched between two eager-beaver sophomores, taking notes like a model student.
It’s pissing me off.
I glare at the nape of his neck, exposed by his short black hair. I want to bite it. I want to drag him back here and demand to know why he’s depriving me of my localized air supply. It feels like a slight. Like he’s doing it on purpose just to see how long I’ll last before I snap.
My skin feels too tight. The air in the room is stale, recycled AC that smells like dust and other people’s cheap deodorant. I needhisscent. It’s an itch I can’t scratch, a low-level hum of anxiety in my gut that won’t shut up.
