Heesung makes a small, needy noise in his throat and deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding into my mouth. It’s sloppy and eager, a little too much teeth, a little too much showmanship. He’s trying to stake a claim.
I let him. I let him explore my mouth, I let his fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck, and I don't move an inch.
My chest rumbles, not with a growl, but with a suppressed laugh. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from actually chuckling against Heesung’s lips. Sihwan looks like he’s about to march over here and challenge me to a duel at dawn. He takes a step forward, stopped only by one of his friends grabbing his arm, looking concerned.
Come on,I think, staring right into Sihwan’s furious brown eyes as Heesung grinds down into my lap.Come over here. Do something stupid. Make my night.
This is too easy. It’s like playing chess with a pigeon.
Heesung is really selling it, grinding down into my lap with a friction that would probably be enjoyable if I weren't so focused on the audience participation portion of the evening. I decide to give the people what they want. I slide my hands up from Heesung’s waist, splaying my fingers wide over the silk of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric. I drag my palms up his spine, slow and deliberate, like I’m memorizing the map of his back.
A low, strangled noise erupts from the direction of the bar. I don’t even have to look to know it’s Sihwan. It sounds like someone stepped on a squeaky toy.
Heesung pulls back just an inch, his eyes blown wide and dark, pupils swallowing the iris. The peach scent is suffocating. He thinks he’s winning. He thinks he’s hooked the big fish.
"Let's go," he breathes against my lips, nipping at my bottom lip. "My friend’s room is empty. Down the hall."
He stands up, grabbing my hand and tugging. He’s surprisingly strong for someone who looks like he’s made of porcelain.
I let him pull me up. I uncurl from the sofa with a languid, lazy grace, shaking out my legs. The room seems to part for us. It’s the power of the pairing: the mysterious Freshman Alpha and the Campus Queen. It’s the exact visual Sihwan has been masturbating to for weeks, and I’m stealing it right in front of his face.
As Heesung drags me toward the hallway, I pause. Just for a heartbeat.
I turn my head slowly, looking over my shoulder.
Sihwan is frozen by the drinks table. He looks like he’s vibrating out of his skin. His face is a mottled, violent shade of crimson that clashes horribly with his jacket. His hands areclenched so tight his knuckles are white, and his chest is heaving like he just ran a marathon.
I catch his eye.
I don’t frown. I don’t glare. I just let one corner of my mouth hook up into a smirk. A small, arrogant,I-have-what-you-wantsmirk.
Checkmate, hyung.
The sheer level of hatred that flares in his eyes is almost artistic. If looks could kill, I’d be a stain on the carpet. I can practically hear his blood pressure spiking. Satisfied, I turn back around and let Heesung lead me into the dark.
We stumble into a bedroom at the end of the hall. It’s piled with coats on the bed and smells faintly of stale beer, but Heesung doesn't care. He kicks the door shut with his heel and immediately spins on me, pressing me back against the wood.
"Finally," he gasps, and his hands are everywhere.
He’s frantic. He’s trying to unzip my jacket while simultaneously shoving his tongue down my throat. It’s messy. It’s uncoordinated. It’s boring.
The thrill of the performance evaporates the second the door clicks shut. Without Sihwan there to witness it, Heesung is just a guy who smells too much like fruit and is trying to climb me like a tree.
He pulls back, breathless, and reaches for the hem of his own shirt. "I've been wanting to do this since orientation," he says, flashing a practiced, seductive smile as he starts to lift the fabric, exposing a sliver of pale, flat stomach.
"Whoa."
I catch his wrists.
I don't grip hard, just enough to stop the motion. My voice is calm, devoid of the heat that was there thirty seconds ago in the living room.
Heesung freezes, his shirt half-raised, looking at me through his lashes. He blinks, confused. "What? Do you want to take it off for me?"
"I'm flattered," I say, and I mean it, sort of. In a detached, anthropological way. "Really. You're beautiful, Heesung."
I gently pull his hands down, smoothing his shirt back into place. I step to the side, putting a polite foot of distance between us. The sudden lack of body heat makes him shiver.
Heesung’s face falls. The seduction mask slips, replaced by a genuine, bewildered pout. "What? Why are you stopping?"
