The kiss wasn't careful. Desperation rose within me. I gripped his shirt, pulling him closer because I needed proof I was still real and capable of wanting something, even if the system didn't allow it.
Griffin responded immediately. He reached around the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, holding me steady while he kissed me harder.
My shoulders hit the wall. I didn't remember moving, but Griffin's weight pressed against me, solid and warm. I needed the heat and the pressure.
"Yoon-jae," he said against my mouth.
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
"I won't."
We moved to the bed. He grabbed the hem of my hoodie and pushed it up. I raised my arms and let him pull it off. My t-shirt followed. Then his shirt, my hands shaking as I worked the buttons.
Skin met skin. His chest against mine, warm and solid. His heartbeat was rapid but steady.
It wasn't romantic. It was survival. Touch as proof I still existed. Friction as evidence that our bodies still belonged to us.
He eased me back onto the mattress, settling over me, and I wrapped my legs around his hips to pull him closer. One of his hands slid under my lower back, lifting me slightly, adjusting the angle to create a perfect fit.
"Tell me what you need," he whispered.
"This. You. Something that feels real."
He kissed my throat and the hollow below my ear. His breath was hot against my skin. I turned my head, giving him access, while my hands slid down his back, feeling his muscles contract under my palms.
When he moved against me, the friction made me gasp.
I unbuckled his belt. He helped as we both shed the last barriers.
Griffin wrapped his fingers around my cock, and I arched into the touch, desperate for it. He knew what I needed.
"Look at me," he said again.
His face was above me, eyes dark and focused, seeing me completely.
"Yoon-jae," he said again. My real name. The one that meantI see you, not the performance.
Griffin smelled of sweat and a slight hint of cologne. When he kissed lower, the whisper of his breath made my skin prickle in anticipation.
He nipped at the hollow of my stomach and the line of my hipbone. My hands tangled in the bedspread. I watched him, unable to look away.
When his mouth closed around my cock, I gasped. I bucked my hips, and he steadied me with a hand on my thigh.
Every thought tore free from my mind. There was nothing but heat and the sound of Griffin's lips. He took me in, and I nearly dissolved.
I clawed at his shoulder, needing an anchor. He teased with his tongue and then sucked me in deep again.
When I came, it was like a massive collision, my body remembering how to feel something other than fear. I gasped out Griffin's name.
He followed seconds later. The physical proof that our connection was real.
We lay there breathing hard, with our hearts still racing.
Eventually, he shifted to the side, reaching for the box of tissues on the nightstand. We cleaned up with practical efficiency, moving through necessary actions.
Then he lay beside me, with our shoulders touching.
I rolled onto my side, turning toward him.
