Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The moonlight spills into the bedroom like a silent witness—cool and soft, illuminating the ivory sheets tangled beneath them. The bedside lamp flickers gently, casting a golden hue across Taehyung’s bare back as he moves in slow, fluid rhythm atop Jungkook, whose head is thrown back against the pillows, lips parted in a breathless moan.
Taehyung is graceful, sinuous—like a wave folding into itself, riding Jungkook with an intimacy so intense it borders on worship. His hands brace on Jungkook’s chest, fingers splayed as he leans in, breath hot against his neck.
But Jungkook’s brows are knit in worry even as his hands cling to Taehyung’s thighs. “Take,” he breathes out, trying to steady his voice amidst the pleasure, “are you sure—Brianne won’t come?”
Taehyung hums, lidding his eyes as he rocks his hips slower, deeper. “She won’t.”
“You—you sent the letter back to my father’s house, right? Told him I’m not here?”
Taehyung’s lashes flutter open briefly. His expression is unreadable in the half-dark. “Of course,” he whispers.
He didn’t.
He never sent the letter. He left it folded in the drawer, untouched. Because she needs to see—needs to witness that Jungkook is not hers to claim.
Taehyung moves like a slow-burning flame—each roll of his hips deliberate, precise, as if he’s composing a melody with his body. His palms rest on Jungkook’s chest for balance, fingers curled slightly as he leans forward, eyes half-lidded under the warm amber glow of the bedside lamp. Moonlight streaks across his skin, tracing every curve, every line of muscle, painting him in silver and gold.
He arches slightly, grinding down with a soft whimper escaping his lips, letting his head fall back as he loses himself in the rhythm. His thighs flex with each downward push, sweat beginning to pearl along his collarbones. The sheets beneath them shift and rustle in time with his movements, and the room is filled with the symphony of breathy gasps and skin meeting skin.
Taehyung’s lips part into a quiet moan as he rides Jungkook harder, more urgently now—each bounce lifting him slightly before he drops again, sending a jolt of heat through both of them. His hair clings to his forehead, his body glistens, and his gaze drops to meet Jungkook’s—dark, heavy, wanting.
“Look at me,” he murmurs between panting breaths, his voice a tremor of need. “Only me.”
And in that moment, he’s art in motion—fluid, possessive, beautifully unrelenting. Jungkook’s hands tremble where they rest on Taehyung’s thighs, gripping just enough to steady himself—yet not enough to take control. He’s breathless, undone, drowning in the feeling of Taehyung around him, above him, moving with hypnotic purpose.
