He groans into my mouth, and I use that moment to push back, trying to take control again. But Han is stronger than he looks, and for once, he's not letting me win.
"Frustrated?" he murmurs between kisses, smirking against my lips.
I bite at his jaw...
A/N: I'm so sorry I offered you guys a double update and I did not do it. I read through the chapter and I came to realize that I have been slowly slacking off more and more with the effort I put into my writing. SO I decided to completely rewrite it. Enjoy :)
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The kitchen is full now. The once-quiet space has turned into a slow-moving storm of voices and movement. Seo and Kim sit at the dining table, engaged in quiet conversation between bites of food. Bahng, ever the devoted lapdog, is making breakfast for Felix, who sits on a stool like a prince awaiting his meal.
Yang is nowhere to be seen. Yet.
Lee, to my absolute disbelief, is voluntarily cleaning. He's fixing up the wreckage of whatever chaotic gossip session he and Han had last night, coffee still in hand. Still can't wrap my head around that. The idea of Han staying up late talking—actually talking—with someone? Laughing?
It's like I've slipped into some alternate universe where Han doesn't look like he's constantly one bad day away from committing arson.
Speaking of Han—
He's at the sink, washing dishes from their cozy little morning after. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing forearms I've become intimately familiar with. He moves with quiet precision, jaw clenched, eyes focused on the soapy water.
And then I see them.
The marks.
They peek out from beneath the collar of his shirt—Lee's shirt, apparently. My marks, all over him. Not just a couple, not even a handful, but everywhere. His neck looks like it lost a battle with a nest of particularly ravenous vampires. It's obscene. It's undeniable. It's—Possessive.
Something primal coils in my stomach, winding tight. I shouldn't do what I'm about to do. I know I shouldn't.
But when have I ever been good at resisting temptation?
I move without thinking, closing the space between us in a slow, deliberate stride. I press up against his back, the warmth of him bleeding through his borrowed shirt. He goes rigid instantly, but I lean in anyway, letting my lips ghost over the shell of his ear.
"Who gave you these?" My voice is low, teasing, fingers tracing the line of bruises trailing up his pulse point.
As if I don't already know.
Han shudders, just slightly. But whatever reaction I was expecting—maybe a sharp inhale, a muttered curse, even a weak attempt to pull away—I do not get.
Instead, he whirls on me, grabbing my wrist in a bruising grip before shoving me back hard.
I stumble, my lower back slamming against the edge of the counter. Pain shoots up my spine, and I grunt. Fuck.
The kitchen goes silent.
Dead silent.
Han is on me, pressing in, caging me there like I'm the one caught in his trap.
