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 feel like we are way past this but this chapter contains MAJOR SMUT, just prepare yourselves...
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I'm burning. Scorching from the inside out.
It's fucking winter. My studio is freezing, the heater's long been busted, and yet I'm sweating—skin feverish, damp at the nape of my neck, the heat from our bodies enough to melt the frost off the damn windows. Han is no better, his breath uneven, chest rising and falling beneath me, beads of sweat collecting at his collarbone. His hands are on my thighs, fingers twitching as they inch higher, slow and deliberate, as if savoring every second of it—like he's mapping me out, memorizing the shape of me beneath his palms. Each squeeze, each subtle shift of his touch has something deep inside me unraveling, has my pulse hammering so hard I swear he can feel it against his own ribs.
And fuck—I never thought his hands there, in particular, would make me feel like this, like my body is no longer mine, like I could liquefy on the spot and offer myself to him without a second thought.
The things I would let this man do to me... If he only knew.
His voice is rough when it comes, dragging me from my thoughts, from the overwhelming, unbearable need pooling low in my stomach. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"
And that—it catches me off guard. That he even cares to ask.
Out of everything, the biggest fucking turn-on isn't just the way his hands grip me like he needs me to breathe, or how his mouth has left my skin hypersensitive, every nerve ending frayed and desperate for more. No, it's this—the fact that he cares. That he wants me. That he's giving in, finally, to something we've been dancing around for what feels like an eternity.
"I've done this before, Han," I tell him, voice low, heady with anticipation. "Of course I'm okay with this."
His reaction is instant. His eyes widen, as if I've just told him the most insane thing he's ever heard. He stares at me, and then, slowly, that mischievous smirk begins to form, curling at the edges of his lips, smug and dangerous. "Mr. Control Freak has bottomed before?"
I roll my eyes, exhaling sharply. "Yes, Han. It was once, and I barely remember it. Idon't want to hear it. I'm not a bottom."
That fucking smirk only deepens.
And the way he looks at me—like he knows something I don't—is almost enough to make me lose it.
Little does he know, though, that he'd look downright sinful if I had him bottoming for me instead. And if he keeps running his mouth, he might just find that out for himself.
Before he can open that pretty mouth of his and say something else that will inevitably piss me off, I slide lower, dragging my lips down the column of his throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against his collarbone. I feel the hitch in his breath, the way his chest stutters beneath me, and I smirk against his skin, my hands roaming down his torso, mapping out every ridge and plane. He's warm, solid, his body taut with anticipation, and fuck, it's intoxicating.
