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...
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What do you define pleasure as? The dictionary defines it as "a feeling of happy satisfaction or enjoyment."
Me? I define it as Lee Minho—pressed up against the cold surface of a locked bathroom stall, his breath hitching, his fingers grasping at the metal divider like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His body taut, shuddering, every nerve in him set alight by the way I move, the way I take, the way I own him.
And from the sounds he's making, I'd say he agrees.
"Fuck,Jeongin, slow down..." His voice is wrecked, barely more than a rasp, though I know he meant for it to be sharp, laced with warning. But there's no bite to it, just breathlessness. Just need. His cheek is flush against the stall door, his body so perfectly caged between me and the unyielding surface, his muscles trembling under my hold.
I pause for a moment, just enough to let the anticipation coil between us like a live wire. Then I shift, adjusting the angle, and drive forward again—slower, but deeper. Deliberate. Ruthless. The impact forces a moan from his throat, rich and utterly devastating. He's loud, so loud that I should care if someone hears, if someone recognizes his voice. But I don't. I don't give a damn if the entire event grinds to a halt and people start whispering about what we're doing behind closed doors. Because Minho is unraveling beneath my touch, and nothing matters beyond this.
I dip my head to his neck, dragging my lips over the heated skin slick with sweat, breathing in the intoxicating scent of him—desperation, lust, something uniquely Minho that makes my pulse hammer. "Mm, better?" I murmur, voice dark and teasing as I brush my lips against the shell of his ear, my fingers digging into his hips, grounding him, keeping him exactly where I want him.
His head lolls back against my shoulder, exposing his throat, and fuck—he's beautiful. Ruined and raw, hair sticking to his forehead, his lips parted as he struggles to hold onto what little composure he has left. His lashes flutter, a deep, guttural sound slipping from his mouth that shoots straight through me, searing itself into my very bones. He nods, though it's slow, dazed, like he can't quite process anything beyond the sheer force of what he's feeling.
His moans are unrestrained, his body pliant yet desperate, and then he does something that very well might be the end of me—he bites his lip, hard, stifling a sound that should have been a cry. A sound meant for me, meant to echo in my mind long after this moment ends.
And Minho doesn't get to hold back from me. Ever.
A low growl rumbles in my throat as I reach up, grabbing his chin, tilting his head just enough so I can see every flicker of pleasure in his expression, every fragment of surrender in those dark, half-lidded eyes. I press my thumb against his lip, dragging it down, releasing it from the prison of his teeth. "Don't do that," I tell him, my voice thick, possessive. "I want to hear you. Every damn sound."
Minho exhales sharply, and for a split second, I see it—the defiance, the pride, the refusal to give in so easily. But then I thrust into him again, and his entire body shudders, his nails scraping uselessly against the door as he lets out the most sinful, broken moan I've ever heard.
