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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For a moment, I almost forget where I am.
I'm having a fantastic time—something I wasn't expecting, something I probably shouldn't be having, considering the fact that I hate people. It's a deep, intrinsic loathing, the kind that festers beneath my skin like an allergy I was born with. Crowds, especially, have always felt like a personal hell designed just for me. A tidal wave of bodies, voices merging into a nauseating hum, the air thick with too much perfume, too much sweat, too much everything pressing in at once.
It should be unbearable. It usually is unbearable.
But tonight, Jisung is beside me, and somehow, that changes everything.
He's practically glued to my side, a constant warmth lingering just a breath away, close enough to feel, never close enough to touch. It's a slow kind of torture, having him near but not near enough, maintaining this delicate performance of distance when every nerve in my body is begging me to break character. Pretending is exhausting. Restraint is exhausting.
God, if I could kiss him—just once—hard enough to leave him breathless, hard enough to erase every second of this charade, I swear I wouldn't ask for anything else.
Instead, I have to settle for the occasional brush of his hand when we move, the accidental bump of his shoulder against mine, the way his fingers graze my wrist when he reaches for his drink. Small, fleeting touches that send sparks dancing up my spine, a constant reminder that he's right there. Right there.
I take another sip of my champagne, letting the bubbles fizzle against my tongue, trying to ignore how my pulse jumps every time he leans in to whisper something to me. I know he's doing it on purpose—he has to be doing it on purpose.
We've been playing the part of social butterflies for the past hour, talking to people neither of us have any interest in, smiling when we don't mean it, laughing at things that aren't funny. The event itself is nice enough—elegant, extravagant, the kind of atmosphere dripping with wealth and thinly veiled superiority. I don't hate it. But I don't care about it either.
The only thing holding my interest is him.
At least I've been getting a fair amount of compliments on my hair tonight. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the attention—though, admittedly, the only opinion that actually matters is Jisung's. He hasn't said anything about it yet, but I've caught him staring. More than once.
We finally escape from one of the most agonizing conversations of the night—Yang's mother. Jesus Christ, that woman. I don't think I've ever met someone who could make a two-minute interaction feel like a lifetime.
As we put some well-earned distance between ourselves and her relentless chatter, Jisung leans in, his lips so close to my ear that I can feel the ghost of them against my skin, his breath sending a shiver down my spine.
