Prince Caspian -Jung Yoonoh NCT

34. Are You for Real?

But I go willingly to him, as always.

I am unable to resist him, as always.

He catches me by my waist and pulls me to him until I am trapped between his thighs. I feel the heat that comes off his body.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I was angry."

"With me?"

"No. Not with you. Never with you."

He pauses.

"I was angry because of the way they were looking at you."

"What way?"

"Like they want you. Surely you could see it in their eyes?"

I blush like an idiot.

He watches me blush, making me blush even more, then runs his finger along my lower lip.

"Are you... ," he whispers wonderingly, almost reverently, "for real?"

I look at him without comprehension. He wants to tell me something. But what? I don't understand him at all.

We are worlds apart.

I open my mouth to tell him how confused, how bewildered I am at the enormity of him, me, this, everything. Everything keeps changing, changing. Nothing stays the same. Why can't things stay the way they are? Why can't people stay the way they are? I do not understand. I do not understand myself. I do not understand you, wordlessly I cry. You are kind to me one moment, and cruel to me the next. You kiss me one minute, you spurn me the next. Tell me. Teach me, I wail inside. I do not understand. I do not understand any of it. Tell me. Teach me, so I can understand me, you, everything.

But words fail me at the last moment, and I step away from him, to take refuge by the window.

But he follows me all the same; and I stand with my back to him, waiting, my heart pounding in my breast.

And then he is behind me, a dark, magnetic presence. His breath is on my neck.

"You smell so good," he whispers.

He turns me gently to face him.

His face is quietly arrogant, sure of his hold, his power over me.

"If I hadn't switched seats with Lisa, what would you have done to Damien?" I say, my voice defiant, rebellious.

"Don't you dare say his name," he says, the calmness evaporating in a flash, his eyes flaring, his hands tightening on my shoulders.

"Damien." I say loudly, and again, with relish. "Damien. Damien. Damien."

A little devil in me wants to provoke him. I watch his face, wait for that careful control to break.

"Stop saying that name," he grits.

"Fine. I won't talk about him." I instinctively take a step back, but there is no space to run to, and I am hemmed in by him, my back touching the window. "But it doesn't mean I won't be thinking about him."

"Now you're deliberately testing me. I don't want you talking about him, and I certainly don't want you thinking about him while you're with me."

I point a finger at him.

"You think money gives you the right to do anything. You think you own me, and I'll do whatever you say. Let me tell you something, Mr. Mark CEO Jung. You can't control my thoughts."

"Really?" His voice is silky, smooth like butter. "I can't control your thoughts? How sure are you about that?"

"I'm sure. My thoughts are my own. You can't - oh -"

For he has pulled me into his arms, and swallowed my words in an angry, punishing kiss.

He thrusts his fingers into my hair, pulling my head back as he devours my mouth, his other arm wrapped around my waist. He is holding me pinned up against the tall glass window with his entire body. The glass is cold and hard behind my back, and I can hear it rattling. I hope it doesn't break. My hipbones are being ground against the window. I think I will be getting quite a few bruises from all this manhandling.

And then I stop thinking.

He lifts his mouth from mine finally, and cups my face with his hands. I stare at him dazedly. Cityscape lights are glinting on his hair. My body is warm with his heat.

"Not another fucking mention of him unless I bring it up. You hear me?"

Good grief. He is talking dirty to me. It's the first time anyone has spoken dirty to me. Grandfather would turn in his grave if he could hear his noble heir now.

I should be very angry, or embarrassed, or insulted. I should slap his face and reprove him for his foul language. I should demand that he apologise to me at once.

But I am not angry, or embarrassed, or insulted.

Instead I feel that secret little thrill of excitement again.

I nod.

He releases just my face. The rest of me is still pressed hard against him.

"People might see us," I whimper. There is an undercurrent of excitement in my voice, quite contrary to my prim words.

"I don't give a fuck."

His dirty mouth is spewing a torrent of foul words and it's all tangled up, and twisted with his hot breath in my ear.

Without a doubt, it is quite the most deliciously wicked thing that I've ever heard in my nineteen years of age, and the next thing I know, I have lost my mind, and I'm grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, pushing him back against the window very rudely, and kissing him back in a spurt of wanton madness and reckless impulse, while the glass starts to rattle in a most alarming manner.

My phone beeps.

I stop kissing him.

I open my eyes.

Lisa texts, Are you okay? We're leaving.

I text back, Yes, I'm fine. You go on ahead. I'll take a while. Got held up.

"I, um, have to go." I avoid looking at him. I feel hot everywhere, but most of all on my face.

Oh God, what did I just do? 

I behaved like a cavewoman!

I practically jumped him.

"Yiseul. Hey, look at me." He is grinning that grin that makes my heart skip a beat, and looking very pleased with himself. His tie is crooked, and he's got lipstick on the corner of his mouth, and his hair is all mussed up. I did all that to him, and he looks utterly, totally, absolutely adorable - and happy. His eyes are twinkling.

His phone buzzes.

"Just a minute," he says, and answers the phone. "Hello." 

I can hear the caller's voice very clearly on the other end. It is a sulky, petulant, high-pitched voice. 

A woman's voice.

        -  Darling. Where are you? I've been waiting ages -

        -  I'll be right there. Sorry, I got, er, held up -

        -  I'm hungry. Hurry up -

         - I'll be right there -

He ends the call, and then looks at me.

I am frozen, numb. I am a wooden thing.