Prince Caspian -Jung Yoonoh NCT

46. Smoky Sugar

A lock of hair has fallen forward, and is brushing the corner of his right eye, and I have a sudden and thoroughly horrifying desire to push it aside, just to feel its softness. He clears his throat, and my cheeks burn, terrified that he has somehow read my mind.

I don't move. I'm staring at his chest. My hand reaches out and drags across his chest. It's hard, a wall of muscle, but I can feel his heart beating a wild rhythm beneath my palm. I linger there, amazed by the effect I have on him. His hands are on my lower back. Twisting circles. Running up and down. Up and down.

My hands are there, brushing across every inch of him. Soon I will come to my senses, but for now, I'm in a dream.

He reaches out for me. One hand trails up my spine.

His touch thrills me.

His thumb caresses up and down my back, leaving a tingling sweep in their wake. My breath catches in my throat. I wonder what that same movement would feel like against my neck, my cheeks, my lips....

I can feel the warmth of his palms radiate through the material. His fingertips dance over my skin, skimming, lingering.

We're silent. We're stretched out taut, walking a tightrope. We're holding our breaths. He is a weapon. I am his target. There is no escape. There is no way I want to escape.

I press my hand to his chest. He's hard muscle beneath warm, golden skin. His eyes meet mine and they are a shade of brown I've never seen.

My hands drift up to his neck and I yank his tie free. I am diving into the lion's den. He takes me in with his heavy-lidded eyes, from my flushed cheeks to my quivering stomach. It's all there for him to see. All my weaknesses laid bare for his scorching eyes. He can see right through me. He can read my mind. He knows what I want. He knows what I want is him.

"Yiseul," he whispers. On his tongue my name sounds full and lush, like a line of poetry or a hymn.

I am a toy that's been wound and wound and wound.

I am ready to be set free.

I need to be.

My eyes squeeze close. I tilt my head back and he kisses me.

His lips are sweet and tender.

In the dim light filtering in from the window, he looks like a wicked dream. Set jaw. Ruffled brown hair.

The air sizzles with our heat.

Goose bumps scatter my skin. Today, I am wearing my hair down. The back of my neck feels hot under my hair.

My heart is racing.

I am breathless.

More footsteps pass. I'm in a room smaller than a jail cell and Jae has his hands on me. We're in a broom closet, and he's kissing me.

I take a step back and knock over a broom. I pull back from his kiss.

"Oh, look, someone's peeking," he says, his jaw still pressed against my forehead as he looks up.

"What?" I whisper, horrified, following his gaze, searching the high window, but all I see is a square of foggy glass. "Where? I don't see any - "

And then he kisses me again.

He reaches out and smoothens my hair. Tucks flyaway strands behind my ears. He straightens my blouse, adjusts my collar, pulls down the hem of my skirt. He runs a hand over his hair, and straightens his tie. Tucks in his shirt. Tugs at his collar.

He opens the door and pushes me out.

Nicola is walking towards me, two Starbuck coffees in her hand. I can smell the aroma, it mingles with his scent on me. I pull the door shut quickly behind me. She does a double-take when she sees me come out of the janitor's closet.

"I was looking for some glass cleaner. There are fingerprints all over the office." Someone lifts her head, and gives me a funny look. Is that a stifled laugh I hear from behind the locked door?

She blinks, confused.

"Have you seen Mark, um, Mr. Jung? I went all the way up to the Executive Floor, but he's not in his room?" Her face is sulky, her mouth turned down at the edges. "His secretary doesn't know where he is, either?"

"No. I haven't seen him. Maybe you should um, text him."

"I did? But he's not replying?"

She stares at my face, as if she's noticing it for the first time, and her eyes narrow a little.

"You're looking a little flushed - Yiseul, right?" Her eyes rest on my lips. She frowns.

Shit. My lipstick. I can imagine what my mouth looks like.

"Oops, my phone is ringing," I say, even though it isn't. "Got to go. Bye."

I keep my composure until I get back to my desk.

I collapse into my chair.

Suddenly I hear a squeal.

Nicola's running, running! and calling out, breathlessly, "Mr. Jung! Mark! Hang on a sec!"

I'm craning my neck, and peeking over the top edge of my cubicle.

He's emerged - somehow - from the broom closet.

"Mark," she's simpering. "I've been looking for you..."

He flashes a charming smile at her.

"Oh, sorry. I was, um, kind of held up for a bit." I can hear the laughter in his voice.

His hair is the tiniest bit mussed near the back, the front falling down over his forehead, shiny and soft. His cream shirt is rumpled ever so slightly, and there, on the shoulder, is a patch of fiery red.

My lipstick.

Smoky sugar.

"What can I do for you, Nic?"

She's stopped talking.

She's starring at the patch. Frowning. Like she's thinking hard. Putting pieces of a jigsaw together.

She swivels her head and stares at me.

I duck.

I am panting like I've run ten blocks. Sweat is beading on the back of my neck. My heart is pounding. My fingers are burning hot from touching the cotton covering his skin.

I take out my compact powder. I stare at the mirror.

I see what Nicola saw.

My eyes are wild. My mouth is swollen. My hair is a mess.

I look like I have been well and thoroughly kissed.

Oh, shit.