“Is the sweatshirt feeling too tight? Want to take it off and sleep?”
He paused at the edge of the bed and glanced down at what I was wearing. I recalled the warmth and reassurance I’d felt when it was first draped over me. Though the comforter had been cozy when I woke, now I didn’t want to shed it. I shook my head.
“All right, then.”
He stepped back easily.
I climbed onto the bed on my knees, found my spot, and lay down. He covered me with the soft, white comforter that seemed to hold the very air itself.
Looking up, I saw him towering above me even more than when he’d stood. I had so many questions, but my expression betrayed my difficulty in asking them. In the dim light, his eyes—paler than usual—traced every contour of my face, as if pressing into each delicate point.
“Close your eyes.”
I obeyed.
To him, I must look like a twenty-two-year-old coward—needing escort to the bathroom, needing someone beside me until I fell asleep. But without excuse, that was the truth.
“Good night.”
I felt him retreat. Behind my closed lids, the room grew darker.
Then came the sound of him settling into the plush sofa. The faint patter of rain. The occasional creak of the garden trees swaying in wind and downpour. And in the darkness behind my eyelids, the “gloomy parts of us” began to stir.
How had that painting come to be here?
Ms. Sukhee Kim had contacted us immediately after the contest results, expressing her desire to purchase it. After discussing with my parents, we’d offered to gift her the painting, but she’d insisted on paying an amount that, to my parents and me, had been considerable. Of course, a collector is free to trade a purchased work as they wish. The painting’s presence here didn’t mean she’d treated it carelessly. And even if she had, it wouldn’t diminish the bond I’d felt through her jury comments. Someone had received my signal. I was not alone.
“Director Ryu.”
“Yes? I’m here.”
His voice carried a hint of playfulness, but it was low and gentle.
“Did you... like that painting?”
...Tears flowed again. My temples burned. But these were mechanical tears—thankfully, the darkness and the distance hid them. I shifted, feigning repositioning, but then his voice rippled through the hush, vibrating the dark.
“Seo Ihyeon.”
“...”
“Shall I make you forget it all?”
He rose from the sofa, and soon the far edge of the bed dipped under his weight. As in the afternoon’s garden shoot, his knees came to straddle mine.
I lifted my eyelids slowly. He was pressed in deep, thigh against thigh, as if probing into my core. His gaze on my still-wet eyes held something I could almost read as anger—though not anger, something harder to name.
Did he like the painting? I searched his eyes for an answer, but the touch of his fingertips on my cheek scattered my thoughts.
The hand that had traced my jaw drifted upward, brushing moisture from my temple. In the dark his pale irises looked like ghosts dissolving, yet the hand’s warmth was undeniably living flesh.
That hand slid down my cheek to cradle my chin, thumb grazing my lower lip and flipping it gently to graze the inner flesh.
A weight pressed between my legs. His body leaned against me and gently ground downward. His lips hovered centimeters from mine, his breath sweet with the residue of strong liquor.
“I’ll make it so you can’t think of anything, so nothing will matter...”
His hot whispering lips seemed poised for a kiss, but instead they skimmed my cheek, deepened into my neck.
I closed my eyes at once. It felt as if I’d fallen from a surfboard into an oceanic wave of scent.
He nibbled along the soft flesh beneath my ear, then pulled back the comforter. The pressure of his warmth and weight pressed more directly against me. On the verge of shrinking from the unfamiliar sensations, I stifled a short moan.
His lips pressed to my ear, and a wet tongue probed inside. At my reaction, he cupped my head and buried my ear deeper against his mouth. He peppered kisses across its surface, tracing with his tongue, murmuring in a thick, low voice:
“Do you like having this done to your ear?”
“Uh—”
Each syllable tickled like feathers in my ear. I tilted my head and gripped his shoulder. His body, which had only pressed me before, now twisted his hips, grinding against me.
My breath came in ragged pants. I wore only thin pajamas, and he was in thicker training pants—both loungewear, soft against skin but wholly inadequate to conceal their bulges.
He pressed our groins together, angling his right knee to part my left thigh and slipped between my legs. I felt the weight of flesh settle between me. By its soft fullness, it was clearly not yet fully aroused, and yet the volume was astonishing. My gaze dropped without my control.
He laughed low in my ear, that laugh itself a caress. I hunched my shoulders and bit my lower lip; he responded by lightly scratching my ear with his teeth. Playful yet fierce, it drew another ragged breath from me.
He didn’t rush to bare skin. Over my pajamas, he ground our bodies so that our genitals rubbed through fabric. It wasn’t delicate. He lowered his pelvis and pressed upward, riding me with an erotic intent that compelled both pressure and subtle thrust.
The hand that had trailed through my hair slid down to brush my cheek and ear, then tapped my neck like piano keys. He tugged at the neckline of my sweatshirt as though testing it.
“Shall I take it off?”
Inches from my ear, any word was sexual fuel. A chill raced over me and I gripped his shoulder more fiercely. The sweatshirt twisted in my grasp. He stared down at me, then brushed a kiss beside my mouth, and with a decisive motion flung the shirt away.
With his top discarded, he grasped my wrist and lifted my arm overhead, then yanked at the sleeve to pull the sweatshirt off. It was an odd method, but soon it lay on the floor. He laughed at the tousled mess of hair it revealed.
In a suit he’d seemed sleek, but his torso was far more solid than I’d imagined—thick shoulders, sharply defined muscles, and a breadth of chest and torso I’d never reckoned. Under the dim light, shadows carved his abs and pectorals into stark relief.
Perhaps because he was unclothed, his scent intensified—powerful, pressing down on me as though he weighed me from above. I inhaled sharply, craving more of that scent.
He eased forward again, merging our bodies. When we touched, he had become the scent itself.
I gasped. My breathing shattered. I gripped the sheets, then clutched at his bare shoulder.
“Shhhh—”
His voice was a lullaby for a terrified or sobbing child. He soothed me, stroking my face.
“Breathe out slowly... It’s all right. This isn’t hyperventilation. Don’t be afraid. Close your eyes.”
A large, warm palm covered them. Though my sight was gone, I felt no fear. Matching the palm’s slow movement toward my throat, I let my lids fall. My sudden bodily reaction had startled me, but it wasn’t the terror of personal harm.
Not terror, but desire—rising wild and undeniable. My legs trembled as he ground against me, hips gyrating, every fiber of my body registering need.
“Focus only on answering my question.”
His hand slid beneath my V-neck pajama top, easily reaching between. Over my breasts it swept, cupping the flesh ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) to gauge its fullness.
“How do you feel?”
Even that first question was hard to answer. He shifted:
“Is this unpleasant?”
I shook my head firmly, several times.
Under his weight and the force of his scent, I was adapting. My lower body burned where he pressed me. Though I knew I was moving my hips, I lacked any control to stop.
His fingertips played across my breast, flicking my hardened nipple upward.
“Then... does it feel good?”
“Hnn—”
My hips bucked. That was my answer.
He encircled my areola with thumb and forefinger, squeezing, then twisted gently as though wringing pleasure out from within.
“Ha... haaah...”
Incredible—I was gasping as his hand coaxed me.
I lost grip of his shoulder, grabbed it again, then pulled him closer by the back of his neck, craving a deeper thrust. Even as he twisted my body with each kneading, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his back.
“You won’t force you anything you don’t want. If it ever hurts, just say so. You’re not scared, right?”
I nodded—over and over.
Then his face dipped toward my neck, brushing cheek and lips against my skin, pressing closer. His hand began undoing the pajama buttons.
At the real sensation of clothing coming undone, I opened my eyes. Beneath my chin, he nibbled at the skin where neck met jaw, while deft fingers worked the buttons with practiced ease. His body pressed along my chest as each button slipped free, exposing soft flesh that tightened and released with every breath.
He peeled back the pajama front, sliding his lips down my chest like paint against canvas. He bit my collarbone, traced an intoxicating line across my upper chest, lips brushing my nipple again and again. The sensation was unlike any I’d known—only possible through contact with another.
Impatient, I curled my toes inwards, wishing for deeper pressure. He lifted his head and deliberately rubbed his lips over my nipple’s tip, barely brushing the skin.
“Haah, uh...”
I bit my lower lip and gripped the back of his neck. His gaze, fixed on me, held a fierce heat that seemed to flush his pale blue eyes with red.
He flicked his tongue out to tease the base of my erect nipple. My chest trembled with a quivering ache as I pressed my head into the pillow, raising my hips. The scent of him seemed to choke me as his lips paused to inhale.
He tapped my nipple with the tip of his tongue and whispered,
“Suck it for me.”
His voice was thick with emotion.
I tugged his hair back as he cupped my breast, drawing the nipple forward into his mouth. Astonishingly, I did it without hesitation.
He took it in with a strong suck. Pain and pleasure collided as I arched my back and ground into him, fingers threading through his hair.
Still pressing between my legs, he angled down to continue on my breast. Despite the twist in my hips, he caressed my side and lower belly with his free hand.
He’d told me to speak up if it ever felt wrong, yet his touch curling around my navel didn’t repel me. I didn’t try to push him away from my nipple, nor did I shrink from the weight that pressed me down.
My own arousal, the first friction of another’s body against mine, responded instantly. I’d never imagined it would be with someone of the same sex, nor had I forbidden that idea. Looking back at my reactions these days, it wasn’t surprising to find I didn’t resist this.
As he kissed my nipple like a fervent lover, sometimes sucking fiercely enough to indent my flesh, I breathed as though strangled. He glanced up and saw me, and as I bit down to stifle a moan, he gently pulled off my lip. Then, as though he couldn’t see, he traced my mouth with his fingertips.
He painted over my lips—upper and lower—gliding across every curve. Then one finger slipped in between, pushing ever so slightly. I reacted without thinking...
