Our lips brushed and rubbed. Then, the next moment, he pressed in deeper, firmly. Each time he moved his head, the solid pads of flesh pushed and were pushed. Even from that shallow contact, I couldn’t move at all.
His lips were hot and dry, and he took my lower lip and then my upper lip in turn. He held my lips between his and mouthed them as if squeezing out the juice inside, then released me after a hard pull, and did it again and again.
Reaching through the faraway, dizzying sensation, I groped for and grabbed the hem of his jacket. My breath shook, my shoulders and back went stiff and then collapsed limp, over and over. I had no idea how to control myself.
When I blinked slowly, his eyes were there, staring at me from impossibly close.
“This is your first kiss.”
At a distance where his lips brushed me, he looked down with his eyes narrowed and whispered.
My memory hadn’t been wrong.
I’d gone over that night so many times since, but there was no scene anywhere of our lips meeting. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten—kissing hadn’t been part of what happened that day.
Even though we’d rubbed bare down below and gone all the way to climax, the kiss had been omitted. I didn’t know what that meant.
“I didn’t want to take a kiss from someone in a mental panic.”
It felt like he was reading my curiosity and explaining it.
He slowly sucked my lower lip again with a long, sticky pull and let it go, and added:
“I had the feeling it might be a first kiss.”
“...”
Something about him assuming I’d gotten to this age without even kissing made me feel sheepish; I wanted to blurt out that he was wrong—though he was right.
But thinking that even then, because it was my first kiss, he’d deliberately held back, the unexpected delicacy and self-control made me almost smile, and some of the tension eased.
Maybe he’d thought I’d attached meaning to a first kiss and saved it carefully.
I hadn’t set some high bar to hoard it on purpose, but I also hadn’t thought it fine to do it with anyone, any which way. If there had been a kiss that night and I couldn’t remember it, I probably would have regretted it.
Thinking that, his judgment had been right. You couldn’t call it excessive, unnecessary consideration.
As he gently stroked the back of my neck like a massage, he lightly scraped the surface of my lips with his teeth.
“How much of that night do you remember?”
“...”
I had taken his behavior since that night as an unspoken message to treat it as if it had never happened.
But for me, it had been my first sexual experience with another person, and the shock was so strong it even changed the mechanical, bland pattern of my masturbation.
When I recalled those masturbations—reaching climax while remembering his filthy words fanning my arousal and the strong grip working my sex—I couldn’t meet his eyes.
I bit my lip and lowered my head, and his lips followed. His tongue licked the teeth that had bitten my lip, tickling; the moment I let go, his mouth seized mine as if it had been waiting. The chewing sensation of his mouth worrying the flesh made my shoulders curl in.
“Judging by how you’re reacting... it’s not like you don’t remember at all.”
With a trace of laughter in his voice, he wet his lips with his tongue as if savoring the taste. Before I could say anything, his mouth took me again. Ever since our lips first touched, he hadn’t been away from my mouth for more than ten seconds.
At that pressed-tight distance, the density of the scent we breathed was enormous. It felt like he was blowing the scent itself into me through his lips. The stimulation of this moment pulled up and layered over the memory from last time. Maybe for me, this scent itself had set like a trigger for sexual imagery.
The hand that had been stroking my nape moved to my shoulder and back, and his other hand unbuttoned my jacket.
His hand slid inside the jacket and roamed my chest over the smooth shirt. He found my nipple so easily, pushed the nub up with his middle finger, and covered my mouth again. With our mouths still joined, he rubbed slowly left and right, up and down, and the inner mucosa showed; the wet mucosa pressed and slid against his, deeper, and a thin moan leaked between my lips.
Under his middle finger, my nipple bent this way and that, getting harder and harder. The harder it got, the more my body contracted, and the more I wanted his hand to knead there harder and suck. Afraid of that thirst, I caught his wrist—but this time he pinched the flesh with forefinger and thumb and twisted it until it hurt. Only it didn’t hurt; it zinged.
“Here. Do you remember how hard I sucked? You fed it to my mouth yourself.”
I bit my lower lip. My brow tightened on its own and my waist folded. Ridiculous as it was, I didn’t want him to stop this teasing and petting.
I remembered all of it—what kind of pleasure had made my whole body tremble when he licked and sucked and nipped that place I’d never consciously thought about.
Leaving my lips, his mouth drifted around my ear, and he whispered low and slow:
“Ah... I want to suck it again.”
Playful, like recalling the sweetness of a delicious dish—but carrying clear desire—the voice made my blood vessels twitch and contract. In an instant, “that feeling” surged hard. I felt like I would go crazy with the urge to give him my nipple again like last time.
I clutched at his jacket hem, hanging on, and gasped. He didn’t miss the opening, and his tongue pushed in. He drove his tongue so deep I could hardly breathe. My lower jaw dropped, and his flexible, wet flesh churned all through my mouth. It felt like drinking his fragrance made liquid.
His hand came around my thigh. The gentle strokes that soothed, as if telling me it was okay, grew viscous and slid deeper inside. With his hand rubbing the warm skin under the pants, it wasn’t just my upper body anymore—below my waist, too, I was jerking.
“Hh—hhn...”
It was getting hard to keep kissing. I broke away like fleeing and buried my forehead in his shoulder. Embarrassingly, I was half hard.
He stole the tongue he’d been sucking, wrapped my back as if patting to calm me, and bent his head deep to whisper:
“Shall we go to a hotel?”
Even wrapped in his scent already, I tilted my head toward his neck. Sniffing his skin directly was like a drug. Greedily, I drew several deep breaths.
Looking down at me like that, he swore low and hurried to rise from his seat.
“Wait...”
I grabbed and ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) tugged him back in a rush. He changed the motion of getting up and sat beside me again, and, as if tucking back hair that didn’t need arranging, he swept my hair—already neat—behind my ear and pressed his lips right to it.
“What’s wrong. I know you’re impatient, but we still have to change venues. I don’t intend to stop within what’s possible here, you know?”
“...”
Admitting with my own mouth that I was hard felt harder than, right here, yanking open my shirt and showing him my nipples. I resented my cock, swollen so tight it felt like it would burst from just kissing.
I lifted my head and looked at him. I was sure my eyes were melting, soaked with desire and hunger for him, but all I could do was hope he’d read my state.
He studied first my left eye and then my right, slow, and then touched his forehead to mine.
“Sorry. I teased you on purpose, knowing. Honestly I don’t have any room to spare either... so there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
After a call to have the car pulled up, he had me take off my jacket. He slung it over my arm to cover me roughly below, and we stood.
We shoved through the crowded first-floor hall, where the jazz piano had switched to a DJ’s dance track, and ran down the stairs hand in hand.
A different car than the one I’d come in with my sister and brother—probably the one he’d ridden—was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He got me in first and climbed into the back, and before the doorman had even closed the door all the way, he lunged in for a kiss.
As I took the weight of his shoulders and mouth pouring over me, I glanced at the front seat; he cupped my cheek with his hand to keep me focused on him. As the car pulled out, a sliding blind dropped over the window between the front and back seats.
Because of the force with which he pinned me toward the door, I couldn’t face forward; half-reclining with my back against the door, I lay slanted. He, too, wasn’t behaving; he climbed half onto the seat and worked his way between my legs.
Like a boy who’d discovered another’s mouth for the first time and fallen wholly into it, he clung to my lips. He pecked me a countless number of times, bit with his teeth, sealed deep, sucked and chewed. He rubbed his tongue on mine, lured mine into his mouth, held it full and squeezed.
It wasn’t the sort of kiss where you close your eyes and savor each other’s presence. We never took our eyes off each other.
He yanked the shirt hem out of my pants and slid his hand inside my clothes. My waist snapped at the touch of his hand on bare skin. I moaned and grabbed his shoulder. With our mouths still joined, he shrugged off his jacket and flung it aside. Then he caught my arms and looped them around his neck, and hugged my back to lift me onto his thigh.
Already hard, my cock pressed flat to his body and made my whole frame tremble. To hell with embarrassment; I tightened my arms around his neck and ground my sex against his lower belly—finding a measure of relief in the firm shape of his own under my balls.
Stacked together, we devoured each other through our clothes and tangled tongues. With eyes gone slack and hazy, we showed our hunger for each other without hiding it. His scent worked on me like music that set a sexy mood, like a hallucinogen that dulled reason, making me bold.
“If a Beta could sense an Alpha’s pheromones, we’d have sprinted downstairs already and tangled up in the back seat of my car.”
Inwoo’s words came to mind.
And that other line—that even Alphas and Omegas can be drawn to each other regardless of pheromones.
It was exactly that. He, a Golden Alpha, and I, a Beta, were boiling over with desire for each other without pheromones, so much so that we couldn’t wait even for the short time it would take to reach a hotel room and were knotted together in the back seat.
“Having to hold out again until we get to the room—this is hell.”
Seeing we were turning into the approach for the hotel entrance, he muttered in despair. Even as he said it, his hand didn’t leave my ass.
“Sorry. Could you endure hell for five minutes—no, three—more?”
The seriousness of his face as he said it made me laugh. It amazed me I could laugh even in this state. I nodded.
Breathless and disheveled, we crossed the lobby hand in hand. Thankfully, the elevator hall was empty at this late hour on a Sunday. If we’d run into a family with a young kid, me covering my erection with a jacket, I might have drowned in self-loathing.
The express elevator to the forty-second floor took no time.
It must have, and yet it felt so long it was boring. It really was hell, like he said.
Inside me something felt on the verge of spilling over; whatever it was, I felt I had to stop it. I pressed my jacket over my mouth, and he hugged me from behind.
His arms locked as one across my lower belly and cinched my waist tight. Anyone we met would have thought he was supporting someone who felt faint and couldn’t stand.
Two equal and opposite urges tore at me—the urge to wrench away and run, and the urge to turn around and clutch him, rubbing myself on his hard body.
The former was the me still lingering in the realm of reason and habit; the latter was the new me who’d opened my eyes to the instinct and pleasure that came with satisfying desire.
Even if it had been only once, experience told me which hand I would let lead me after this.
The instant the elevator doors opened, he snatched my wrist and strode down the corridor, and I half-stumbled after him on legs that wouldn’t quite take strength.
As soon as he opened the door, we tumbled in. No—he hauled me in hard. He tossed the key card onto the console by the entry and wrapped his long arms around my back.
My jacket fell to the floor, and in the next moment my back hit the hall wall leading to the living room. I didn’t even feel pain. Our mouths met again, and after that long patience the taste of tongue was like a drop of liquor—sweet enough to wipe everything else away.
I wrapped my arms around his back and gripped tight, crumpling his shirt. My whole focus collapsed into my lips under the numbing, dizzy suction of him biting and releasing as I opened and closed my mouth.
Staggering, nearly falling again and again as his force bore me down like he might throw me on the bare floor, I backpedaled until my thigh banged the back of the sofa. Then the round dining table where we’d gathered for breakfast meetings all fair week got shoved back by him. A couple of chairs toppled, and neither of us cared.
“Uhk.”
After all the pushing and being pushed, almost losing our balance several times, the dead end where we finally stopped was the windowwall.
He had me pinned to the forty-second-floor window that looked down on the Tsim Sha Tsui night across the way, and for a while he just panted and stared into my eyes from close range.
His broad shoulders heaving right before my face looked angry, as if I’d betrayed him. Under the knit lids, the pale blue eyes seethed like fizzing soda. It surprised me that someone like him could be this wound up just from lust.
With the cold glass at my back, I just looked at the want he exhaled—so strong it felt like rage—while I breathed his scent thickening, dense in his private space.
Then he tipped his head and sealed me again, deep; unlike his eyes, his mouth was nothing but gentle. He pressed and lifted, pressed and lifted—rain of small kisses.
