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They’d been at it for hours.
The air in the studio was thick with heat, thick with sweat, thick with something even heavier that neither of them dared name. The floor had gone slick beneath their feet, patches of dampness soaking into their socks and shoes, smearing where they’d stomped too hard. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale glare over the mirrors that stretched wall to wall — but it was the shadows that clung. Jagged. Shaky. Their bodies thrown in harsh silhouette every time they moved, every time they collided and split apart like magnets playing chicken.
Rumi’s chest rose and fell like she’d just finished a sprint, lungs straining with every breath she tried to steal between eight-counts. But it wasn’t just cardio killing her. Wasn’t just the choreography making her tremble.
It was him.
Jinu.
Across the room, he stood like sin given form. Shirt clinging to his body, soaked through with sweat in all the right places, translucent where it stuck to his abs. His dark hair was damp and wild, strands glued to his forehead, curling at the nape of his neck. His chest heaved with exertion, throat shiny with sweat, jaw tense with whatever sharp, impatient thoughts were bouncing behind those eyes.
He looked like a temptation she was supposed to resist. Something too dangerous to touch. A warning wrapped in heat and smirk and muscle.
And Rumi was fucking tired of pretending she wasn’t tempted.
“You missed the beat again,” he said, voice like gravel laced in silk. The kind of voice that could either undress you or destroy you. “Try to keep up this time.”
“Go fuck yourself,” she snapped without hesitation, planting her feet back into position like her rage alone could hold her upright.
He smirked.
Of course he smirked.
Because that’s what he always did when she got like this — when her fuse burned down and she started to shake from too much adrenaline, too much stubbornness, too much want. When her skin got too hot and her brain too loud and the only way to stay standing was to match him, toe to toe, breath for breath, until one of them broke.
The music started again. A bass drop like a warning. Syncopated rhythm. Too heavy to ignore. Every note was hips and power and precision — brutal choreography meant to eat them alive. And they dove into it like a challenge.
Like a fight.
They didn’t just move; they stalked.
Rumi snapped her body to each beat, sharp and exact, throwing every ounce of tension into her angles. He matched her perfectly. Every time. His steps mirrored hers, his lines just as deadly. But every time he got too close — a breath too near, a brush too deliberate — she didn’t flinch. Refused to back down. Because that’s what this was now.
A fucking game.
And she wasn’t going to lose.
The bridge hit. Jinu spun behind her, close enough for his breath to catch the back of her neck, his hand grazing her hip — too light to be innocent, too rough to ignore.
Rumi arched under the contact. Not away.
Their eyes caught in the mirror.
His stare was dark. Ravenous. That calculated kind of hungry, like a predator savoring the moment before pounce. Like he’d been waiting for this — for her to break formation. For her to finally give in.
And maybe… just maybe, she was about to.
“Again,” she said. Barely a breath.
He didn’t argue.
The beat dropped, and so did they — bodies hitting the floor like weapons, knees bent, torsos rolled, inches apart. Her muscles screamed. Her sports bra clung to her ribs. Sweat dripped from her hairline down the back of her neck.
And still — she didn’t stop.
Because his hands were on her hips now.
Flat. Heavy. Anchored. And this time… he didn’t let go.
He spun her — quick, controlled — and walked her backward with his grip tight and unrelenting, her feet stumbling to keep up. Until her back hit the mirror.
The glass was cold against her flushed skin, a shock of sensation that made her gasp — but his body? His body was fire. All heat and weight and tension, pressing her into the wall like she was something that needed pinning down. Like she was prey.
But he didn’t kiss her.
Not yet.
Instead, he leaned in — slow, deliberate — and licked a long, wet stripe from the base of her throat up to her jaw.
Messy. Possessive. Filthy.
She shuddered, nails clawing at his shirt, but didn’t stop him. Wouldn’t.
“Say it,” he whispered, lips ghosting over her skin. “Say you want this.”
Her head hit the mirror with a dull thunk, the throb of her pulse hammering in her ears. “I want it,” she said, voice breaking. “I want you.”
His gaze locked on hers.
“Then open your fucking mouth.”
She did.
And he spit in it.
Her lips glistened, spit heavy on her tongue. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t wipe it away.
She swallowed.
Slow. Defiant. Deliberate.
Held his stare the whole time.
Her breath came short and sharp, like she was daring him to be fazed, like she wanted him to see that it didn’t scare her. That nothing he did could make her back down — not when her body was already singing for him, not when her thighs were already trembling from how badly she wanted more.
Jinu’s jaw ticked.
Whatever was holding him back — whatever paper-thin restraint had kept this game in check for so long — frayed. Shredded. Snapped.
His hand came up again, but not gentle this time.
He grabbed her by the chin, rough fingers digging into her jaw as he dragged her closer to the mirror, chest to chest, cock to cunt with only layers of sweat-drenched fabric in between. His voice was a growl against her ear, sharp with control.
“You see that?” he hissed, forcing her to look — not at him, but at herself. “That’s what you look like when you’re begging. That’s what you look like when I own you.”
Her reflection stared back, feral and flushed, mouth parted, a flush rising from her collar to her cheeks. Her pupils were blown wide, lashes damp with sweat, body vibrating like a livewire under his grip.
And he wasn’t done.
He pinned her against the mirror — not with his hands, but with his whole body. His hips ground against her ass, cock thick and pulsing through his pants, pressing into her like a threat.
She pushed back.
Just a little. Just enough to make him hiss between his teeth.
A bratty grind. A challenge. A promise.
“I’m not begging yet,” she whispered, her voice like smoke.
That made him laugh.
Dark. Low. Breathless.
“Oh, you will.”
Her leggings were stuck to her thighs like a second skin — soaked, clingy, glued to every curve. But he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask.
He yanked them down in one swift, brutal motion, dragging the waistband over her ass with rough hands, bunching the fabric around her knees. Her soaked panties came into view — black, sheer, damp from the slick already soaking through.
He let out a curse, voice low and vicious. “You wore these on purpose.”
There was no time for an answer. No need.
He cupped her — bold and unrelenting — dragging two fingers up the seam of her panties, slow enough to make her hips twitch, deep enough to make her gasp. His palm settled over her heat, the weight of it anchoring her in place.
He didn’t move.
He just held her there.
Letting her feel his control.
Letting her know he could ruin her without even trying.
“Soaked,” he murmured against her temple. “You got this wet just from dancing with me?”
Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched. She didn’t answer.
So he slapped her. Right across the ass. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.
She moaned.
“Answer me.”
“Fuck you,” she breathed, voice shaking, but still sharp.
He shoved her panties aside and plunged two fingers in — deep. To the knuckle. No warning, no teasing, just thick, calloused digits sliding into her like he’d been dreaming about it for months. Like her cunt had been made to take him.
Her body arched off the mirror like she’d been jolted by electricity.
“There’s your answer,” she gasped.
He grinned into her neck. Filthy. Hungry.
Then he curled his fingers.
She sobbed.
Not from pain — from need. Desperation. A raw, trembling ache that sat behind her ribs and made her legs quake.
“Look at yourself,” he growled, eyes locked on the reflection in front of them. “Look how you take it. You gonna keep mouthing off while you’re dripping down my hand?”
She tried to turn her head, tried to look away, but he grabbed her nape and forced her gaze forward again.
“You wanted the game, princess. You started this shit. So now you take it.”
He fucked into her harder, faster, his fingers hitting that spot with ruthless precision, the wet sounds between her thighs echoing off the glass. Her whole body trembled. Her thighs shook. Her mouth hung open, spit dripping from the corner of her lips as she panted.
And he watched it all.
Watched her come apart in the mirror.
“Don’t you dare come,” he snapped, pulling out just as she hit the edge.
She whimpered. Almost choked on it.
“I said not yet.”
“Then stop touching me,” she snapped back, still defiant, even with her knees threatening to give.
He laughed — mean and dark — then brought his slick fingers to her mouth.
“Suck.”
She did. Immediately. No hesitation.
Moaned around them like they were the first real thing she’d tasted all night.
“You taste how desperate you are?”
Her eyes fluttered.
Didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
He didn’t give her time to catch her breath.
Didn’t let her think. Didn’t let her guess.
Just spun her, fast — yanked her off the mirror like she weighed nothing — and dropped to the studio floor with her straddling his thigh like she was a goddamn problem he was ready to solve with both hands and no patience.
The air left her lungs in a punchy exhale. Her knees hit the mat on either side of his leg, shaking as they spread wide. Her cunt — wet, swollen, still twitching from the way he’d finger-fucked her on the glass — ground against the thick line of muscle through his pants.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared up at her, one hand gripping her hip, the other splayed across her back to keep her close, like he knew exactly how fragile she was underneath the defiance. She could still feel him — hard and caged behind damp fabric, cock twitching with every breath she took. Her panties were soaked, still shoved to the side, clinging to her like they were as desperate as she was.
“Ride it,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel dragged over silk.
She blinked. “What?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You heard me.”
A beat passed. Her lips parted — maybe in protest, maybe a challenge — but her hips moved on instinct. Just a small shift forward. Just enough for her clit to catch the thick line of his thigh.
She gasped.
He smirked.
“Make yourself come,” he murmured, the pad of his thumb brushing lazy circles into her waist. “Show me how badly you fucking want it.”
Her fingers curled into his shoulders. Her mouth opened to snap something back, to claw for control — but her hips had already betrayed her. They moved again. Deeper this time. Slower. A filthy drag forward, her soaked core grinding down hard against the flex of his leg.
The friction was perfect — thick and firm, hot through the layers of sweat and fabric and tension that still clung between them. Her lashes fluttered. Her breath hitched. And when he pushed her hips down harder, guiding her rhythm with a grip that felt more like possession than instruction, she moaned.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
“That’s it,” he said, voice tight. “Just like that.”
And she did. She kept going. Kept grinding. Her body rolled forward in slow, desperate waves, every motion dragging her clit over that unrelenting muscle. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, punctuated by broken little whines every time the angle was just right. Sweat clung to her skin, her thighs trembling with the effort, her sports bra riding up enough for the air to cool the sweat slicked under her tits.
He didn’t stop her. Didn’t rush her.
He just watched.
His hand slid up to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, not yanking — just holding. Anchoring. Like he wanted to feel the way she trembled as she fucked herself on him. His other hand stayed on her hip, controlling her pace whenever she tried to speed up. Slowing her back down. Making her ride it slow. Messy. Obscene.
“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he muttered, mouth brushing her jaw. “All ruined and needy, dripping down my leg like you’ve got something to prove.”
She let out a desperate sound — high and sharp and barely a breath — and rocked forward again. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her eyes squeezed shut.
“Not yet,” he whispered, tightening his grip when she started to lose rhythm. “Hold it.”
“I can’t,” she gasped.
“You will.”
Her hips stuttered.
Her breath caught.
Her whole body trembled on top of him like she was fighting gravity — or giving in to it — and just when her mouth opened to beg, to curse, to scream, he kissed her.
Finally.
Hard and deep, all tongue and teeth and filthy desperation. She whined into his mouth, hands clawing at his chest, dragging at his shirt like she didn’t know whether to tear it off or anchor herself to it.
And just as her rhythm faltered again — just when she gasped against his lips — he slid his hand between them.
Found her clit.
Pressed down.
Once.
Twice.
And she came.
Hard.
Her body snapped forward with a sob, her thighs locking around his leg, cunt pulsing against soaked fabric as her orgasm ripped through her like a livewire. Her mouth opened in a broken cry — no words, just sound — her body jerking in his lap like it couldn’t handle the force of it. She trembled through every second, hips twitching, breath gone, head dropped to his shoulder.
Jinu didn’t stop touching her.
Didn’t stop holding her.
He whispered against her temple. Something too quiet to catch. Something that made her breath stutter and her hands curl tighter in his shirt. And when the aftershocks faded — when her hips finally stopped twitching and her body sagged against him, sweaty and flushed and fucked-out — he brushed the hair back from her face and kissed her again.
Softer this time.
Like she meant something.
She barely had time to recover before his hands were on her again — not rough, not cruel, but with the kind of certainty that said he wasn’t finished, not even close. Her body still trembled against him, hips twitching from aftershocks, her cunt still throbbing where she’d just ground herself to release on his thigh. But Jinu? He didn’t even pause. He kissed her once — messy, hard, breath-stealing — and then moved.
One sharp pivot and he flipped her flat onto her back, dragging her with him, her body catching against the floor with a soft thud as her limbs sprawled wide. Her spine arched at the chill of it, at the suddenness, at the sheer weight of him pressing down over her. Her legs spread instinctively, still limp from the orgasm he’d just pulled from her, and he slotted himself between them like it was where he belonged.
Her breath hitched as he kissed down her neck, his mouth dragging heat across her pulse point, his stubble scratching at skin already flushed and sensitive. One of his hands found her thigh, shoved it higher, opened her wider. The other braced beside her head. He leaned back just enough to look down at her, and something in his expression changed — his eyes darkening, jaw tight, chest heaving as he took in the sight of her ruined and pliant beneath him.
“You look like you want more,” he said, voice thick with restraint that barely held.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat was raw from moaning, her body still boneless from grinding out that first orgasm in his lap — but the pulse between her legs hadn’t stopped. The ache hadn’t dulled. And when he let go of her thigh just long enough to tear her panties the rest of the way off, she didn’t stop him.
His pants were already pushed down just enough, and when he wrapped a hand around his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — he didn’t stroke it to show off. He lined it up.
Dragged the head through her folds.
Once. Twice. Just to feel her twitch.
She jerked under him, gasped like she’d been burned.
“Jinu,” she managed, her hand flying up to grab his wrist, nails digging in without thought.
He paused — hovered just above her, panting — his cock slick with her, his face flushed, sweat dripping from his temple. He leaned closer, his mouth brushing her cheek, his voice low enough to scrape the inside of her skull.
“You want me to stop?”
She didn’t. Of course she didn’t. But the tension between them was coiled so tight it hurt, the kind of pressure that begged to break, and for a split second, she couldn’t speak.
So she met his eyes.
Let her hips roll up to meet him.
And said, “Fuck you.”
The grin that broke across his face was nothing short of feral.
“Wrong answer.”
And then he was inside her.
Not slowly. Not sweetly.
He slammed into her in one breathless, unforgiving thrust — all the way to the hilt — and her back arched off the floor like she’d been struck by lightning. Her mouth fell open on a sob that got caught somewhere behind her teeth, and her fingers clawed at his shoulders, trying to anchor herself to something solid while the rest of her shattered.
Jinu didn’t give her time to adjust. Didn’t give her space to breathe. He buried himself in her, held there for just a second — deep, pulsing, thick — and then started to move, hips rolling with brutal rhythm, like he’d been waiting all night to fuck her like this. His grip shifted, one hand sliding beneath her thigh to press it higher, the other bracing beside her head as he thrust into her again and again, each snap of his hips dragging a new noise from her mouth — gasps, sobs, curses, none of them coherent.
She couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember her own name. All she could do was feel — the burn of him stretching her open, the sharp slap of skin meeting skin, the sweat slicking their bodies together as he drove her into the floor like he meant to brand himself into her bones.
And still — he wasn’t rough without purpose. Every stroke hit deep. Every movement precise. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what she needed, and he delivered it with the kind of restraint that made it worse. The kind that made her want to scream.
He leaned in again, mouth at her ear, breath hot and ragged.
“Turn around.”
She blinked, barely processing the words.
“What—?”
He didn’t wait for permission.
Didn’t need it.
He pulled out slowly — painfully — and rolled her over onto her stomach in one practiced motion, like he’d done this a hundred times in his head, maybe more. Her body followed without resistance, pliant now, desperate, her arms catching under her chest as her cheek hit the floor.
“Up,” he ordered. “Hands on the mirror.”
She hesitated — barely a second — and he brought his palm down on her ass, sharp and loud, making her jolt forward with a strangled yelp.
“Now.”
She scrambled to obey, crawling forward on shaking limbs until her palms hit the fogged-up glass. Her forehead pressed against the mirror. Her breath fogged it in bursts. And when her reflection came into focus — flushed cheeks, parted lips, hair clinging to damp skin, pupils blown wide — she almost didn’t recognize herself.
She looked ruined.
Beautiful.
His.
Jinu knelt behind her, spread her knees apart, and ran both hands over the curve of her ass like he was memorizing it. His thumbs parted her, exposing the glistening mess between her thighs, and he groaned — low, broken, reverent.
“Fuck, Rumi. Look at you.”
She tried. Her head was heavy. Her breath too shallow. But when he grabbed her by the jaw and tilted her chin to the glass, forcing her to meet her own gaze, she gasped.
Because he was right.
She looked fucked-out and perfect. Sweat dripping down her spine. Her cunt glistening. Her mouth slack and trembling from how badly she wanted more.
“You’re going to watch yourself,” he said, voice low but merciless, “while I make you come again.”
He didn’t ease back in this time.
He shoved in deep — a single, devastating stroke that punched the air from her lungs and made her knees buckle. Her palms slapped against the glass as her body jolted forward, slick thighs trembling as she scrambled for balance. Her cunt stretched around him greedily, taking all of him again like she hadn’t already been filled to the edge of madness. Like her body had no concept of enough when it came to him.
Jinu groaned low in his throat, burying himself fully and holding there, his chest heaving as he ground his hips into the cradle of her ass. Her walls clenched around him, hot and soaked and fluttering from the effort of taking him again. He felt everything — every twitch, every pulse, every flutter of overwhelmed muscle dragging against the thick ridge of his cock.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hissed, voice cracked and fraying. “Still clenching like I haven’t been inside you all goddamn night.”
She let out a choked moan. Her head dropped. Her legs trembled violently, but she didn’t fall — not yet. Not with his hand anchoring her by the hip and his cock splitting her open in deep, rhythmic thrusts that hit her so hard she swore she could feel them in her teeth.
The mirror was slick with her breath now. Her cheek smeared condensation with every jolt. Her hands scrabbled for purchase. Sweat dripped from her ribs, down her stomach, pooling at the waistband of her half-shucked leggings. Her whole body was a mess of sensation — flushed, fucked, too full — and when he reached around to touch her, she nearly collapsed.
His fingers found her clit again. Slippery, swollen, soaked. He didn’t tease this time. Didn’t circle. Just rubbed fast and mean, drawing rough, relentless strokes over the bundle of nerves that made her whimper like she was breaking.
“Keep your eyes open,” he ordered, grinding into her like a man possessed. “I want you to see what I do to you.”
She tried.
But her gaze kept going glassy, kept fluttering shut every time the head of his cock dragged over that spot inside her, thick and hot and perfect. The friction was maddening — the stretch of him, the slap of skin, the slap of his thighs against hers, the wet slap of her cunt gripping and letting go and pulling him right back in like she couldn’t stand to lose him even for a second.
Her muscles clenched again — hard this time, spasming around him like her body was trying to lock him in place. Her hands slipped down the mirror. Her knees buckled.
“Jinu—” she gasped, ragged. “I can’t—fuck—please—”
“Yes, you can.” He grabbed her throat from behind, his palm curling just under her jaw as he pulled her upright against his chest. “You will. You’re gonna come on my cock, and you’re gonna look yourself in the eye when you do it.”
She sobbed.
It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t poised.
It was messy and raw, the sound of a girl stretched too far, wrung out and fucked so deep she didn’t know where she ended and he began. Her thighs twitched. Her cunt clenched. Her whole body rocked with the force of his thrusts, and her reflection — feral, drenched, shaking — burned itself into her brain.
He fucked her like he needed to break her open and climb inside.
She came again like she was begging for it.
It hit like a punch to the gut. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body locking up around him so tight he almost shouted. Her pussy clamped down in rolling waves, squeezing the life out of him, slick gushing around his cock as he fucked her through it — deeper, harder, relentless.
“God—Rumi—shit—” he grunted, hips stuttering, rhythm faltering as her body milked him. “That’s it. That’s fucking it.”
She was gone.
Gone.
Head thrown back against his shoulder, throat bared, legs barely holding her upright as the orgasm ripped through her. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Just trembled, body clenching and fluttering and dripping around him like she’d been reduced to sensation alone.
He held her there — full, stuffed, shaking — until the last of it faded.
And then he still didn’t stop.
Rumi didn’t have time to come down.
Her muscles were still fluttering, her cunt still twitching from the orgasm that left her half-limp in his arms — but Jinu didn’t ease up. Didn’t even pause. He kept moving behind her, hips snapping into the slick mess between her legs like he needed to chase his own undoing before she could recover. The wet sound of him dragging through her soaked pussy echoed between their bodies, obscene and constant, and it made her whimper — soft and broken and real.
“Jinu—” she choked, body spasming around him, the overstimulation already crashing in.
“I know,” he breathed against her neck, voice thick with grit and restraint and a thread of guilt that didn’t slow his hips one bit. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
She was still so fucking tight, even after everything — still dripping, still clenching, her walls fluttering with every relentless thrust. Her body was soaked with sweat, thighs slick against his, hair plastered to her spine, and her breath came in stuttered little gasps as she tried — and failed — to ride the line between pain and pleasure. It hurt. God, it hurt. But she didn’t want him to stop.
She never wanted him to stop.
Every inch of her was trembling — her knees about to give, her arms shaking as they braced against the mirror, her toes curling in her sneakers like she was clinging to the last shred of gravity. Her pussy kept clenching around him like it couldn’t help it, like her body was chasing something even she couldn’t name anymore.
He felt it. Every twitch. Every spasm. Every shudder that made her clamp down around him like a vice. And it was unraveling him.
“Fuck—” he gasped, voice raw. “You’re still so tight, I can’t—”
His rhythm faltered.
Finally.
He was starting to break too.
His cock throbbed inside her, thick and leaking, pushing into her like he was desperate to bury himself even deeper — to fill her, claim her, ruin her so thoroughly she’d never forget what it felt like to have him like this. His hands gripped her hips tight enough to bruise, holding her in place as he fucked into the clenching heat of her like he didn’t care if the whole damn studio burned down around them.
Her knees gave out. She collapsed forward against the mirror, face smearing sweat and fog across the glass, arms useless beneath her. But he held her up — one arm snaking around her waist to keep her in place, the other slipping down between her thighs again.
“No—” she gasped, a tear sliding down her cheek as her body jolted from the pressure of his fingers. “I can’t—Jinu, please—”
“Yes,” he growled into her ear, rubbing her clit with brutal precision. “Yes, you fucking can. You’re gonna come again for me.”
“I—fuck—I—”
Her whole body seized.
And then she did.
She screamed this time, high and cracked and desperate, her thighs shaking violently as the orgasm slammed into her like a wave she couldn’t outrun. Her pussy clenched around him with wild, pulsing rhythm, sucking him in deeper, squeezing so hard it hurt.
And that broke him.
He snapped — hips jerking, cock throbbing, breath punching out of him in a guttural moan as he drove into her one last time. He came hard, buried to the hilt, his whole body shaking as his release poured into the condom, hot and fast and endless.
He didn’t pull out right away.
Didn’t speak.
He just slumped forward, forehead pressed to her shoulder, both of them trembling, chests heaving, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and something too heavy to name. The mirror was fogged entirely now, their reflections blurred and shaking. Her legs were barely holding her upright, her mouth open in ragged little gasps, her eyes half-lidded and wet.
He kissed her shoulder — soft, breathless.
Held her hips until she stopped shaking.
Whispered something into her skin that she couldn’t quite hear.
And when she finally collapsed, he caught her.
Gently.
Every inch of his body still humming from the aftershock.
They stayed like that for a moment — tangled, breathless, suspended in the haze of everything they’d just done. The air in the studio hung thick and humid, dense with sweat and sex and the faint hum of the lights overhead. The mirror in front of them was smeared with handprints and fog and one lipstick-glossed kiss Rumi couldn’t remember placing. Her legs were jelly. Her body was trembling. Her cunt still throbbed, overstimulated and aching, every nerve ending sparking like someone had plugged her into a wall and forgot to flip the switch off.
Jinu didn’t speak.
He just eased out of her with careful hands and a low hiss — and then caught her before her knees fully gave. He lowered her to the floor slowly, guiding her down like she was made of something precious, even as sweat rolled down her spine and her legs twitched from the strain of being fucked half-insensible. Her breath came in short, ragged pulls, chest rising and falling like she’d just sprinted a mile.
He crouched in front of her again, already tucking himself away, already peeling off the condom and wrapping it in a napkin from his bag like it was routine. But his gaze — the way his eyes dragged across her face, the mess of her, the sweat, the red flush still spreading down her chest — that wasn’t detached. That was reverent.
And maybe even a little wrecked.
His hand brushed along her calf. Gentle. Checking. Not for show — not to coddle her — but to make sure she was still in one piece. Like he was afraid he’d really pushed her too far this time.
“You alive?” he murmured, thumb dragging slow over her ankle.
Rumi blinked, still catching her breath. Then: “Barely.”
He smiled — soft and crooked, different from the cocky smirk he wore in battle. “Good. Means I did it right.”
She huffed a laugh, let her head thunk back against the wall. “I can’t feel my thighs.”
“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Accurate.”
He helped roll her leggings back up, even though they stuck to her legs like second skin. Even though it made her hiss when the fabric passed over her still-sensitive cunt. His hands were careful, thumbs brushing over the creases of her knees as he worked the waistband back into place. She didn’t stop him. Didn’t make a joke about him being soft now, either. Just watched him, quiet, dazed, letting herself be handled like something that mattered.
When he looked up, their eyes locked.
“What?” he asked.
“You get all sweet after rearranging my guts,” she muttered, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t not.
He snorted. “I don’t leave messes behind. Even when they beg for it.”
“I didn’t beg.”
“You sobbed.”
“Still not the same.”
“Sure, princess.”
She rolled her eyes but leaned into him when he brushed hair off her cheek. Let him press a kiss to her temple without flinching. Her breath had started to slow now, the adrenaline cooling into something softer, quieter. The weight of what they’d done settled around her like a blanket — thick, heavy, warm.
“Was I too much?” she asked suddenly.
The words came out small. Unfiltered.
He stilled.
Then sat back on his heels, cupped her jaw with both hands, and looked her dead in the eye.
“Rumi,” he said — just her name, low and anchoring — “you’re never too much.”
She didn’t reply. Just nodded, the motion barely there, her eyes fluttering shut as she leaned into his touch.
They sat there like that. Breathing. Cooling. Letting the silence stretch until it softened. Until her bones felt like they might hold her again. Until the ache in her thighs gave way to something close to satisfaction.
Then, because she couldn’t help herself:
“Next time, I’m tying you to the bar.”
He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he pushed himself to his feet. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
“I’ll bribe your manager.”
“I’ll tell HR.”
“You’ll beg.”
He shot her a grin over his shoulder, grabbed her water bottle from across the room, and brought it back uncapped like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She blinked up at him, lips parted. “You’re gonna feed me now?”
“Hydration kink,” he said, tone dry.
“Kinky,” she whispered, but she drank — let him hold the bottle to her lips, didn’t argue when he wiped her chin with the hem of his shirt. He scooped her up when she tried to stand and her knees immediately buckled.
“Show-off,” she muttered into his neck.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He carried her to the bench in the corner like she weighed nothing, set her down gently, tucked her bag beside her, then crouched to brush his thumb along her cheek again.
She leaned into it.
Paused.
“You’re not gonna catch feelings, are you?” she teased, voice already sleep-warm and hazy.
He hesitated — just a breath.
Then kissed her temple and said, low:
“Already did.”
Her eyes fluttered open.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
And he didn’t take it back.
Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t run.
And for once — she didn’t either