walking contradiction. ⵌlee minho. ⵌ🔞.
pairing: minho x fem!reader | wc: 10.8k | genre: fwb to lovers ; smut with plot | general warnings: workplace situationship ; secret situationship ; angst ; withheld feelings & mutual pining ; drinking ; possessiveness / jealousy ; depiction of a bar fight resulting in minor injuries » this work is for adult audiences only — DNI if you’re a minor or do not have an age indicator on your blog. explicit warnings under the cut.
No strings attached, Minho said, but I want exclusivity. Can you do that? Can you give that to me?
smut warnings: casual sex / fwb situation ; soft dom!Minho uses pet names on MC (slut, princess, baby, good girl, etc) ; semi-public sex / public vaginal fingering ; voyeurism & exhibitionism ; mentions of oral sex (m, f receiving) ; teasing / edging ; MC is being hit on by a stranger and doesn’t like it ; nipple / breast play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; mention of cumshots ; hair pulling ; creampie.
Summertime, and the living’s easy.
A Post Malone song playing on the radio. The scent of sunshine and SPF lingering on your sunkissed skin. Your dusty pink lipstick fading after too many sips of ice-cold lemonade. Wind blowing in your hair, carrying all of your worries away with it. A gentle but firm hand on the back of your neck, fingers tracing circles or holding strands of your hair.
You glance to your left when the touches become insistent, squeezing your neck, tugging at your hair.
The smirk on Minho’s face makes your heart skip a beat. Your face flushes immediately but you don’t turn away. He likes it. He likes to see the soft blush shade spread on your skin, whether it’s because he makes a flirtatious joke in public, because he squeezes your thigh under a table at dinner, or because he’s balls deep inside you and fucking you senseless.
It’s a bad idea, your friends said when it all began. He’s your boss’ son! You shouldn’t date him!
But Minho and you aren’t dating. You stayed late one Wednesday night to finish an important report, and Minho was present in the office building as well. He struck up a conversation when the both of you ended up in the building’s courtyard for a break and some fresh air. He didn’t know your first name but he seemed to recall you were from Customer Service and that you worked directly under Mr. Seo. The conversation lasted two, maybe three minutes but left quite an impression on you.
You hadn’t seen Lee Minho from this close before that first evening. He was excessively handsome. Well-groomed hair with loose strands falling on his forehead and a piercing, intelligent gaze. He spoke eloquently, using few words to get to the point and make himself understood. He wished you good luck with your report and returned inside. You thought about him a few times after that, wondering what kind of man he was, and if he was as pretentious as his father. He didn’t seem pretentious at all, just a bit withdrawn.
The same situation happened the next Wednesday—you wanted to drop a few files on Changbin’s desk for his Thursday meeting and ran into Minho in the hallway. You saluted him politely, to which he responded with a smile and by asking what you were doing there. By there, you knew he meant the management floor, but one quick glance at the files in your hand was enough for him to assess the situation. He complimented your department’s work the past few months, to which you responded that you would pass along the compliment to your boss. Minho seemed to find that funny, and he asked if you wanted to have a cup of tea.
You ended up in the cafeteria with him and a large mug of sencha and jasmine tea. The food court was closed at this hour, of course, but Minho had the huge advantage of being the big boss’ son, which granted him a master key. You chatted for about an hour that night. Minho seemed more tired than the week before and you couldn’t resist asking why. He finally admitted to having a more important workload than he used to. You had heard rumors about his father stepping away from the company… Could that mean Minho was about to take over? This, though, you didn’t ask. Instead, you let Minho direct the conversation. If he seemed like a cautious introvert from an outsider’s perspective, you discovered it was quite the opposite once you actually spoke to him in earnest.
You still didn’t know much about him other than he had a noisy neighbor and that he did kickboxing as a workout every Monday and Thursday night, but you thought about him even more after that evening. You even found yourself ordering that sencha and jasmine tea at the cafeteria instead of your usual coffee order.
The week after, Minho used the company’s internal messaging app to call you to his office. It shocked you—how could he know that you were there at all? And why would he want to see you in his office? Usually, when someone’s boss was requesting a meeting like this… it did not look so good. Minho casually told you he was bored and had checked to see if you had clocked out. Want a drink? But he hadn’t pulled a bottle of juice or a cup of tea from a drawer of his desk—it had been whiskey. This isn’t a test, you’re not gonna get in trouble. Without waiting for your permission, Minho poured two glasses and slid one across the desk for you, and you chatted together for a good while. It was getting late, but you had no one to go home to anyway, and the whiskey was insanely good.
Minho told you yet another story about his noisy neighbor. Apparently, the noises were of sexual nature. The guy just likes to fuck, I can’t blame him, but he does so with the windows open. Maybe he’s into that stuff. Maybe he gets off knowing I hear everything he does to his girl. You almost choked on your whiskey at that, certain that your face had turned bright red.
Minho’s dark gray suit was tailored to perfection and he looked good in it. Maybe because of the whiskey, that night you noticed his pretty lips, almost shaped like a heart. You also noticed the way his gaze dropped below your neck. It wasn’t even to check you out, it felt like he was doing it on purpose, to tease you. You liked it. You liked the feeling of that a little too much—this powerful, beautiful man toying with you like that. And yet you hated that you liked it, so after a long conversation, you mentioned you should probably leave him as he must be busy. Minho hadn’t said a thing, had just watched you walk away. He asked, as you were reaching for the handle of the door, are you really leaving now?
He stood, finished his second whiskey glass in one quick gulp, and proceeded to circle around his desk and cross the room to join you by the door. Oh, come on, he said, biting his lower lip. You know why I asked you to come here. Don’t you want the same thing? His brows furrowed, Minho added, Fuck, aren’t you so cute when you blush like that?
Instant electric shock. It had coursed through your whole body, leaving you stunned, leaving you aroused. Minho kissed you first. He kissed you hard, biting and devouring and pulling you back into the room. He said that if things were to go any further, there would be rules. You listened to him but your lips were already craving him again. No strings attached, Minho said, but I want exclusivity. Can you do that? Can you give that to me? This made no sense at all—this was like ordering a cup of coffee with two sugars, hold the sugar. And yet it made total sense. Minho’s gaze was enveloping you and it felt nothing short of staring directly into a volcano that is on the brink of erupting. You felt the warmth from a fire inside him, something he liked to conceal in this nonchalant attitude of his. His faked composure.
Maybe he was just plain selfish. Maybe he had daddy issues. Maybe he was a slut, an actual himbo. Maybe Minho just liked his position of power and saw an opportunity he couldn’t pass, knowing full well you would open your fucking legs for him. Because of course you would. Maybe he just liked pussy. Maybe you were overthinking this—an exclusive situationship with your CEO’s son was the offer on the table, and it was tempting as hell.
Two minutes later, your panties had been discarded somewhere and Minho was already feeling you up, smearing your juices on your pussy. Five minutes later, you were on your knees and he was leaning on his desk, his cock, hard and veiny and undeniably pretty, pulled out with you gagging on it. There were tears in your eyes and drops of spit and precum and sweat on Minho’s perfectly pressed dress pants. Three minutes later, you were bent over his desk and he was ramming into you from behind, pumping his thick cock in and out of you mercilessly. Minho held you by your hair and your waist the whole time, except when he shoved his fingers into your mouth and told you to suck.
Four minutes after that, you came unexpectedly, oozing from your flushed cunt, coating Minho’s cock with your essence, eyes rolling at the back of your head, drooling all over your chin and Minho’s fingers. He spun you around, fucked you some more. Still tight after I fucked you so good, look at how wet you are, still clenching around my cock, huh? Minho pulled out when he came, spraying his cum on your pussy and your shirt.
This has been going on for a while. Minho likes to fuck you in the office and in hotels, but one time he brought you to his house. He opened all the windows before he drilled you into his mattress that night. Scream, that’s it princess, let them hear you. Let them hear how well you take my cock. That night he came on your tits once, claiming he liked to see his cum on you. On the second round, Minho filled your pussy with it this time, fucking it so deep into you that you wondered if you should maybe take an extra birth control pill.
One thing leading to another, you’re now on a business trip with him. I requested you personally, you’ll be coming with me. Officially, you’re to assist Minho during his meetings, but he also has other things in mind.
Such as driving the rental convertible on a scenic route by the sea and fingering you while he does it.
Minho lets his hand fall from behind your neck, pressing it on your bare thigh. You had made sure to wear your shortest sundress for the occasion, but you don’t have any underwear on. Or a bra. He digs his fingers into the soft skin there, his touch warm and electric, but doesn’t waste too much time before he pulls on your thigh to spread you. “Open your legs,” he tells you, then he offers you his fingers.
You can’t help the smile on your face as you take his wrist in your hand and press kisses onto his hand. Minho lets you do it for a while until he nudges you back, returning his hand to where it was before—right by your lips.
You gather as much spit as you can and release it on his fingers. There are other cars. This is a convertible. But you don’t care. The sun is setting and Minho teases your cunt with his fingers, spreading your pussylips open, coating you with your own spit. You lean back into the seat, heat already pooling at your core. There’s something about the way Minho touches you that’s very reminiscent of his speech pattern—not a single touch is wasted, and every single motion or movement has a clear purpose. Calm, composed, fierce.
He rubs your entrance first, ignoring your clit completely. Minho likes your cunt. He likes how wet he gets you, he likes to feel your walls hugging him, his fingers, his tongue or his cock. He works you open, teasing your hole with his fingertips but never going farther than his first knuckles. And yet you’re already writhing in your seat, the wind doing very little to cool you down.
Minho’s lopsided smirk is shining brighter than the setting sun as he presses on the gas pedal to accelerate, the car responding to his commands the same as you do—he finally slides a finger inside you, cupping your pussy, his palm pressed on your clit, and you let out a moan, head falling back against the seat. The engine is roaring underneath you, the smells of the sea tickle your nose, and Minho starts moving his finger in and out of you. “That’s it,” he tells you. “Clenching already, princess?”
Princess. You could cum to that alone—and you have in the past. Minho doesn’t stop or slow down his massaging of your walls, in fact, he pushes a second finger inside you, rubbing you diligently, letting you hump against his hand. “Min,” is all that you can utter, half a sigh, half a moan, your voice filled with desperation. A car passes you on the right, and you wonder if they can tell what Minho is doing to you. Minho seems to have similar thoughts.
“Look at this guy,” Minho chuckles. “Think he can tell what I’m doing to you? Think he’s gonna think about that when he fucks his wife tonight, about how I’m stretching your pretty pussy with just two fingers?” He accentuates his sentence by thrusting his fingers a little harder into you, pressing his palm flush with your clit, causing a strong wave of pleasure to roll onto you. “Watch yourself in the mirror. Watch yourself, princess.”
It takes a few moments for your gaze to focus on anything. You’re lost in this, this moment, the lust of it. The smell of your pussy laced with the saline scent of the ocean, and Minho’s relentless massaging of your sensitive cunt. Still, you turn your head slightly to the right, looking into the side-view mirror, catching a glimpse of yourself. Lips parted open with the tip of your tongue showing, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed over. You rarely think of yourself as pretty, but you see something in that mirror, in yourself, at that moment. Something raw, something striking too, but undeniably erotic.
Minho changes his pacing, choosing to press his fingers at different spots inside you, bending his fingers to reach your most sensitive one. You swallow a moan, closing your eyes shut, rolling your hips onto him, fucking his hand almost more than he was fucking you with it. “Let’s go for a drink,” Minho says as if he wasn’t getting you closer and closer to cumming.
Walking contradiction. A beautiful paradox. One minute, Minho could be fucking you hard and the next he would pull out a book from his messenger bag and sit on the hotel room couch to read while you recovered from your orgasm, your cum and his drying on his softening cock.
The pressure rises within you as you finally find that one angle and pace to use Minho’s hand, rubbing your clit onto him, your own hand pressing his closer and closer.
“God, you’re such a slut,” Minho sighs, but it sounds like a declaration of admiration. You’re oozing on his hand, chasing your high, panting and moaning and staining the leather seat. “I’d rather you cream on my cock, princess.” And, just like that, Minho pulls his fingers out of your throbbing cunt.
You’re used to it, used to this sudden emptiness. Minho likes to take his time, he enjoys the feeling of your longing, appreciates seeing hunger and lust in your eyes. You’re used to it because you know why he does it—a few weeks ago, Minho discovered that edging you drove you insane. And, apparently, he likes you like that. That time in particular, you rode his cock so hard that the lady in the room next door complained to the hotel about the noise. Your hands on his chest, bouncing on his dick like your life depended on it, needy and insatiable, cumming once, twice, three times around his girth. Minho’s face was flushed red, hissing and whimpering under you. He came hard that day, eyes rolling at the back of his head, spilling so much cum inside you it filled you to the brim.
You press your thighs together, relishing in that feeling. The anticipation, the obscenity, too. Edging is an art, Minho told you one day, and you’re very good at it. You know that he will make you feel a million times better later—he never, ever leaves you unsatisfied. Minho takes pride in making you cum as much as he can, and you’re well aware that he will fuck you senseless sometime later. No strings attached, exclusivity—there’s one more thing about your arrangement with Minho, and it’s trust.
Minho casually licks your juices off his fingers, humming in appreciation as he does so. “So sweet,” he compliments you, making you blush even harder. You’re thankful the sun has almost completely disappeared by now. You’re wet, your cunt all sticky. The wind is still blowing in your hair and you feel free, freer than you’ve ever been. There’s something absolutely tantalizing about Minho, about the hold he has on you. About the way he would never let you fall in love with him—he protects himself, and you. And yet he’s on your mind all the time, infiltrating your every thought.
Minho pulls up to a nice little seaside bar. When he stops the engine of the car, he pulls you close and kisses you with tongue, and you know he does it so you can taste yourself.
The bar is cozy. There’s a terrace at the back, and it’s where Minho leads you, holding your hand with the one he was fucking you with just moments ago. Your pussy is still sensitive but you follow him, and you both agree on a tiny round table in the corner with a nice view of the beach and the sea. The sky is darkening quickly but the place is lit up by cute fairy lights. There are a lot of patrons, but the crowd makes it a lively night, and you enjoy being surrounded by them, hearing bits and pieces of conversations coming from all directions.
A waitress comes to introduce herself and hand the both of you a menu. You can’t not see how she’s eyeing Minho, flashing bright smiles at him, acting all cute for him. You bite your lower lip. The nerve on this girl—she’s openly flirting with him while you’re right there. She doesn’t know that you’re not dating him, does she?
You get a—double—peach margarita and Minho chooses a spiked lemonade with fresh basil. He also orders a plate of crispy asparagus and brie cheese hors d’oeuvres. The waitress compliments him on having good taste. “This is one of the best appetizers we serve here,” she says. “Coming right up.” She offers yet another charming smile to Minho.
Well, it doesn’t matter, not really, you tell yourself as she walks away, making sure to give Minho a good view of her ass. After all, exclusivity goes both ways as far as you know, and he frankly seems unimpressed. He leans a little closer to you, laying his hand on your thigh to squeeze it. “Figured we needed some food, princess. For energy.”
You cock your head to the side. “But you also let me order a double margarita,” you point out. “Say, mister, are you trying to take advantage of me?”
A devilish grin lights up Minho’s face. He gives your pussy a gentle slap under the table before pulling his hand away. “Actually, yes.”
The night is good, still warm despite the ocean breeze. Minho and you talk about little nothings—which is how it usually goes for the both of you. He doesn’t get personal, not really. You don’t know much about him, other than he is your big boss’ son and he owns a Mercedes back home. He watches baseball sometimes and will comment on it, he will also tell you about the books he reads, about restaurants he likes, and he will tell you a lot about work. You’ve seen his house, but you can’t help but feel like he prepared before he brought you there that one time to get back at his neighbor. It felt a little like walking into a rental home, or being at a house showing. You saw very few personal effects, no pictures on the walls, just a couple of framed movie posters in the living room. Everything was clean and tidy, and he made you an excellent breakfast the morning after.
But you don’t know him. You don’t even know his father, who is barely seen or heard of at the office anymore. You don’t know if he has friends, you don’t know if he is acquainted with anyone in the office either. For all you know, actually, his exclusivity thing was just a game, and he had two, three or fifteen girls like you. You may not know him but you figure Minho is an expert at compartmentalizing.
But you don’t let this get to you, not tonight. There are nights where it’s difficult—after all, Minho sometimes leaves for entire weekends during which you don’t hear about him, and from which he comes back seemingly more tired than when he left. You know he's not in business meetings because you’re close with Felix at the office, who’s in the IT department and will let you use his all-access computer in exchange for sweet treats and a conversation. You never used it to spy on anybody per se, and certainly not Minho—you respect him too much for that. But you couldn’t find any meetings happening on those weekends on the schedule. He just disappears. Phone going straight to voicemail, too.
But tonight the drinks are good and Minho isn’t even looking at the waitress batting her eyelashes at him. He feeds you the hors d’oeuvres, but his other hand often returns under the table to feel between your legs. “Just need to make sure you stay wet for me, princess,” he whispers into your ear. “I can smell your pussy from here. Do you think these guys can, too?” he adds, motioning imperceptibly toward the table closer to yours where three young men were sitting and enjoying their drinks.
“Min…” You giggle into your glass, swallowing with great difficulty from the lust overtaking your whole body. “They’ll see us.” He was tracing circles on you, caressing you gently, your inner thighs, your pussylips, your wet entrance.
“Are you telling me you don’t like to put on a show?” Minho finished his drink and motioned to the waitress that he wanted a refill, but you passed. “That’s not the impression I had when we stayed in that hotel with the big windows for that convention…”
You remember that day fondly, ardently. Minho had fucked you hard in the window of your room, from behind, squeezing you in between him and the glass, your tits pressed against it.
Minho leaves your cunt to lick his fingers, not unlike one would do after eating something delicious yet messy—an ice cream cone, for example. There’s a whirlwind of pleasure between your legs, distracting, delightful. You can’t stop smiling, another side effect of Minho’s presence, but definitely worsened by the beautiful scenery and the beach right next to you.
Minho catches you staring at the horizon. “Maybe we can go for a walk on the beach after,” he offers, taking the last of the food on the plate and feeding it to you. You part your lips to accept it, and he lets you savor the bite. It was salty, savory, delicious.
“After what?” you question, raising an eyebrow.
“After our drinks.” He seems serious—and maybe anybody else would have thought he was, but you know him better.
“Fuck you. No, we’re not. We’re going to the hotel, Lee Minho!” You elbow him softly, laughing with him. “Come on, hurry, finish your drink!”
Minho’s laugh dies slowly on his lips, which he bites as he gulps, staring at you. “You just really like my cock, don’t you?”
It’s sudden—you blush so violently that you’re embarrassed, heat emanating from your face. You run your fingers through your hair, calming your breathing a little.
“Shit, it drives me crazy when you’re like that…” Minho adds, shaking his head. “So hungry for cock that you lose your words.”
You click your tongue, rolling your eyes with a falsely annoyed sigh. “Okay, you got me there.” You take a few hurried sips from his drink, emphasizing your eagerness to get dicked down. You couldn’t have much more from him—you don’t know the real Minho, but you feel a bond with him when he fucks you, when he leaves kisses all over your body, when he spanks you, when he calls you his princess. A false sense of belonging, perhaps, but it’s better than nothing at all.
As Minho opens his mouth to respond—with a sarcastic but witty quip no doubt—his phone rings in the pocket of his jeans. He looks at the screen but doesn’t immediately make a move. His face is expressionless. “It’s my father.” He pushes himself up, his body stiff and tense. “I’ll go get this somewhere quieter.” And you know it must be important, because you rarely see Minho take any calls.
You watch him walk away, wondering what this might all be about. Maybe it’s work-related, maybe it isn’t. In any case, one thing is certain—he won’t tell you. If it’s work-related, he wouldn’t want it to get in the way of whatever evening is about to unfold for the both of you. And if it’s personal, well, you’re not entitled to this knowledge.
You understand, you really do—Minho is successful, handsome, important. He’s rich, fancy, all that. There’s a rift between you, no matter how frustrating it is.
The large crowd of the bar becomes a background noise as you focus on Minho’s half-empty glass in front of you. There’s condensation forming on it, little droplets of water running on the sides to form a circle on the wooden table. You wonder if someone suspects anything at the office. You wonder if they notice the subtle glances Minho has for you, if they’re curious as to why a simple administrative coordinator from Customer Services was requested in the CEO’s son's office so often.
“Can I sit?”
The voice surprises you, shocks you back to reality—in an ocean of conversation, it stands out. You look at the man now standing right next to the table, recognizing one of the three guys that were sitting at the table near yours just moments ago. The table was now unoccupied, but this guy had stayed behind.
You blink, as if your brain can’t process the very simple words he just uttered. “What?”
“I asked if I could sit,” the guy went on. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and a strangely feisty-looking expression on his face, although he appears calm. Or rather, laid-back. “Can I order you a drink?”
Again—you blink, cocking your head to the side. “Why?” you can’t help but ask, genuinely curious. Concerned, almost. “Who are you?”
The man chuckles, shaking his head. “I mean, okay. We can start there. I’m Mingi,” he says, extending a hand to you so you can shake it. You don’t, but you listen to him. “I just thought you looked cool and I wanted to chat.”
Is this guy hitting on me? Is that what it’s like? Before Minho, you hadn’t been flirted with very much, so you aren’t sure you could recognize it in the wild. You stare at the man, giving him an appraising look. Mingi. You smile, finding it humorous that his name is one syllable away from Minho’s. Or maybe you’re a little tipsy.
The man doesn’t wait for your permission—he just sits on the chair that Minho left barely a minute ago. You start to feel uneasy. The table is very small and, this guy being pretty broad, his thigh brushes against yours. Instinctively, you recoil, pulling with you Minho’s unfinished drink.
You clear your throat. “You’re in someone’s seat,” you point out, uneasy. “Weren’t you with other people earlier? Did your friends leave?”
“Yeah, they went for a smoke on the beach,” Mingi explains. “But I wanted to talk to you.”
“Why? I’m… My…” You were about to say my boyfriend, but hadn’t even allowed yourself to have those thoughts in the privacy of your own mind, so uttering them out loud would feel wrong even though it was just to get rid of this person next to you. “The guy I’m with is coming back soon.”
“I’ll give him his chair back when he’s here.” Mingi lifts his chin toward your hands, which were holding the glass. “I don’t see a ring on you, so it’s not like you’re his property or anything. I saw what he was doing to you under that table, you know.”
Your heart drops in your chest. It becomes harder and harder to breathe steadily, as if the strong scent of the stranger’s cologne was filling your lungs with poisonous gas. This has never happened before. Minho and you like to have your fun, but it never reached that point. Once or twice, you almost got caught, sure—but when that happened, you were with Minho.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul,” Mingi promises with a wink at you.
You push yourself up, ready to leave. “I gotta go,” you say, and you walk away, but the guy stops you at the last second, holding your wrist. He doesn’t hurt you, but to be touched by this stranger doesn’t feel good.
He lets go of you immediately, conscious despite it all that he crossed a line there. “Look, I know I’m drunk, but you’re really pretty and…” But the man lets the sentence trail off into nothing as he stares at something behind you.
“Leave her.”
A strong hand pulls you backward and your back comes into contact with Minho. You know it’s Minho not just because of his voice, but because of the way his body feels against yours, no matter the situation. You would recognize this feeling anywhere.
Mingi raises both his hands as if a gun was pointed at him. You can tell that already, the little situation going on caught the attention of a few patrons. “I’m not touching anything, man.”
Minho puts himself in between you and him. His body is stiff but you can almost see him vibrate with anger. You’ve never seen him like that. When he speaks next, it’s to talk to you. “Was he inappropriate with you? Did he touch you, princess?”
You take the wrist he had indeed caught in your hand. “No, Min,” you choose to say. Minho looks like he’s ready to kill, but Mingi is much bigger than he is, and you don’t want him to get hurt. Still, Minho reminds you of a tiger defending his meal, his territory, his pride. “Can we just go? I don’t want to be here anymore.” Everybody is staring at you.
“She’s not your little toy,” Mingi shoots. “She can talk to me if she wants. But you obviously don’t like to share—fine. I’m leaving. You can keep your slut.”
It was instantaneous. One second, Minho was still standing straight inches away from you. The next, he’s grabbing Mingi by the collar of his shirt and landing a solid uppercut on his face. You do know this about him—once in a while, Minho liked to do some kickboxing to work out. It eased his mind, he said. He had to tell you when he showed up at the hotel room one night with caked blood on his knuckles.
One might have expected shouts, grunts, something—but the altercation is completely quiet, making it so much worse. Mingi forcefully shoves Minho away, and Minho topples into a sturdy metallic counter behind him. A few guys from the crowd get up, ready to intervene, but they’re not fast enough. Already, Mingi has managed to hit Minho back, getting him on his cheek, hitting hard enough to cause the skin to break a little.
“Minho!” You try to be loud, you want him to hear you, but your voice is small and scared. His eyes are clouded by a dark veil. He can’t see you, can’t hear you. You try to put yourself in between the two of them, but a man from a nearby table pulls you back. Too dangerous, he says, and you know he’s right.
Four guys are making their way toward you, two of which you recognize as Mingi’s friends. They grab him by his shirt and his arm, pulling him away from Minho who was about to retaliate. Minho, however, won’t let go—he has found his way back to grabbing Mingi’s collar. He’s bleeding from his cheek and his hair is a mess. He looks enraged.
“Apologize to her,” he says. You’ve heard Minho be very loud before—hell, you’ve watched sports with him. You know he can be loud, but he doesn’t need to, not tonight. He makes himself heard. “You insulted her. Apologize.”
There’s a red spot on Mingi’s chin where Minho hit him, and it grows bigger and darkens quickly. Tomorrow, it’ll be a sore bruise—Minho is strong and quick, but you didn’t know his uppercut was as efficient as that. He spits at Minho’s feet. “Fuck you, man.”
Minho’s voice is sharper than a knife. “Apologize. You disrespected my girl. Apologize.”
Warmth rises in your chest at that. My girl. Now’s not the time for heart flutters and yet you have no control over it. You barely acknowledge him when Mingi, coerced into it by his friends, gives you a half-assed apology before being taken away from the terrace and the bar altogether. A couple of security guys inform Minho that he’s also being thrown out, but he won’t let them touch him.
He doesn’t look so much like a tiger anymore. Instead, he reminds you of a feral stray. Untamed, angry, but not dangerous, not really.
You follow him back to the parking lot after hurriedly throwing some money at one of the employees. “I’ll drive,” you offer, but it’s as if you didn’t even speak. Minho sits behind the wheel once you make it to the car, the blood on his cheek dripping onto his neck and shirt.
“Min, you’re bleeding,” you insist, but he’s already started the car and drives away promptly.
The car ride is much different than the one before. You sit on the passenger seat, nails dug into the skin of your thighs, shaking like a leaf. Minho drives fast but efficiently—you’re not afraid when he speeds, but the fight caused you so much stress that you feel a little dizzy and you’re covered in cold chills. Minho doesn’t say a single word, doesn’t even look at you.
He’s mad at you. There’s no other explanation—he probably believes you led Mingi on. Exclusivity goes both ways, but you don’t know how much he even respects that, so why would Minho behave like this? And why would he get so irrationally mad because someone called you a slut? Doesn’t Minho himself call you that? Doesn’t he like to show everyone how he makes a slut out of you—wasn’t this the thrill of fingering you under that table? Still—you definitely didn’t ask for any of this, and Minho’s attitude shakes you. He’s often silent, but not like this. His silence, tonight, is dark and heavy, and it tastes bitter.
Not a single word is uttered—Minho drives the both of you back to the hotel. Upon witnessing the state of Minho’s face, the valet attendant mentions that you can request a first-aid kit at the reception counter. Minho ignores him but you dip your head politely and thank him for the information. While Minho is waiting for the elevator, you head for the reception to inquire about the first-aid kit. At least, it comes with something to clean a cut and some butterfly stitches.
The room has been cleaned while you were out. You notice a gift box that wasn’t there before—it has a little envelope with it and also a note from the concierge, confirming the contents of the box are just what Minho requested. Before you can ask him about it—before you can do anything, really, Minho disappears into the bathroom and you hear the shower running a few moments later.
You sit on the edge of the bed for a while, listening to the water, looking through the window. It’s dark, but you can see the pier from here, and some tourists on the boardwalk. It should have been such a nice mini-vacation. You were supposed to spend some time at the beach tomorrow, maybe get a little bit of a tan.
Minho takes a long shower. You stand, walking around the room, often glancing at the box on the bedside table. Unable to contain your curiosity, you go check it out. The envelope contains a little note, just two words. From Minho. There are a few items in the box—your favorite chocolates, a bottle of your perfume, and a gold bracelet. This is the second time Minho has given you some jewelry—last month, he got you a cute anklet with a star pendant. The bracelet is beautiful, elegant, with a fine gold chain and a tiny little white rabbit pendant. The rabbit is holding a flower.
It feels wrong to see all of this after tonight’s fiasco. Why would Minho give you all of this anyway? Why would he care to send a concierge to put this together for you? Minho likes to fuck you after spoiling you, but it’s usually a bottle of fancy champagne or some lingerie. This feels… intimate.
You jump when you realize that not only has the shower stopped running, but Minho is opening the bathroom door. You quickly put everything back in the box, but it’s too late—he’s seen you. Minho is standing in the room with just a towel around his waist. You take a moment to admire his lean, toned body, the veins on his arms, the lines of his waist, the water dripping from his damp hair.
“Minho.” You stand, uncomfortable, uneasy. You want to hold him in your arms. You want him to fucking talk to you. “Thank you. For the gifts.”
Still—not a single word. There are still a few drops of blood leaking from the cut on his cheek.
“Let’s put a band-aid over this,” you say as if he hadn’t been ignoring you. This was not like him. This silence. He should be yelling, he should be talking non-stop. Why is he sulking? “Min, talk to me.”
Minho takes the first-aid kit from you. He doesn’t do so harshly, he simply removes it from your grip and takes it with him to the small mirror by the closet.
“Why are you mad at me? Why would you be mad at me? Do you think… Do you think I hit on that guy? Do you think it’s all because of me? Do you think I liked it? Because I didn’t. Min, please.”
He isn’t even looking at you—Minho carefully applies the butterfly stitches over the cut and then makes his way to his suitcase to retrieve a t-shirt and some underwear. You feel a void inside you, so cold it causes frostbite. You swallow your tears, heading for the bathroom for a shower as well. To calm down. To put some distance between him and you. So that you wouldn’t have to breathe the same air as him for a minute.
The water is warm, the soaps and beauty products provided by the hotel smell good. They smell like the ocean, like sunshine, and they remind you of the car ride you and Minho had after dinner.
It hits you as you’re rinsing out the conditioner from your hair. You haven’t moved from this strange arrangement with Minho because you were hoping—foolishly—that it would turn into something else. That he would indeed give you thoughtful gifts one day and kiss your forehead and that it would mean something. That he would call you my girl but in the literal sense. That you would be something to him. Something other than a toy, something other than a tight cunt he likes to fuck.
And it hurts to admit this to yourself. It hurts but it’s a relief—as if you had been lying to yourself all this time and were finally making sense of your feelings, of the truth. You stay in the shower longer than you need, letting the hot water wash your regrets away, but they’ve stained you.
You use a clean towel to dry your skin and return to the main room—all of the lights are off except for a small lamp on your side of the bed. Minho is laying on his side, his face buried into the pillow, motionless. You feel a tug at your heart. You want to lie so close to him and hold him and beg him to kiss you. He may not love you but he can make you feel things. He can set fire to you when he touches you, and that would be better than a cold, dark, silence.
You never bring an actual nightgown on these escapades with Minho—you usually really, really love the way he looks at you when you’re wearing one of his big t-shirts. You casually grab the first one that you find in his suitcase and simply throw it on with nothing else before laying on the opposite side of the bed from him. Maybe if you both sleep, everything will be okay tomorrow. Maybe you’re sleeping and it’s just one big nightmare. Maybe when you wake up, everything will be okay.
But you can’t sleep. You lie on your back, and despite the comfortable mattress, despite the gentle buzz of the A/C, sleep just won’t come. Worse yet, you know Minho isn’t sleeping either on his side of the bed, although his back is facing you.
You take a deep breath, gathering some courage. “Talk to me, Min,” you whisper. In the silence of the room, it was as if you had yelled. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
He doesn’t say anything, but he shifts on the mattress and adjusts the pillow underneath his head. You turn, facing the back of his head, reaching to put a gentle hand on his arm. His skin is warm. “I’ll go. I’ll get another room for tonight and head home tomorrow,” you say. You can’t take this anymore.
When you begin to pull away from him, Minho puts his hand over yours, keeping you there. He even pulls you a little closer, but you don’t lean in immediately. You’re not sure of the reaction he will have. When it comes, though, it surprises you.
“Stay, please.” True to his paradoxical nature, Minho lets go of your hand as he begs you to stay.
You hesitate. Not for long though, but still—most of your friends were in serious relationships, engaged or already married and planning to have a family. All the while you are your boss’ fuckdoll, and while he pampers you and showers you with gifts and cum alike, you know none of this is getting you anywhere. You hesitate but not for long because he said please, and that is enough to let you know he’s serious.
You lie down again, closer to him this time, hugging him from behind. Minho presses your arm against his chest and brings your hand to his lips to leave a kiss there, too. He sighs. You wish you could read his mind, you wish you knew where he went those weekends he disappeared. For all you know, he flew to Ibiza to do drugs and partake in orgies. For all you know, he locked himself in his home and slept and did puzzles all day.
“Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?” you ask, your voice small. You kiss him on his shoulder blade. “Did I upset you, Min?”
Minho doesn’t miss a beat. “No. It’s not you.”
Your heart immediately feels a bit lighter upon hearing Minho talking again. “Then what is it exactly? Is it that guy?”
“I don’t care about him.” Minho kisses your hand again, his lips warm and wet on your skin. He kisses your wrist, your arm, and each and every one of your fingers. “I only care about you. It was all my fault.”
You click your tongue, dejected, concerned. You prop yourself up on your elbow to try and catch a glimpse of Minho’s face, but it’s too dark. “Min, don’t say that. You know I like it when we fool around in public, right?”
At this, Minho sighs—but the sigh ends in a delightful moan. You use the hand he’s holding to caress his uninjured cheek. “You’re too good for me, princess.”
At first, you assume Minho is referring to the last thing you told him—which was something he already knew. Minho knows that you like it when he shows you around. It makes you feel important. And then, you understand.
“Don’t say that,” you warn him. “Min, come on. Don’t be stupid.”
“You know I’m right.” Finally, he turns to you. You can’t quite see the expression on his face, but he touches you. He touches your hair, your arm, your waist. “You know this can’t go on. You deserve better.”
There are tears stuck in your throat, making your voice shake. “Don’t ruin it. Don’t ruin this, please.” You feel panic rise in your chest. It had never occurred to you, for some reason, that there would be an end to this. To this exclusive-no-strings-attached relationship. “I don’t care that you only like me this way. I don’t care that you leave on those secret weekends and you don’t let me ask about it. I don’t care that you don’t love me.” That isn’t exactly true, not that last statement, and you can’t believe you spoke it aloud. But you did. “Just don’t ruin this. Please.”
Gently, very gently, Minho pulls you close. You lay face to face in the middle of the bed, legs meeting each other’s, brushing cheeks, tugging hair behind ears. It seems like it takes Minho some time to be able to respond.
“I go camping,” he says after a while, playing with a strand of your hair. “With my college friends. We go once in a while, we go fishing, too.” You are getting accustomed to the darkness now, and you can see it when Minho looks into your eyes. “The weekends you talked about. That’s where I go.”
It feels wrong. It feels right. It feels like you shouldn’t have asked, or like you should have insisted months ago. “Oh, Min.” You brush your thumb on his lips to feel them, and they’re too inviting not to kiss. You kiss him softly and Minho kisses you back, deepening the kiss, parting your lips open, his tongue meeting yours with caresses.
It doesn’t make sense. One would take a look at Minho at the office and would never expect him to disappear into the woods to go camping with old friends. And yet—while contradictory, you realize it makes perfect sense. A paradox within a paradox.
You don’t know Minho. Until a few minutes ago, you didn’t know about this important part of his life. And yet you know him. You know that his cold exterior really is just that—a wall he puts up so that the world won't affect him.
“You didn’t have to tell me,” you whisper, brows furrowed together. “I don’t want to invade your privacy.”
“My privacy?” He flinches with an expression close to disgust on his face. You wonder if you smell bad—but you’ve showered and washed your teeth, so it can’t be that. “Is that what you think, really?” Then, a little less audibly, “Of course it is. Of course you think that…”
He’s mostly mumbling to himself, but you listen. You trace lines around the butterfly bandages on his cheek, around his beautiful dark eyes, around his perfectly sculpted nose.
“Min, it’s okay,” you offer as comfort. You knew what you were getting into that night in his office when you accepted his terms. When you let him fuck you for the first time. You were fully aware, and even though the situation isn’t ideal, you never regretted it, not once. “You’re… you. I’m… me. You’re my boss. I’m just—”
Minho cuts you off, pressing his thumb hard on your lips, the way he sometimes does when he wants to shove it into your mouth. He doesn’t do that, though, he just speaks over you. “You’re not just anything. Fucking kills me to think I made you feel like that. I just… I didn’t want people at work to think any less of you because of me. I—” He sighs, gathering his words. “The phone call I got at the bar. It was my father. He’s… he’s stepping down as CEO, effective next month. I’ll be taking over.”
“Oh.” You don’t know what to do with this information.
“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” Minho whispers. “It doesn’t matter what I am or am not. I like being with you. I’m just scared. Of having feelings. I know it’s ridiculous for a man my age. I’m fucking terrified of the way I feel about you.”
Your pulse quickens as you replay Minho’s words in your mind. His eyes are stuck on your lips.
“I’ve never felt this way before and what happened at the bar made me realize that you wouldn’t be mine forever,” he goes on. “That you’d find a nice guy someday who isn’t like me, who isn’t a coward.”
That you wouldn’t be mine forever. You’re looking at his lips too. You can’t look away as they are forming the words you have dreamed of hearing for so long, even though you wouldn’t admit it to yourself. “But I don’t want any nice guy, Min. I want you.”
Minho flinches at that, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. But you can’t believe what he’s saying either. “I want you,” you repeat, closing the distance between his lips and yours. “Say it again, please.”
Minho kisses you with his mouth open, wrapping you in his arms. “Say what?”
“That I’m yours. Your girl.” You lock your lips onto his and he ravishes them, kissing you just as he always had but it doesn’t quite feel the same. “I don’t care if you never love me, just make me yours.”
“Princess. My princess,” Minho says in between kisses, pushing you on your back to roll onto you. His weight feels good on your body. He’s got you trapped underneath him, exactly where you want to be. The flames he had ignited earlier were still burning inside you, ready to become a wildfire. “I can’t do that. I can’t make you mine—I’ll hurt you.”
He buries his face into the crook of your neck to leave kisses and bites alike. Heat is already pooling between your legs as you wrap your legs around Minho’s waist, keeping him there. “You talk as if you’re some kind of monster, Min,” you say, your sentence punctuated with hisses and moans from Minho’s incessant ministrations on your throat. “I saw the contents of the box.” A monster wouldn’t have done this.
“Just a few gifts for my princess.” Minho gets on his knees, pressing his crotch against yours, giving shallow thrusts to rut onto you. “You like them?” He resurfaces to look into your eyes, his hands pulling your shirt up to bare you to him. “I chose everything for you. You love those chocolates, don’t you? I love watching you eat them, it’s like sex to me.”
“I love them.” Minho gives you another kiss, a slow, languid one. You moan into his mouth, electricity coursing through you. “Min, were you really afraid I’d leave you for that fuckboy?”
Minho halts his movements, hovering over you, his hardening cock easily detectable through the fabric of his boxers. “I mean, not him—someone else, I guess.”
You’ve never seen that on him before. Vulnerability. It moves you. It also turns you on—you remember how Minho did not hesitate to punch a guy in the face for hitting on you at a bar, and you wonder if that is Minho’s love language. That, and chocolate, and cute little bracelets with bunnies on them.
“I don’t care about guys like him,” you say as Minho dipped his head to cover your tits with kisses, licking your nipples sensually, leaving a trail of spit on them. He locks his lips around one while he plays with the other, swirling his tongue, playing with your tits just to make you moan, sucking on your nipple for his own benefit.
Practice for your clit, he sometimes says when he does that. He doesn’t say it tonight, but you cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure when his fingers twist your nipple for half a second before he lands a slap on your breast, releasing the other from his lips.
“Let me hear you,” Minho begs. “Again.” He’s so hard against your bare cunt, your slick dampening his boxers, his cock straining against them. Minho gives your other breast a slap, digging his teeth into the supple skin of the other. You cry out, moaning, writhing under him, seeking friction on your already sensitive pussy.
“Min, I need you,” you pant, feeling a terrible and delightful pressure between your legs. “Need you now.”
Minho soothes the pain on your tits with a few gentle pecks and licks, his smooth tongue gliding skillfully on your skin. He groans, returning to hide in your neck. “I can’t.” But he’s rubbing his bulge against your pussy. “I can’t fuck you if you really think I’ll never love you.”
You almost cum from that alone—and from the neverending friction Minho is providing on your clit. You tug on his hair, pulling on his head so he faces you. “I just said I didn’t care if you—”
“Don’t say it,” he breathes, shaking his head. His hair moves with him, like tree leaves in a breeze. “Don’t say that. You care whether I love you or not. I know you do. I hate when you lie to me.”
“Then fuck me, Min,” you sigh, head falling back into the pillow. “If you can’t tell me you love me, I don’t care, just fuck me.” Maybe you’ve felt it all this time in the way he stuffs your cunt. His devotion, the soft spot he has for you.
“Want me there, baby?” Minho inquires, reaching between your legs to rub his fingers on your soaked folds. “Want me to make you feel good?” Then, you know he’s going to be alright when you see his smirk make a grand return onto his pretty lips. “You’ve been waiting all evening, haven’t you? Such a good girl.”
You pull on his shirt to rid him of it while he wiggles out of his boxers, finally freeing his cock. You shudder upon seeing it, thick and veiny, his head flushed dark, leaking precum. Other times, Minho would have spent an endless amount of time eating your pussy, licking you, playing with your clit, watching you cum around his fingers. But you need something else tonight—and you can tell he needs the same thing.
“Now, please,” you insist, wrapping your hand around his cock to align him with your entrance.
“Promise you’ll cum on my cock, huh?” Minho guides the tip of his pretty cock to your cunt, rubbing it on your clit, slapping you with it, sending jolts of pleasure through you. “My girl. My pretty girl.”
Minho sinks into you in one powerful thrust, stretching your cunt, filling all of the space inside you, eliciting a loud, strangled cry from you. “YES!” This is all you need now, him, just him, his cock, his hands on your waist, his spit drying on your tits. You’ve felt him right there so many times but it never felt like that.
“Fuck me you’re tight,” he grunts, pushing himself deeper. “Gonna stretch you now.” Minho moves inside you, easing himself in, breaching into your intimacy with strong and precise rolls of his hips. “You okay there, baby?”
You nod, your eyes closed, lost in the sensation of his cock filling you. You throb when you hear that word in his mouth while he’s balls deep inside you. This is all new to you.
“You like that?” He slams into you. “You like my cock in your pretty wet pussy?” He pulls out all the way to his tip only to fuck into you harder, over and over. “Do you hear it?”
Yes, you hear it—the lewd, squelching noise produced by his cock pounding into your oozing cunt. Minho grunts, slowing his pace, changing his angle. “Yes, yes,” you whine, your voice no more than a drawn out moan, your body no more than a puddle of nothing. Already, Minho has you melting into the mattress, pumping in and out of you desperately.
“Don’t hold back, princess.” Minho arches into you, his cock rubbing your most sensitive spot before he bottoms out and starts the process again, relentlessly, bringing you closer. “I’m not edging you. Just cum for me. I need it. I need you.”
Three little words. I need you. “More,” you pant, meeting him halfway, snapping your hips into him. “Fuck me harder. Min. Please.” You don’t want to remember that you exist—you just want to feel him.
“More?” Minho stops abruptly, pulling out of your clenching pussy. You catch a glimpse of his straining cock, coated with your juices. They drip on your thighs, on your stomach. “Roll over, ass up for me.” You’re moving too slow to his taste—when you’re on your stomach, Minho grabs your thighs and pulls you against him, raising your ass for better access. “Spread, princess.” You dip your head low, sliding your knees on the mattress to open up for him.
Your pussy feels empty without him, so you whine when you feel his tip reappear at your entrance. You move your ass, wiggling, squirming, desperately trying to impale yourself onto his thick length. “Not tonight, baby,” Minho warns. “Tonight, I fuck you.”
Minho sinks into you again with a satisfied growl, both hands on your waist to slam you onto him. There is little that you can do except moan and scream and claw at the mattress while Minho pounds mercilessly into you, fucking you so deep you’re certain he’ll bruise you there. He bends over you, his chest flush with your back, giving you all of himself. The thought of it itself is almost enough to send you over the edge—how animalistic it is, how hard he’s fucking into your sloppy hole.
You cry out when he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls on it, raising your upper body, controlling the angle at which he’s fucking you. It’s too good. It’s so good Minho has to hold you or else you would collapse on the bed. Minho probably never fucked you so hard and yet you feel the affection he has for you every time he bottoms out. The ache between your thighs grows, changes, becomes something lighter. Pleasure keeps rolling within you, and you lose yourself in the moment, the sounds of flesh hitting flesh, your voice filling the room. The smell of sex, the smell of sweat, too.
“Cum for me,” Minho says again, and it doesn’t sound like a command—it sounds like a plea. “Wanna feel you around me. Wanna fuck you like this every day. Okay? My girl, my pretty girl…” Minho’s sentence ends in the middle when his whole body tenses up. He’s throbbing in your pussy, ready to blow. Does he feel the difference, too? Does he like it? Fucking you and not pretending like he doesn’t like you?
You know it’s over when Minho reaches between your legs to play with your clit. You feel his hand press on your cunt, tease your clit. He feels himself ramming into you—he’s moaning with you now, openly, unashamedly. You clench around him, heat spreading under your skin, losing your composure. His fucking is becoming erratic, frantic, and he’s just cupping your pussy while fucking it, driving into you.
“Don’t pull out,” you beg, but your voice is just an ugly gasp. “M—Min—fill—me—”
Your knees give out when the waves of pleasure become a tsunami of an orgasm—Minho manages to hold you up by your waist, your walls fluttering around his sensitive cock. You clench so hard around him that it slows his fucking, but he buries himself deep inside you, hips stuttering with every spurt of cum he shoots inside you, letting your cunt milk him empty. Eyelids fluttering, your gut tightens with several aftershocks as Minho is riding his high.
You both collapse onto the bed, him on top of you, his cock still in your oozing, sensitive cunt. Fucked out of your mind, you reach behind you to touch him, his face, his lips. His hair is sticking to the sweat on his face. You’re a mess and so is he—both of you covered in bodily fluids, disheveled, eyes glazed over, marinating in a pool of bliss. Both of you panting.
Minho kisses your back when he pulls out, his softening cock leaving a trail of cum on your thigh. He doesn’t go far, though, he lies down next to you, pulling you into his embrace. You press your face onto his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Fast but slowing down, steady, strong.
You smile, lifting your face to kiss him on the cheek, then on the lips, wrapping your arms around him, tight enough that he can’t move.
“So beautiful,” he says, looking at you with fondness in his eyes. “You’re so beautiful like that, you know?”
You giggle weakly, no energy left in you. “Like what? I look like shit.”
Minho shakes his head and kisses your forehead. His seed tickles you from inside, dripping onto your pussy, your thigh. You’re content. “You’re really pretty when you’re fucked out,” he tells you. He tries to wiggle out of your embrace. “Let me go so I can clean you up, baby?” he whispers into your ear.
“No.” You lay your hands flat on his back, leaving no space between your body and his. “I wanna stay full of you.” You close your eyes, sleepy. Still, a sudden twinge of pain surges in your chest, like a cloud passing in a sunny sky. “Min?”
He’s tired too, but he still pushes your messy hair out of your face. “Yes, princess?”
“You’re not gonna change your mind tomorrow, are you?”
Minho’s silence frightens you at first—enough to wake you up, enough to make you stare at him. He looks peaceful and smiles softly. “No, I won’t. I promise.”
This is how you fall asleep—legs entangled with Minho’s, his arms around you, your face in your neck. This is how you fall asleep—fucked out, relieved, vulnerable.
The next morning, you shower with Minho and he fucks you again there. He takes you for breakfast at a nice restaurant with a view of the beach, and then you go for a walk. You talk for a long time. He tells you about his mother, he tells you about his favorite cousins, about how he’s nervous about becoming CEO even though he’s known most of his life that it was his destiny. He listens when you tell him about your high school chess club stories, he’s fascinated by the chaos that happened at your sister’s wedding with the band getting into a fight with the caterers. He asks you if you’ve ever been in love, and you tell him you’re not sure, that your ex and you weren’t a good fit, so it’s hard to tell.
“What about you, Min?” The sun is high in the blue sky. Minho is wearing a t-shirt and comfortable shorts with flip-flops. He looks more handsome than he ever has, somehow.
“Nah.” He smiles shyly, leaning against a big rock on the beach. Your feet are sinking in the sand, but your heart is light. “I think I’m about to be, though.”
He takes your hand in his, feeling the bracelet around your wrist before leaning in to kiss you. His kisses feel so much better now, taste much sweeter, too.
You inhale, smelling him, smelling the ocean, the sunshine. Your exclusive, no strings attached arrangement was secret before, and it doesn’t mean it has to change now that Minho has let you past his walls—you made sure to let him know. If people know, it’ll just complicate things, you told him over breakfast, watching him drink freshly squeezed tangerine juice. We shouldn’t tell anyone just so that we can keep fucking in your office. You know? He almost choked on his juice, but he agreed.
You would leave tomorrow, but for now, you would enjoy a few more hours of this, the warm sand, Minho’s hand in yours, the lulling sounds of waves flapping.
Summertime, easy living and all that—now, your heart is full of promises and hope.
author's note: hello beloveds who might have followed me on this blog! <3 I hope you can forgive me for indulging in minimalist smut once in a while, I use it as a form of practice and to write freely (I'm really trying to take it easy when it comes to my hobbies but turns out I suck at being normal about things)
I had fun writing this lil one-shot! I might write more about these two specifically if people enjoyed reading this at all (but no pressure to actually like this lmao)
As always, thank you so much for supporting me through likes and reblogs, it's much appreciated. If you're not familiar with me, you can find more fics on my main writing account, @straywrds. Have a nice day!
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