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“Do you want to take it off, or should I ?”
The words seem to awaken something in her, something she thought she had buried years ago, something she doesn’t wish to name or even think about when the current mood is so far from the mood it should require.
Everything in Baek Saeon’s body language screams of determination, and she knows there is no way out of this hole she dug herself. Besides, she can’t even find it to be mad or outraged at this behaviour. She thought he might be dead a minute ago. Here he stands, too close, too imposing, too demanding. The whiplash of those last few minutes is making her dizzy.
Hong Heejoo’s hold loosens on her dress, wordlessly leaving him to do as he must.
As he does just that, eyes remaining stubbornly on her for reasons she can’t explain, his forceful grip pulling her dress up easily, Heejoo knows she has only herself to blame. Her stupid anger, her ego, the resentment of all these years locked in her own despairing silent and yearning. How she tried to gain his approval, his affection, his love. How she tried to make this a real marriage, one she dreamed of for so long.
If she hadn’t snapped… well they wouldn’t be here now would they ? They’d be on each side of the wall, him to his business and her to her plotting.
Instead Saeon is undressing her.
Maybe this is not so bad, she thinks.
Thinks otherwise as his fingertips come in contact with the much too sensitive skin of her inner leg.
Heejoo startles at the touch, but his fingers dig into her thigh to keep her still, consequently making her shiver.
The way he’s looking at her now, touching her as if he has a right, as if they truly are husband and wife that want each other…. It’s driving her mind into the gutter, fear in her stomach changing to something hotter, more dangerous.
Finally, he lowers his gaze. Heejoo takes to studying him, knowing perfectly well what he’s looking at.
She rarely has the chance to observe him like this, without him observing her in return.
The tightness of his face doesn’t take away from the delicacy of his beauty, lines she has forbidden herself to trace for years. But they make such a beautiful painting, and she has been mad about the objective anatomical perfection of his features and body for too long to deny how utterly beautiful he is. He exudes a virility and an authority she has rarely seen in others, earned and tested times again, and his mere presence was once enough to make her weak in the knees. She would have given him anything, once upon a time. Before he treated her like her sister’s lesser replacement; before he waved away any and all efforts she ever made so they could at least keep up the pretence of a true marriage.
Everything went to waste with just a few scathing, dismissive words.
And that’s what she expects to happen now as well: for him to notice the mole, pull her dress back over it, step back and cooly resume his affairs without a care for her, left behind.
That is not how it goes.
“Why have others seen this when I, your husband, haven’t ?”
The menacing tone doesn’t require any answer, and anyway, her phone isn’t within reach. So she’s reduced to staring at him staring at her mole, brain scrambling for excuses and answers he might seek. Yet here he remains, unmoving, thumb sliding roughly to press down on her mole, seemingly entranced by the newly revealed feature. Her stomach spasms.
“I should know this,” he starts again, low and taut, the pressure exerted by his thumb hard enough to bruise. “I should have known where it was, just as I should know where every mole on your body is. Because you’re my wife.”
That possessiveness is new. Jarring. Worrying.
Not as worrying as him snapping his head up, abruptly moving forward in a blur.
At the last second -as soon as her brain catches up to his intention-, she turns away. Soft yet urgent, the would-be kiss lands on her jaw. How many times has Heejoo dreamt of the weight of his lips, the shape of them on her ? How many times has she looked at his mouth while he spoke with that silver tongue of his and wanted to taste it for herself, as was her due ?
A puff of air escapes him, out of amusement or frustration, she can’t tell.
“You’ve never done as I wanted, why would you start now ?”
Do you want to kiss me ? She wonders, almost asks out of frustration.
Saeon leaves his lips where they are for a moment, breathing heavily against her. It’s too intimate. It’s what she refused to admit she wants. It’s what they’re scared of.
Heejoo’s own breathing becomes unsteady with the proximity, the possibility.
Saeon finally takes a deep breath, and she knows what is about to occur; he’ll withdraw, excuse or apologise for the rudeness, and leave the room without another word.
Still, Heejoo doesn’t know what possesses her to do it; as his hand starts to retreat, her own comes down to cover it with a decisiveness she doesn’t feel in the slightest.
A sharp look. Studying her face for a beat, another when she doesn’t glance away.
The touch changes course and slides up.
She lets it.
Heejoo hasn’t had sex in more than 3 years, because no matter how superficial their arrangement is, it is a marriage in name at least. The risk is too great, and maybe it makes her dumb, but she wouldn’t have an affair, either, no matter how fake this thing is. Is it not her finger the ring is on ? Is it not their home ?
So that lack of relations is surely to blame for her behaviour now. Surely.
That drives her to shiver at the faintest brush of his digits over her rapidly dampening underwear. Both their breaths hitch, eyes locked in wonder, in lust. For a second, she regrets not letting him kiss her, but the thought is quickly chased away.
There’s no finesse to it when he decides his gestures have been approved and cups her cunt without dithering. Heejoo arches into it with a choked-out noise, grasping at his shoulders to find an anchor against the sensation. Saeon doesn’t seem to care much for her sanity, or delicacy, because he immediately presses down, moves his hand in ways she has only dreamed of, getting her wetter and wetter as he goes. It’s only a short time before he fully forgoes her underwear, huffing a frustrated breath and pulling it to the side in a sharp motion. Mute, her mouth opens wide as he slides a finger in her. Her nails dig into his shirt, and she hopes they’ll leave crescent marks in his skin. It feels like she can’t breathe at the stretch, at his unwavering focus on her face.
She doesn’t want to think how she looks in the lit up room, no shadowed space to hide. He looks frazzled and good, as always, and the sight of him alone arouses her, so there’s no need to think further or waste time on self-consciousness. Despite everything, she has wanted him for so long. How many times has she cursed this pride of theirs, that for some unknown reason, refused them the smallest happiness ? Heejoo thinks she would have borne it all, had she been able to find comfort in him. So she finds it now, lets herself lose control as he holds her close and touches her like something fiercely coveted.
Saeon doesn’t even look down, he just keeps his attention on the shifts on her face.
“So gorgeous,” he says, and he sounds short of breath. “You’re so gorgeous, my wife.”
That’s too much.
Heejoo uses her grip on his shoulders to bring him closer and hide her face in his neck. It has the unforeseen consequence of giving him more access to the place he’s currently touching, and she starts kissing at the reachable skin in the desperate hope to distract him if only a fraction as much.
He smells of smoke.
Without a thought, her tongue laps at the crook of his neck, tasting the burn on him. Saeon shudders against her, brings another finger into play. She scrambles for purchase in his hair as it slowly, torturously joins the other one, spreading her apart for him for the first time. If only he knew how her body would have accommodated him from the first moment, how those years might have changed them in a real couple. She would have welcomed him into her bed much too easily.
When he starts shifting, cheek pressed against the side of her head, fingering her as deep as he can go, Heejoo truly loses herself in it, squeezes her eyes shut and smells the smoke and lets arousal consume her wholly.
Two fingers soon become three, the stretch nowhere near painful, though it does feel unfamiliar with how long it’s been. Heejoo likes it, though, all too much. Likes the length and width of his strong fingers, the heat and quickness of his breath in her ear, the clear urge in the crook of his fingers, in the occasional spasm betraying how much he’s holding himself back.
A torturously delicate spot becomes targeted all too quickly, and soon she’s shaking like a leaf, the assault leaving her a wreak, yet still wanting.
His forehead bumps against her in an oddly affectionate gesture, but she doesn’t have time to think of it before he’s pulling back.
The always proud, stone-cold political spokesperson Baek Saeon drops to his knees like a stone, urgency in his every movement as his fingers grab at her underwear and pull it down as quickly as humanly possible. He looks frenzied, looks so far from the cold man she has known for 3 years Heejoo has to put a temporary stop to this.
Ignoring the heat between her legs, the uncomfortable trail of arousal dripping down her thigh, she bows forward to grip his chin between her pointer finger and thumb. It effectively halts him, makes him tear his gaze away from the place his fingers were instants ago.
Gone is the perfectly controlled facade, gone is the carefully crafted persona; as his stare meet hers, all Heejoo can see is a man stripped down to his bare desires, urges shining in those dark eyes as clearly as if he shouted them. A man that wants her.
Taken by surprise by the sheer need she can read in his blown pupils, Heejoo blinks at him. Then, tentative, she presses her fingers between his lips, pushing them in when he parts his mouth in approval. She hooks them behind his teeth, and pulls sharply.
Saeon stumbles forward on his knees, almost falling in between her legs before he catches himself, palms on her thighs. The wetness of his fingers smears her skin and Heejoo almost moans at the contact alone, the noise only contained because she viciously bites her lip.
The censure doesn’t go unnoticed by her husband, who squeezes her flesh and gazes up at her in sheer desperation.
“I want to hear you,” he states, but for the first time it’s not an order, it sounds like a plea. “Please, let me hear you,” and now he’s begging, forehead pressed against her inner thigh, words hot on where she’s hottest, and she knows his supplication goes further than just this moment.
For once, Heejoo yields.
When he puts his mouth on her, she lets loose a string of moans and high-pitched noises she would rather have never known she could make. They seem to embolden him to no end, his efforts doubling as his tongue immediately comes into play, dragging more and more of those sounds from her. Saeon grabs her thighs and places them over his shoulders, the new position allowing him less room to move but more proximity. There’s not enough air in the world, it seems, because the world ends right here, in their kitchen, at the points their bodies connect shamelessly. His tongue is particularly vicious, trying to reach corners she never knew could feel so good, and when his lips close around her clit with no mercy, she chokes on her breath. It’s lightning, it’s pleasure like she’s never experienced, because this is her husband eating her out with such palpable craving, this is Baek Saeon without a place to hide, and here’s where he decides to be, burying his face in her.
Erratic, her chest rises too quickly, confined by the material of her dress, and she suddenly wishes she had taken it off. Wishes he would put his mouth everywhere else, too.
Suddenly, she’s struck with the words he told her -the kidnapper- on the phone: “From now on, wait on all fours like that.”
No matter how radically different the context was, she cannot help but be affected by it now, her legs spasming around his head, cunt throbbing with the images it strikes.
A guttural, drawn-out moan breaches her lips as she buries her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, trying to get his tongue deeper and his teeth harsher, trembling with the need.
She thinks she whines his name as she comes, but it is quiet enough that he doesn’t hear. The thighs clenched around his ears might help her in that.
As if unable to do otherwise, Saeon keeps licking at her through her orgasm, nails digging into the skin of her thighs as she gently rocks against him, torn between chasing another high despite the sensitivity and fleeing the situation.
The decision is made for her when his mouth leaves her core. But Saeon doesn’t move away, no. He kisses at the juncture, at the hot and occasionally wet inner part of her thigh. And there, while she threads her fingers through his hair in an attempt to calm herself, or maybe so he won’t be able to leave, he suddenly clamps his teeth.
Heejoo’s back bows off the table with a strangled cry stuck in her throat, gripping at strands harshly, but Saeon doesn’t relent in the slightest. It hurts, but it hurts in a good, fucked up way. In a way she never thought she would enjoy, and she abruptly wishes he would draw blood, taint his tongue red.
He doesn’t go that far, but the spot is throbbing by the time he pulls back, stings when he brushes his thumb over the indentions. Staring down at him in sheer shock, she doesn’t even think to leave.
“You give such pretty moans,” he whispers, tearing his eyes away from his presence branded in her flesh to watch her face without an ounce of shame. “I bet you’d beg so prettily, too.”
Maybe she would. She would want to, for certain.
There are always parts of her at war as soon as this man demands something of her. Pride, defiance in the only way she can still exerce some kind of free will, struggling against the inane want to please him, be deserving of his praise and his affection. As badly has he has treated her for 3 years, she would be lying if she said those urges weren’t always present. One doesn’t simply frequent a man like Baek Saeon and remains unscathed and unaffected. Least of all her.
Instead of trying to answer wordlessly or otherwise, Heejoo hooks her fingers in his waistband, urgently tearing the ashy shirt from his pants, trying to catch her breath. Baek Saeon stutters a protest that she doesn’t even pretend to pay attention to it.
He’s hers. No matter the hatred and no matter all the lines he has drawn between them, they still ended up here. And Heejoo will not have him slip from her grasp so easily, not after this. He is her husband, he is hers to have and to hate and to love, whichever she chooses, just as she was expected to be his.