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Jiwoo called him twice.
The first ring might’ve slipped past him—maybe the phone was on silent. The second one? That was deliberate. Proof he saw her name flash across the screen and chose to let it ring out. A third call would’ve meant crawling after him on her knees, begging for scraps of attention. Even stone-drunk, she still had that much pride left. Barely.
Jesus Christ, she was obliterated.
After-hours drinking wasn’t written in any contract, but on this crew it might as well have been gospel. After the shitshow that went down on the ship today, the boys had every excuse to get blackout. And they were making the most of it.
She staggered back to the table, weaving between the older guys. Someone had topped her glass again; soju shimmered right to the rim, threatening to spill with every breath.
She stared at it, suspicious.
Convex or concave? She squinted, trying to drag high-school physics out of the fog in her head—surface tension, cohesion, adhesion—but the thoughts splintered and floated away.
A rough laugh exploded next to her ear. One of the guys slung a heavy arm around her shoulders—friendly on the surface, but the grip lingered too long. Through the alcohol haze it finally clicked: they’d been watching her glass all night. Refilling it faster than she could empty it. She was the only woman on the team. That turned everything into a quiet, stupid game—who could get her the drunkest without her noticing, who could make her laugh the loudest, who could push just far enough that she’d let something slip.
Her jacket pocket buzzed against her hip.
She lurched upright so violently the whole table rattled; a few clear drops of soju arced across the scarred wood.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, already turning. “Gotta step out. Stomach’s fucked.”
That lanky bastard tracked her the entire way to the exit. Eyes narrow, smirk half-hidden behind his glass. She felt it like fingers on her spine.
Technically she wasn’t lying. Her head was still spinning like the deck of that goddamn ship—rolling side to side, metal groaning under her feet even though she was on solid ground now. Outside, the cold night air hit her face like a slap, sharp and welcome. She jammed the earpiece in deeper.
“Yeah?”
Silence on the line.
She knew it was him. No one else had this number.
“You called,” he said. Flat. Controlled.
He didn’t sound angry—not the hot, explosive kind. But she knew him too well. That quiet tone meant the first, ugliest wave of rage had already crashed and receded. What was left was colder. More dangerous. And this wasn’t the first time she’d heard it.
“I…” She cleared her throat, tongue thick. Words wouldn’t line up. “I just wanted to check if you’re okay.”
She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. Brilliant opening, Jiwoo. Truly genius.
“You’ve been drinking.”
Not a question. An observation.
She let out a soft breath, tilted her head back to the black sky. Rain was coming; she could smell it. Tried to remember what the hell she’d even planned to say before the third bottle went down.
“I’m out with the team. Drinks.”
It came out sounding like an excuse. Maybe it was.
“I didn’t know anything was going down,” she rushed on. “They took our phones. I couldn’t warn you. If I could’ve—”
“It’s past one.” He cut through her like a knife through paper. No interest in excuses. “Wrap it up.”
Something twisted low in her belly—sharp, nothing to do with the alcohol. Shame? Fear? Want? All three, knotted together.
She closed her eyes against the neon bleed from the bar sign.
“Just a little longer,” she said quietly. “I’ll leave soon.”
“Now.”
One word. Final. He was in a foul mood and she had zero fight left to throw oil on that particular fire.
She nodded—even though he couldn’t see it—then turned back toward the door.
The moment she stepped inside, two of the guys were already on their feet, all fake concern and offers to “walk you out, make sure you get home safe.” She brushed them off with the first lie that came to mind and grabbed her jacket off the chair.
By the time she slid into the back of the taxi, fat raindrops had started smacking the windshield.
***
Jiwoo woke with a violent start when the doorbell tore through the apartment like a gunshot. Her heart slammed into her ribs. She fumbled for the bedside clock—3:22 a.m. Rain still tapped insistently against the window, steady as a metronome.
Barefoot, she padded down the narrow hall, head pounding in time with each step. At the door she stopped, breath held, and rose onto her toes to peer through the peephole.
Even half-drunk, the sight of him standing there hit like a fist to the solar plexus.
She opened the door.
Choi Mujin stepped inside without a word, pristine despite the weather: charcoal suit sharp and unrumpled, white shirt gleaming, tie dark and symmetrical. Rain trailed from his coat, but the man underneath remained untouched.
He scanned the place slowly—narrow hallway cluttered with shoes, takeout containers rotting on the counter, clothes flung over every surface like casualties. A faint grimace flickered across his face: equal parts exhaustion and quiet disgust.
He’d never set foot here before.
Jiwoo stood framed in the living-room doorway wearing nothing but a black crop top and panties, arms crossed tight over her chest like armor that didn’t quite fit.
“Smells like a bar in here,” he said. Flat. No warmth.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice came out quieter than she wanted.
He didn’t answer right away. Shrugged out of the wet coat, tossed it over the back of a chair like it weighed nothing. Then he moved toward her—slow, deliberate steps, each one eating distance.
“Today I lost an absurd amount of money,” he said, voice even, almost conversational. “And a ridiculous amount of time. It’s not just cash. It’s reputation.”
She stepped back on pure instinct until her spine met the wall—cool plaster against bare skin.
“I know,” she whispered.
He stopped right in front of her. Reached out and caught her jaw—fingers cold from the rain, grip firm, unyielding.
“Say it again.” His voice was quiet steel. “That you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know.” She met his eyes, unflinching even as her pulse slammed against his thumb. “They took my phone. I couldn’t warn you. If I could’ve, I would’ve.”
He held her gaze longer than necessary, searching for the lie he was certain had to be there. Then he exhaled through his nose, a tired, disappointed sound.
“I’ve been in this game long enough to know one truth.” His thumb traced the edge of her jaw, almost gentle. “Everyone has a price.”
His other hand slid to her waist, palm flat against her ribs like he was measuring how much pressure she could take before she broke. Fingers drifted under the hem of her crop top, brushing bare skin.
“Push hard enough and people flip. Do shit they swore they’d never do.”
Gooseflesh raced across her stomach.
“And you?” he said, leaning in until his mouth hovered at her ear, breath warm and uneven, “How much pressure do you take?”
His thumb hooked beneath the underside of her breast, grazing the sensitive curve through cotton. Jiwoo sucked in a sharp breath; her knees dipped for half a second.
He stepped back instantly. One deliberate pace. Then another.
“Interesting,” he murmured, more to himself.
He dropped onto the couch—legs spread, arms draped along the back, watching her like a predator deciding whether the prey was worth the chase.
Jiwoo stayed braced against the wall, chest rising and falling too fast. Without it, she’d have slid to the floor.
He tilted his head. “Take it off.”
No room for negotiation. No please. Just that calm, lethal certainty.
She stared at him—eyes wide, lips parted—trying to pull air into lungs that felt too small.
“You see,” he continued, voice low and edged now, “how am I supposed to trust you if you can’t even follow one simple order?”
Silence stretched taut between them.
Then she pushed off the wall.
Her knee brushed his as she climbed onto the couch—first one, then the other—until she straddled him. Exactly the way she’d pictured it in the dark too many times, hating herself for every second of it.
His hands settled on her thighs immediately—heavy, warm, possessive. Fingers splayed but not gripping. Not yet.
He looked up at her, no trace of a smile.
Jiwoo hooked her fingers under the hem of her top. Dragged it up slowly—revealing stomach, ribs, the black lace of her bra. She paused when the fabric caught beneath her breasts, then yanked it over her head and tossed it aside.
Just underwear now.
Cold air hit her skin. Her nipples tightened painfully under thin cotton. Heat burned in her cheeks, her throat, between her legs.
“I always obey you,” she said. Voice shook, but the words came out steady. “Don’t I?”
He didn’t answer with words.
His right hand lifted—lazy, almost casual. Traced from her thigh, over her hip, along her side, up her arm, until fingers curled into the hair at her nape. Tightened. Pulled her down.
She closed her eyes.
His breath ghosted her cheek first—cigarettes, whiskey, him. Then lower, along her jaw. His mouth brushed the frantic pulse at her neck, then higher, teeth grazing her earlobe.
“I can be gentle,” he whispered, lips lingering. One hand slid down her spine, settling between her shoulder blades—steady, anchoring. The other stayed locked on her hip. “If that’s what you want. You can tell me the truth.”
Fingers drifted to her breast. Slow circles over lace. Her body betrayed her instantly—peak hardening, hips jerking forward in his lap.
“I won’t be angry,” he murmured, mouth still at her ear. “Did you sell me out?”
The question landed like a slap, delayed through the haze.
“No,” she rasped—half moan, half denial.
Then he pinched. Hard. Twisted. Rubbed once, twice. Her hips rocked instinctively, grinding down on the rigid length straining against his trousers.
“You’re not even trying to convince me,” he said against her throat.
She swallowed. Tried to speak. Managed only a choked sound. Her hips rolled again—slow, desperate.
His hand slid lower. Fingers caught the front of her panties, tugged the lace taut so the seam pressed exactly where she ached most.
A soft, broken gasp escaped her.
“I should buy you something that doesn’t look like surrender,” he murmured.
His finger traced the edge of elastic—lazy, maddening circles. Her thighs trembled around him; every nerve screamed for more.
He leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Two weeks ago. Late. On the phone.” His voice dropped lower. “You had your hand between your legs, didn’t you?”
Heat flooded her face—shame and want twisting together until she couldn’t tell them apart.
She couldn’t look at him.
“Answer.”
“…Yes,” she whispered.
A low, satisfied hum vibrated in his chest.
“While I was talking about timelines. Orders.” His thumb pressed higher, grazing sensitive skin just above her mound. “You were fucking yourself to the sound of my voice.”
She rocked forward—chasing pressure, chasing humiliation.
His free hand caught her chin—tilted her face until their eyes locked.
“Did you come?” Quiet. Lethal. “While I was still talking.”
Breath shuddered out of her. No point lying.
His lips brushed hers—close enough to taste the defeat he dragged out of her.
Then thumb slipped under lace—glided through wetness, found her clit, circled once. Pressed. Hard.
A cry ripped out; hips slammed down.
“Tell me,” he breathed against her mouth. “What were you imagining? Fingers? Tongue?” One finger plunged inside—deep, curling—making her walls spasm. “Or this. Me owning you.”
“Everything,” she gasped. Raw. Grateful.
A second finger joined. Stretched her with ruthless patience—pumping steady while his thumb worked merciless circles on her clit.
“And tonight?” His voice frayed at the edges now. “After you called twice and I didn’t pick up—did you think about spreading for me again?”
She nodded—tears slipping down her cheeks, pleasure coiling unbearable.
“Yes—fuck, yes—”
He withdrew his fingers. She whined—shameless, desperate.
Then he shifted—undid his belt with one flick. Metal clinked sharp in the quiet.
“Look at me.”
She did. Wrecked. Glassy-eyed. Lips swollen.
He hooked the lace aside—baring her completely. Cool air kissed slick folds; exposure hit harder than nakedness ever could.
He studied her for a beat—detached, hungry—then guided himself to her entrance. Nudged just inside. Held.
“Lower yourself.” Quiet command. “Slow. I want to feel every fucking inch.”
Her thighs shook as she braced on his shoulders.
The stretch burned—perfect, overwhelming. She gasped when the head breached her fully; he didn’t thrust, didn’t help—just watched her face while she sank down, taking him centimeter by torturous centimeter.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “All the way.”
She exhaled shakily and sank until her ass met his thighs. He bottomed out with a low, guttural groan that vibrated through them both. For a long second neither moved—just breathed, locked together, her walls pulsing around him like they wanted to keep him there forever.
“Good.” Thumbs traced her hipbones. “Now show me how badly you’ve wanted this.”
She lifted—shaky—then sank again. Each stroke dragged a helpless sound from her throat. He stayed still, letting her ride, letting her feel every ridge, every throb.
After a dozen strokes her rhythm broke—too needy, too frantic.
A soft tsk.
One arm banded her waist. He stood—still buried deep—turned. The world flipped; she yelped as he laid her back on the couch without pulling out. Legs hooked over his elbows, folding her open.
Now he had control.
He withdrew almost completely—slow enough to make her whimper—then slammed back in. Deep. Hard.
Her back bowed; a raw cry tore free.
“There,” he growled. “That’s what you’ve been picturing, isn’t it? Me fucking you like this.”
He set a punishing rhythm—long strokes that ground against her clit on every downstroke. Each thrust punched breath from her lungs; she clawed at the cushions, searching for anchor.
He shifted angle—hit that spot inside—and pounded relentlessly.
“You’re dripping,” he muttered, almost reverent.
Her thighs quaked around his arms; she was close—dangerously close. He felt it—the flutter, the frantic gasps.
“Please—”
He released one leg, slid his hand between them. Thumb pressed her clit—hard circles while he kept fucking her with those slow, brutal strokes.
She shattered—back arching, scream ripping out as her walls clamped down, convulsing around him. Pleasure crashed violent; his name broke from her lips in sobs, body shaking.
He fucked her through it—deep, relentless—drawing every aftershock until she was whimpering, oversensitive, begging.
Only then did he let go.
Three more vicious thrusts—then he buried deep with a guttural groan, pulsing inside her, filling her until heat bloomed everywhere. His forehead dropped to her shoulder; harsh breaths fanned her skin.
They stayed locked together, trembling, until the world steadied.
He eased out carefully—mindful of swollen, sensitive flesh. Settled beside her. Dragged the blanket over them.
Jiwoo curled into him instinctively—too wrecked for pride. Cheek to his chest, his heartbeat thundering, slowing.
After long silence he spoke—voice low, almost tender.
“Next time you’re thinking about me like that…” Fingers threaded through her damp hair. “Don’t wait two weeks. Call. Tell me exactly what you need.”
She laughed—weak, breathless, half-sob.
“Promise?”
He pressed a kiss to her temple—brief. Possessive.
“Promise.”
Then, quieter: “Shower. Coffee. Bed.”
She nodded against him—too spent to argue.
He stood first—steady, calm, like the storm had never happened—then offered his hand.
“You’re staying?”
“It’s raining,” he said simply. “I hate the rain.”
She looked up—hair wrecked, lips bruised, thighs sticky—and managed the smallest, crooked smile.