The flat always smelled like him in the mornings—something sharp and clean under the steam of the shower, a trace of whatever cologne he’d dragged across his neck the night before, mixed with the faint heat of sleep still clinging to the sheets he never quite made. You lived with Jeon. That was the simple fact of it. Roommate. Flatmate. The man who paid half the rent and left his shoes by the door in a neat pair and whose girlfriend’s name lived on the whiteboard next to the grocery list like a quiet, permanent warning.

You told yourself that every day.

This morning the warning felt thinner than usual.

You were in the kitchen, bare feet on cool tile, pouring coffee into the chipped mug that had become yours by quiet claim. The machine hissed. Outside the window the city was still grey and half-asleep. Behind you the bathroom door clicked open. Steam rolled out first, then him.

Jeon walked into the kitchen wearing only a towel low on his hips, hair dripping, water sliding down the long line of his throat and into the hollow between his collarbones. He stopped when he saw you. The towel was dark, almost black against the pale of his skin, and it clung in a way that left almost nothing to the imagination. You kept your eyes on the coffee. You failed.

His eyes found yours.

Those eyes. Dreamy wasn’t the right word. Dreamy was soft, safe. These were something else. Dark, almost black in the low morning light, heavy-lidded, the kind of eyes that looked like they already knew what your cunt tasted like. When they locked on yours it felt less like looking and more like being pinned open. Like he could see straight through the thin cotton of your sleep shirt, past the soft swell of your tits, down between your legs where you were already starting to get wet just from the fact of him standing there half-naked and looking at you like that.

You swallowed. The coffee cup trembled once in your hand.

“Morning,” he said, voice still rough from sleep. The word rolled out low, almost lazy, and it sat in the air between you like a hand on the back of your neck.

“Morning,” you managed.

He didn’t move toward the coffee. He just stood there, one hip cocked against the counter, towel threatening to slip, and kept looking at you. The silence stretched. Your pulse throbbed between your legs. You could feel your nipples tightening under the shirt, the fabric suddenly too thin, too much. You imagined—unbidden, filthy—what it would feel like if he stepped closer, if that towel dropped, if he backed you against the counter and pushed his thick cock between your thighs without a word. You imagined the stretch of it, the wet sound, the way his hypnotizing eyes would stay locked on yours the entire time he fucked into you slow and deep, like he had all day and nowhere else to be.

You blinked hard and turned away, pouring a second cup with hands that wouldn’t quite steady.

He took the cup when you held it out. Fingers brushed. Just the lightest graze of skin. It felt like he’d pressed his mouth to your clit.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

You nodded, already moving toward the living room, needing distance, needing air that didn’t smell like his skin and the heat rising off him. Behind you, you heard the soft shift of the towel as he adjusted it. You didn’t look back. You could still feel his eyes on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades, sliding lower, mapping the curve of your ass under the sleep shorts.

The day unfolded in the usual rhythm of shared space, only every ordinary chore felt charged, stretched thin with the weight of what neither of you would say.

You started with the laundry. The basket was overflowing—his shirts mixed with your underwear, his gym shorts tangled with the soft cotton of your bras. You sorted on the living-room floor, knees apart, spine curved, hair falling into your face. He came out of his room fully dressed this time—dark jeans, a black t-shirt that clung to the width of his shoulders—and stopped in the doorway. You felt him before you saw him. The air changed.

“Need help?” he asked.

You shook your head without looking up. “I’ve got it.”

He didn’t leave. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, and watched. You could feel the weight of that gaze like a physical thing. Every time you reached for another pair of your own panties—lace, black, the ones you wore when you wanted to feel a little dangerous—his eyes tracked the movement. You imagined him imagining them on you. Imagined him peeling them down your thighs with his teeth while those eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and endless, telling you without a word how hard he was, how much he wanted to bury his face between your legs and eat you until you came on his tongue.

Your face burned. You shoved the panties deeper into the machine and stood too fast. The room tilted for a second.

“You okay?” His voice was closer now. He’d stepped into the room without you noticing.

“Fine.” You forced a laugh that came out thin. “Just… dizzy. Skipped breakfast.”

He was right there. Close enough that you could smell the clean soap on his skin, the faint musk underneath that was pure him. Close enough that if you leaned forward half an inch your chest would brush his. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lower, to the place where your sleep shirt had ridden up and showed a strip of soft stomach. When they lifted again they were darker. Heavier. Like he’d already decided how he’d fuck you—slow at first, then harder, holding your hips down while he drove into you from behind so he could watch your cunt stretch around his cock in the mirror.

You stepped back. The washing machine hummed to life behind you, a low mechanical pulse that somehow matched the one between your legs.

“I’ll make eggs,” he said, voice quieter. “Sit down before you fall over.”

You sat. You watched him move through the kitchen like he owned every inch of it—which, in a way, he did. He cracked eggs one-handed. The muscles in his forearm flexed. You stared at the line of his back under the black shirt and thought about digging your nails into it while he fucked you against the fridge, one of your legs hooked over his arm, his mouth at your ear telling you how wet you were, how tight, how good it felt to finally be inside you after months of looking and not touching.

The eggs were perfect. Soft, a little runny, the way you liked them. He set the plate in front of you and sat across the small table, close enough that your knees almost touched under the wood. Almost. He didn’t close the gap. He just ate slowly, and every few bites his eyes lifted and found yours and held.

The silence was thick. Embarrassing. Charged.

“You’re staring,” he said eventually, voice low, almost amused.

“So are you.”

Something flickered in those eyes—heat, warning, want. He didn’t deny it. He just kept looking, the corner of his mouth lifting the smallest fraction, like he knew exactly what the eye contact was doing to you. Like he could smell how wet you were getting under the table. Like he wanted you to squirm.

You did.

Later, the dishes. You washed. He dried. The kitchen was narrow. Every time you shifted, your hip brushed his. Every time he reached past you for a plate, his chest almost touched your back. Steam rose from the sink. Your hands were wet and soapy. His were dry and careful. Once, when you handed him a glass, your fingers slid against his and stayed a second too long. Neither of you pulled away first. The glass nearly slipped. You both caught it. Laughter, soft and startled, broke the tension for half a breath before the heat rushed back in thicker than before.

“Careful,” he murmured, close to your ear. The word was almost a vibration against your skin.

You turned your head. His face was right there. Those eyes. Up close they were even worse—liquid dark, the pupils blown wide, the kind of eyes that looked like they could fuck you without the rest of him ever moving. You imagined him pinning you to the counter right then, yanking your sleep shorts down, sliding two thick fingers into your cunt while he watched your face, watched the way your mouth fell open, watched every filthy reaction. You imagined him whispering how tight you were, how he could feel you clenching already, how he was going to stretch you open on his cock until you forgot your own name.

Your breath hitched. His eyes dropped to your mouth again. For one suspended second you thought he might lean in. The air between you felt electric, dangerous.

Then his phone buzzed on the counter.

Her name lit the screen.

The moment shattered. He stepped back like he’d been burned. You turned to the sink and scrubbed a plate that was already clean, cheeks burning, cunt throbbing, the fantasy still vivid and filthy in your head.

He answered the call in the other room. You heard the low murmur of his voice, the soft laugh he saved for her. Something in your chest twisted. You rinsed the last dish with hands that shook and told yourself again: he’s taken. You can’t. You won’t.

But the eyes stayed with you.

Afternoon. Vacuuming. The living-room rug needed it. You pushed the machine back and forth in long, slow strokes, the drone of the motor filling the flat. He was on the couch with a book he wasn’t reading. Every time you bent to move the coffee table, you felt his gaze on the curve of your ass. You knew the shorts rode up when you leaned. You knew he could see the soft underside of your thighs, maybe even a flash of the lace you’d put on that morning without thinking. You kept vacuuming. You didn’t straighten up as fast as you could have. The tension was a live wire under your skin.

Once, when you passed close to the couch, the vacuum cord tangled around your ankle. You stumbled. He was up in a second, hand closing around your upper arm to steady you. The touch was firm, warm, possessive for the half-second it lasted. His thumb brushed the inside of your arm. You felt it like a lick between your legs.

“You good?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, not trusting words. His hand stayed a beat longer than necessary. His eyes searched your face, then dropped lower, to the flushed skin of your throat, the rapid pulse you couldn’t hide. When they came back up they were darker than before. You could have sworn he was imagining the same things you were—his hand higher, under your shirt, cupping your tits, thumbs circling your nipples until they ached. His other hand between your legs, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the lace while he watched your face fall apart. Then the lace gone, two fingers sliding into your soaked cunt, curling, fucking you open while he whispered how dirty you were for getting this wet over your taken flatmate.

He let go. The absence of his touch felt like a wound.

You finished the vacuuming with shaky legs and a cunt so wet you were half-afraid it would show through the shorts.

Evening. Dinner was simple—pasta, something you threw together while he chopped vegetables beside you. The knife moved in clean, precise strokes. You watched his hands and thought about them on your body. Thought about those long fingers wrapping around your throat while he fucked you from behind over the kitchen table, the same table where you’d eaten eggs that morning. Thought about him telling you to stay quiet so the neighbors wouldn’t hear, even as he slammed into you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the flat. Thought about those hypnotizing eyes in the reflection of the dark window, watching you take every inch, watching your tits bounce, watching the way your mouth opened around a silent moan.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, not looking up from the cutting board.

“Just tired.”

“Liar.” The word was soft, almost fond. Almost cruel.

“You look at me like that,” he said quietly, “and then you pretend you’re not.”

Heat flooded your face. Your thighs pressed together without permission. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do.” He took one slow step closer. Not touching. Just close enough that the heat of him reached you through the thin fabric of your shirt. Close enough that if you breathed too deep your chest would brush his. “Those eyes of yours. They give you away every single fucking time.”

Another step. The narrow kitchen suddenly felt smaller. His voice dropped lower, rougher, the kind of tone that slid straight between your legs.

“You think I don’t notice when you stare at my mouth while I’m talking? When your thighs squeeze together under the table every time I look at you too long? When you get all flushed right here—” His fingers lifted, hovered near the side of your throat without quite touching, the almost-contact making your skin prickle. “—the second our eyes lock?”

You swallowed. The movement made the space between his fingers and your skin feel electric.

“I see the way your nipples get hard under that shirt when I’m only half-dressed in the morning. I see how you shift in your seat when I’m drying dishes next to you, like you’re trying to relieve the ache between your legs without me noticing. I notice, Y/n. I’ve noticed every filthy little thing.”

Your breath shook. “Jeon—”

He took another step. Now there was almost no air left between your bodies. His chest nearly brushed yours with every inhale. Those hypnotizing eyes stayed locked on yours, heavy-lidded, dark with something that looked a lot like hunger.

“You think I don’t know why you linger when you hand me a glass? Why your fingers stay a second too long? Why your cunt gets so wet just from me looking at you that I can almost smell it?”

The last word was a filthy whisper. Your knees threatened to buckle.

“You’re taken,” you managed, the protest thin and shaky.

He ignored it. One more step and his body finally pressed against yours—not hard, just enough pressure to pin you lightly to the edge of the counter. The heat of him soaked through your clothes. You felt the solid line of his chest against your tits, the faint ridge of his cock already half-hard against your lower belly. His hands came up slowly, deliberately, and settled on your waist. Thumbs stroked once over the soft skin just above the waistband of your shorts.

“I’ve watched you for months,” he murmured, mouth close to your ear now. “Watched you pretend you weren’t getting soaked every time our eyes met. Watched you bite your lip when I walked past in a towel. Watched your breath hitch when my fingers brushed yours. You thought all of that went unnoticed?”

His hands slid higher, under the hem of your shirt. Warm palms against bare skin. You shivered hard. He felt the reaction and made a low sound of approval, almost a growl.

“Every time you looked at me like you wanted me to bend you over this counter and fuck you until you forgot how to stand,” he continued, voice thick, “I saw it. Every time you clenched your thighs like you were trying to hide how wet you were, I saw it. You don’t hide as well as you think, baby.”

The endearment slipped out low and possessive. His hands moved higher still, cupping the soft undersides of your tits through the thin fabric of your bra—or lack of one. You weren’t wearing one. His thumbs brushed over your nipples and they hardened instantly under the touch. A soft, broken sound escaped your throat.

“Jeon—your girlfriend—”

He ignored the words again. Thumbs circled slowly, deliberately, rubbing the sensitive peaks until they ached. His mouth brushed the side of your neck, not quite a kiss, just the heat of his breath and the light scrape of his lips.

“You get so fucking responsive,” he muttered against your skin. “Just from this. Imagine how you’d fall apart if I actually got my mouth on these. If I sucked these pretty nipples until you were grinding against my cock like you needed it to breathe.”

His hands squeezed gently, feeling the weight of your tits, thumbs still working your nipples in slow, filthy circles. You were breathing hard now, chest rising and falling against his palms. The protest came out weaker this time.

“You have a girlfriend… we can’t—”

One of his hands left your breast and slid down your stomach, fingers tracing the soft skin just above the waistband of your shorts. He paused there, giving you half a second to stop him. You didn’t. The hand slipped under the fabric, under the lace of your panties, and cupped your cunt like it belonged to him.

You gasped. He groaned low in his throat at the wet heat he found.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead dropping against yours for a second. “You’re soaked. Just from me talking to you. Just from my hands on you. Look at this.”

Two fingers stroked through your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering the slickness. He rubbed your clit in a lazy circle and your hips jerked against his hand without permission. Those hypnotizing eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, watching every reaction, every flutter of your lashes, every soft broken sound you tried to swallow.

“Still going to pretend this isn’t what you wanted?” he asked, voice rough. “Still going to act like you haven’t been imagining my fingers right here every time I looked at you across the flat?”

You tried again, voice barely above a whisper. “Your girlfriend—”

This time he didn’t ignore it. His fingers stilled against your cunt, still cupping you, still feeling how wet you were for him. His eyes searched yours, something serious cutting through the heat.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

The words landed like a slap. You stared at him, breath catching.

“What?”

“She’s not.” His free hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. The other hand stayed between your legs, possessive, fingers still resting against your soaked folds like he wasn’t ready to let go of the proof of how much you wanted him. “She’s a lesbian. One of my closest friends. Her parents have been pressuring her to get married for years—blind dates, setups, the whole fucking thing. She introduced me as her boyfriend so they’d stop. That’s it. That’s all it is.”

You shook your head, even as your body stayed pressed to his, even as his fingers twitched against your cunt and made fresh wetness slick his skin. “I don’t—how am I supposed to believe that? I’ve seen the calls. I’ve heard you laugh with her. You answer every time.”

“Because she’s my friend,” he said, patient but edged with something desperate. “And because the lie only works if I keep it up when they call. I never touched her. Never wanted to. She’s never wanted me either. The only person I’ve been looking at like I want to ruin them is you.”

His fingers started moving again—slow, deliberate strokes over your clit, then lower, teasing your entrance without pushing in. You trembled.

“You’re lying,” you whispered, but it sounded more like a plea for him to keep proving you wrong.

“I’m not.” He leaned in, mouth brushing yours without quite kissing. “Ask me anything. I’ll answer. But don’t you dare tell me this—” He pressed two fingers against your entrance, feeling how you fluttered around nothing, how wet you were. “—isn’t real. Don’t you dare tell me you haven’t been aching for me the same way I’ve been aching for you.”

You opened your mouth to question him further and he finally kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It was deep and hungry from the first second, his tongue sliding against yours like he’d been starving for the taste of you. One hand stayed between your legs, fingers rubbing slow filthy circles over your clit while the other tangled in your hair, tilting your head so he could kiss you deeper. You moaned into his mouth. He swallowed the sound and kissed you harder, like he was trying to convince you with every stroke of his tongue that the story was true, that the only person he wanted was the one currently dripping onto his fingers.

When he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips were wet and his eyes were almost black.

“She’s a lesbian,” he repeated, voice rough. “We’ve never fucked. Never even come close. The only reason her name is on that whiteboard is because the lie needs maintenance. That’s all. You’re the one I’ve been watching. You’re the one whose wet cunt is currently making a mess of my hand. You’re the one I want.”

He kissed you again before you could answer—slower this time, deeper, like he was savoring it. His fingers kept working between your legs, rubbing your clit in steady, deliberate circles that made your hips roll against his hand. Every time you tried to form another question he kissed it out of you, tongue sliding against yours, teeth catching your lower lip, mouth open and filthy and insistent.

“Believe me,” he murmured against your lips between kisses. “Or don’t. But don’t stop this. Don’t tell me you don’t feel how hard I am for you right now.”

You felt it—the thick ridge of his cock pressing against your hip through his jeans, hot and insistent. His fingers slipped lower, the tips of two of them pushing just inside you, not fully, just enough to feel how tight and wet you were. You clenched around the intrusion with a broken sound. He groaned into your mouth and kissed you harder.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Feel that? That’s what you do to me. Not her. You.”

He kept kissing you—long, deep, filthy kisses that left your lips swollen and your head spinning. His hand worked between your legs with slow, devastating patience: rubbing your clit, teasing your entrance, gathering more slickness and spreading it, making you wetter, making you ache. Every time you tried to pull back enough to question him again he followed, mouth claiming yours, tongue stroking against yours until the questions dissolved into soft, desperate sounds.

“She’s my friend,” he said against your lips, voice low and rough. “Lesbian. Fake relationship for her parents. That’s the entire truth. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. Never looked at anyone the way I look at you. Never gotten this hard just from eye contact and the smell of how wet you get when I stare too long.”

His fingers pushed a little deeper, still not fully inside, just enough to make you gasp and cling to his shoulders. He kissed the sound out of you, slow and thorough, like he had all night to convince your body even if your mind needed more time.

You were shaking when he finally pulled back enough to look at you. Those hypnotizing eyes searched yours, dark and open and almost vulnerable under the heat.

“Believe me,” he said again, quieter. “Please.”

Before you could answer, your phone rang on the counter behind you.

The sound cut through the thick air like a knife. You both froze. His fingers were still between your legs, still slick with you. His mouth was still close enough that you felt every breath. The screen lit up with a name neither of you had expected in that moment.

He reached past you without hesitation and picked it up.

“It’s her,” he said, voice still rough from kissing you. He didn’t look away from your eyes as he answered the call and brought the phone to his ear.

He answered the call without moving his hand from between your legs.

“Hey,” he said into the phone, voice calm, almost casual, even while two of his fingers rested slick and possessive against your soaked folds. His eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time—those dreamy, hypnotizing eyes that had already stripped you bare more times than you could count. The corner of his mouth lifted when he felt you twitch under his touch at the sound of the other woman’s voice spilling through the speaker.

She was, as always, a chatterbox.

“Jeon, oh my god, you will not believe the absolute disaster that just happened, I swear I am still shaking, okay so basically I went out with this girl, right? The one from the coffee place I told you about last week? Super cute, short hair, the kind of smile that makes you forget how to form sentences? Anyway we were at that little park near the river because I thought it would be low-key, private, no chance of anyone who knows my parents randomly showing up, and everything was fine until it wasn’t, like we were talking and then she leaned in and I leaned in and suddenly we were making out and I mean making out, like full tongue, hands in hair, the whole dramatic cinema moment, and I was so into it I didn’t even hear the footsteps until—”

Jeon’s fingers stroked once through your wetness, slow and deliberate, and your breath hitched. He watched the reaction with dark amusement, thumb brushing your clit in a lazy circle while the voice on the other end kept tumbling out words without pause for air.

“—until my mother was standing there with her friend from the book club, both of them staring like they’d just walked in on a murder scene, and my dad was a few steps behind them carrying takeout bags because apparently they decided to do a spontaneous evening walk, and I froze, she froze, everyone froze, and then my mom just said my name in that tone that means I am in so much trouble when we get home, and the girl I was kissing scrambled up and mumbled something about being late and literally ran, Jeon, she ran, and now I am sitting in my car outside my parents’ house trying not to have a full panic attack because they saw everything—”

“Don’t worry,” Jeon cut in, voice steady, fingers still moving between your legs in slow, filthy circles that made your hips twitch against his hand. “Just make up an excuse.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a slightly hysterical laugh.

“That is not the problem. The problem is we were making out heavily. Like, hands-up-shirts, grinding-against-the-bench, if-my-parents-had-shown-up-thirty-seconds- later-they-would- have-seen-actual-skin kind of heavily. Parents can’t see their child having their tongue down another girl’s throat while she is halfway to fingering me on a public park bench.”

Your eyes widened.

The words landed like a slap of cold water and pure, electric confirmation at the same time. Jeon’s gaze never left yours. He watched the exact second the truth settled into your bones—watched your pupils blow wider, watched your mouth part on a silent breath, watched the fresh rush of wetness slick his fingers even more. A low, quiet laugh rumbled out of his chest.

“Deal with it,” he said into the phone, still looking straight at you. “I’m in the middle of something.”

There was a short, knowing pause on the other end. Then her voice came back brighter, teasing, almost delighted.

“Oh my god. Are you getting down with your hottie flatmate right now? Please tell me you finally stopped being a repressed idiot and put your hands on her. Is she there? Is she listening? Hi, flatmate, if you can hear me, you’re welcome for the cover story, now go let him eat you out like he’s been dying to for months—”

Your eyes widened further. Heat flooded your face, your chest, the space between your legs where his fingers were still slowly stroking. Damn. He had not been lying. Not about any of it.

Jeon’s smile was slow and dark and utterly unrepentant.

“See you later,” he said, and cut the call without waiting for another word.

The phone hit the counter with a soft clatter. For a second the only sound in the kitchen was your uneven breathing and the faint wet noise of his fingers still moving between your thighs.

Then he kissed you.

It was deeper this time, hungrier, like the phone call had snapped the last thin thread of restraint. His tongue slid against yours in long, filthy strokes while his hand between your legs grew bolder—two fingers pressing just inside you, not fully seating, just stretching the entrance enough to make you moan into his mouth. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you harder, deeper, like he wanted to taste every sound you made.

“Told you,” he murmured against your lips between kisses. “Lesbian. Fake boyfriend. Cover story. And the only person I’ve wanted to ruin for months is the one currently dripping all over my fingers.”

You tried to answer and only managed a broken sound when he pushed those two fingers deeper, curling them just enough to stroke the sensitive front wall. Your hips rolled against his hand. He groaned low in his throat and kissed you again, slower now, savoring the way your body opened for him.

His free hand slid under your shirt again, palm hot against bare skin, and this time he didn’t stop at cupping your tits. He shoved the fabric up, exposing you to the cool kitchen air, and lowered his head. The first wet heat of his mouth closing over your nipple made your back arch. He sucked slowly, thoroughly, tongue flicking the sensitive peak while his fingers kept working between your legs—rubbing your clit with his thumb, fucking you in shallow strokes with the other two, spreading your wetness until the slick sounds filled the quiet kitchen.

“Jeon—”

“Shh.” He switched to the other breast, sucking harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. “I’ve been thinking about this for so fucking long. The way you look at me. The way you get wet just from eye contact. The way your thighs press together every time I walk past you in a towel. I’ve jerked off to the thought of tasting this cunt more times than I can count.”

He pulled his fingers free. You made a soft, needy sound at the loss. He brought the slick digits to his mouth and sucked them clean while those hypnotizing eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and heavy-lidded and filthy with intent. The sight alone made fresh wetness gather between your legs.

Then he dropped to his knees.

The movement was smooth, deliberate, like he’d planned it for months. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, gripping firm, and he looked up at you from the floor with those dreamy, endless eyes that somehow managed to look both soft and filthy at the same time.

“Hold the counter,” he said, voice rough. “And keep looking at me. I want to watch your face while I eat this pretty cunt.”

You gripped the edge of the counter behind you, knuckles whitening. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and panties together and dragged them down in one slow, deliberate pull. The cool air hit your soaked folds. He made a low, almost reverent sound at the sight of you—slick and flushed and already swollen from his earlier touches.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you. So wet it’s dripping down your thighs. All from me talking to you. All from my hands and my eyes.”

He leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh, just above the place where your wetness had started to trail. Then higher. Then higher still. His breath ghosted over your clit and your hips jerked. He held you steady with both hands and finally dragged the flat of his tongue through your folds in one long, filthy stroke from entrance to clit.

The sound you made was broken and loud in the quiet kitchen.

He groaned against you like the taste of you was something he’d been starving for. Then he settled in properly—mouth open, tongue working in slow, deliberate patterns, eyes still looking up at you the entire time. He licked through your folds again and again, gathering every drop of slickness, then focused on your clit with soft, wet suction that made your thighs tremble around his head.

“Jeon—oh my god—”

He hummed against you, the vibration shooting straight up your spine. One of his hands left your thigh and slid up to spread you open with his fingers, giving him better access. His tongue pushed inside you in shallow, filthy thrusts, fucking you with it while his nose brushed your clit. Then he pulled back just enough to suck your clit between his lips again, harder this time, tongue flicking the sensitive bud in tight, relentless circles.

Your head fell back. Your hips rolled against his mouth without permission. He let you, hands gripping your ass to pull you closer, to grind your cunt against his face while he ate you like he had no intention of stopping until you came.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice muffled against your wet flesh. “Eyes on me while I ruin this cunt with my tongue.”

You forced your gaze back down. The sight nearly undid you—Jeon on his knees in the middle of the kitchen, mouth buried between your legs, those hypnotizing eyes dark and half-lidded and locked on yours while he licked and sucked and fucked you with his tongue. Spit and your own slickness shone on his chin. His jaw worked as he ate you deeper, hungrier, like he couldn’t get enough of the taste.

He slid two fingers inside you while his mouth stayed on your clit. The stretch made you cry out. He curled them immediately, stroking that sensitive spot inside you in time with the wet suction of his lips. The dual sensation was devastating—thick fingers fucking you slow and deep while his tongue worked your clit in filthy, relentless patterns.

“So fucking tight,” he muttered against you between licks. “So wet. Been imagining this every time you handed me a glass and your fingers lingered. Every time you looked at me like you wanted me to drop to my knees and do exactly this.”

He sucked harder. His fingers fucked you faster. The wet sounds of it filled the kitchen—slick, filthy, unmistakable. Your thighs started to shake. He held you open wider, tongue flattening against your clit in broad, firm strokes while his fingers curled and thrust and stretched you open.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice rough. “Grind on my face. Use my mouth. I want to feel you come all over my tongue.”

You couldn’t have stopped the roll of your hips if you tried. You fucked yourself against his mouth, against the thick push of his fingers, chasing the coil of pleasure tightening low in your belly. He took every desperate movement like it was a gift—groaning into your cunt, sucking harder, fucking you deeper with his fingers until the wet slap of it was obscene.

“Jeon—I’m close—I’m so close—”

“I know.” He looked up at you through his lashes, mouth still working, eyes almost black with heat. “Come on my tongue. Let me taste it. I’ve been dying to know what you sound like when you fall apart for me.”

He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked hard, fingers curling deep and relentless. The orgasm hit like a breaking wave—sharp and overwhelming, your cunt clenching hard around his fingers, your thighs locking around his head, a broken, high sound tearing out of your throat. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, slower now but just as filthy, drinking down every pulse of wetness, every tremor, every soft aftershock that made you twitch against his mouth.

When the worst of the shaking eased he pulled back just enough to press soft, open-mouthed kisses to your swollen clit, to the slick folds, to the soft skin of your inner thighs. His fingers stayed inside you, gentle now, stroking slowly while you came down.

“Beautiful,” he murmured against your skin. “So fucking beautiful when you come. Look at the mess you made of my face.”

You looked down. His mouth and chin were shiny with you. Those hypnotizing eyes were soft and dark and utterly satisfied, like he’d just gotten something he’d been craving for months. He slowly withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth again, sucking them clean while he watched your face.

Then he stood, crowding close, and kissed you deep and slow so you could taste yourself on his tongue. One hand slid back between your legs, cupping your still-sensitive cunt possessively.

“We’re not done,” he repeated against your lips, voice rough as gravel and silk at once. “I’ve waited too long to stop at just tasting you.”

He pulled his fingers free, brought them to your mouth this time, and watched with those hypnotizing dark eyes while you sucked them clean. The filthy wet heat of your tongue around his digits made his cock twitch hard against your hip. He made a low, broken sound and kissed you again, harder, like he couldn’t stand another second without being inside your mouth somehow.

Then his hands were everywhere—shoving your shirt the rest of the way off, unhooking the bra you weren’t even wearing, dragging his palms over your bare tits, squeezing, thumbs circling the still-sensitive nipples until you arched into him with a whimper. You reached for his belt with shaking fingers. The metal clinked. The zipper hissed down. You shoved jeans and boxers down together and his cock sprang free—thick, flushed dark, already leaking at the tip, the head swollen and shiny.

You wrapped your hand around him and he hissed through his teeth, forehead dropping against yours.

“Fuck—look at you,” he muttered. “Already so eager to get your hands on it. Been imagining this every time you stared at my mouth, haven’t you? Wondering how it would stretch that pretty cunt open.”

You stroked him once, slow, feeling the heavy weight of him, the way the vein on the underside pulsed under your palm. He was bigger than you’d even let yourself fantasize about in the dark—long and thick enough that the thought of taking him made your empty cunt clench around nothing.

He spun you before you could answer, bending you over the counter with one firm hand between your shoulder blades. The cool surface pressed against your flushed cheek and bare tits. His foot kicked your ankles wider. You felt the blunt, hot head of his cock drag through your soaked folds, notching against your entrance, and the filthy wet sound of it made both of you groan.

“Eyes on the window,” he ordered, voice low and dark. “Watch your own reflection while I finally fuck the cunt I’ve been dying for.”

He pushed in.

The stretch was slow and devastating. Inch after thick inch forced its way inside you, splitting you open on the cock you’d only ever imagined. Your mouth fell open on a broken cry. He didn’t stop until his hips were flush against your ass, buried to the hilt, the heavy weight of his balls pressed tight to your clit. For a second he just stayed there, breathing hard against the back of your neck, letting you feel every throb of him inside you.

“Jesus Christ,” he gritted out. “Tighter than I even dreamed. Look at that. Look how your cunt is stretched around me.”

You looked. In the dark glass of the kitchen window you could see it all—your own flushed face, tits pressed to the counter, and behind you Jeon with his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, those hypnotizing eyes locked on the place where his thick cock disappeared inside you. The sight alone made fresh wetness flood around him.

He pulled out almost all the way—slow, deliberate, the drag of his cockhead against your walls making you shake—then slammed back in hard enough that the counter creaked. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the kitchen. He set a rhythm that was deep and filthy and relentless, hips snapping forward again and again, every thrust punching a broken sound out of your throat.

“This what you imagined?” he growled against your ear, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair and yank your head back so you were forced to keep watching the reflection. “Every time you looked at me across the flat with those hungry eyes? Me bending you over and fucking this tight cunt like I own it?”

“Yes—” The word tore out of you raw. “God, yes—Jeon—”

He fucked you harder. The counter edge dug into your hips. Your tits bounced with every brutal thrust. His free hand reached around and found your clit, rubbing tight filthy circles in time with the snap of his hips. The dual sensation was overwhelming—thick cock stretching you open, fingers working your swollen clit, the wet filthy sounds of your cunt taking him over and over.

“Been jerking off to this for months,” he panted. “Imagining how you’d sound when I finally got inside you. How you’d drip down my balls. How your cunt would squeeze me every time I looked you in the eye while I fucked you.”

He pulled out suddenly. The loss made you cry out. He spun you around, lifted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, and stepped between your spread thighs. Your legs locked around his waist on instinct. He lined up again and drove back in to the hilt in one long, devastating thrust that punched the air from your lungs.

This time those eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time.

He fucked you like that—deep, hard, relentless—watching every flicker of pleasure that crossed your face. One hand braced on the counter beside your hip. The other cupped your jaw, forcing you to keep looking at him while his cock slammed into you again and again.

“There it is,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “That look. The one you get when you’re so full of cock you can’t think. I’ve been waiting to see it up close.”

You came again with a broken sob, cunt clenching hard around him, walls fluttering and milking his cock. He groaned through it, hips stuttering, but he didn’t stop. He fucked you straight through the orgasm, slower now but just as deep, dragging every last tremor out of you until you were shaking and oversensitive and still somehow aching for more.

He pulled out only long enough to scoop you off the counter. Your legs stayed wrapped around him as he carried you the few steps to the kitchen table, clearing the forgotten pasta plates with one sweep of his arm. They crashed to the floor. He didn’t care. He laid you out on the wood and climbed over you, cock still glistening with your slick, and pushed back inside with a filthy wet sound.

This angle was deeper. You felt every inch of him pressing against places that made your toes curl. He braced himself on his forearms and started moving again—long, grinding thrusts that rubbed his pelvis against your clit with every stroke. His mouth found yours, kissing you open and filthy while he fucked you into the table.

“All those nights I heard you moving around in your room,” he muttered against your lips. “Wondered if you were touching yourself thinking about me. Wondered if your fingers were inside this same tight cunt wishing they were my cock.”

“They were,” you gasped. “Every time—I came thinking about you fucking me just like this—”

He growled and snapped his hips harder. The table legs scraped against the floor. Your nails dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. He liked it—you felt the way his cock throbbed inside you at the sting.

He pulled out again, flipped you onto your stomach on the table, and dragged your hips back until you were bent over the edge, feet barely touching the floor. He pushed back in from behind and the new angle made you see stars. One hand fisted in your hair. The other reached under you to rub your clit in tight, relentless circles while he pounded into you.

“Take it,” he gritted. “Take every fucking inch. This is what you wanted every time our eyes met. This is what I’ve been dying to give you.”

You came a third time with a scream muffled against the wood, cunt spasming so hard around him that he cursed and had to slow down to keep from following you over. He didn’t stop moving entirely—just ground deep and circular, letting you feel the thick stretch of him while the aftershocks rolled through you.

When your shaking eased he pulled out, turned you again, and lifted you into his arms. Your legs locked around his waist. He carried you out of the kitchen like that, still buried inside you, every step making his cock shift deeper. You kissed him messily the whole way to the living-room couch, tongues sliding, teeth catching, both of you tasting the salt of sweat and the lingering sweetness of your earlier orgasm.

He sat down hard on the couch with you in his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. The new position let you sink even deeper onto him. You both groaned at the feeling. His hands gripped your ass and started guiding you—lifting you almost off his cock, then dropping you back down hard enough that the wet slap of it echoed through the quiet flat.

“Ride me,” he ordered, voice dark. “Show me how much you’ve wanted this. Fuck yourself on my cock like the filthy thing you are for your taken flatmate.”

You did. You braced your hands on his shoulders and started moving—rising and falling, rolling your hips, taking him as deep as you could every time. His eyes stayed locked on yours, heavy-lidded and almost black, watching the way your tits bounced, the way your stomach flexed, the way your cunt stretched around him on every downstroke. One of his hands slid between your bodies to rub your clit again. The other stayed on your ass, guiding, squeezing, occasionally delivering a sharp slap that made you clench around him.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice rough. “Use me. Take what you need. I’ve been hard for you for months—every morning in that fucking towel, every time you bent over the laundry, every time you looked at me like you wanted me to bend you over and ruin you. Now you get to.”

You rode him harder. The wet sounds of your cunt taking his cock over and over filled the living room. Sweat slicked both your skins. His hands roamed—squeezing your tits, pinching your nipples, sliding up to wrap lightly around your throat while those hypnotizing eyes stayed locked on yours.

“Come again,” he said. “Come on my cock while I’m looking at you. I want to feel it.”

You did—another sharp, shattering orgasm that made your whole body lock up, cunt pulsing around him in tight waves. He held you through it, hips still rolling up to meet you, dragging the pleasure out until you were sobbing with it.

When the last tremor faded he stood again, still inside you, and carried you down the short hallway to his bedroom. He kicked the door shut behind him and laid you out on his unmade bed—the sheets that still smelled like him, the same ones you’d imagined yourself tangled in a hundred times. He pulled out only long enough to strip the rest of the way out of his jeans, then crawled over you and pushed back in with a single deep thrust that made you both moan.

This time he fucked you slow.

Long, deep, grinding strokes that let you feel every ridge, every throb, every thick inch of him. His forehead rested against yours. Those eyes stayed open and locked on yours the entire time. One of his hands laced with yours above your head. The other slid between your bodies to keep rubbing your oversensitive clit in gentle, relentless circles.

“This is what I wanted most,” he murmured. “You under me. Looking at me. Taking me. No more pretending. No more just eye-fucking across the flat. Just this.”

You wrapped your legs higher around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. He groaned and picked up the pace again—still deep, still controlled, but harder, the wet slap of his hips against yours growing louder. The headboard started to knock softly against the wall.

“Harder,” you whispered. “Please—fuck me harder—”

He did. He braced himself on both hands and drove into you with long, powerful thrusts that made the bed frame creak. Your tits bounced with every impact. His eyes never left yours. The intensity of that gaze felt almost more intimate than the thick cock splitting you open—like he was fucking you with his eyes at the same time as his body, claiming every broken sound, every flutter of your lashes, every desperate clench of your cunt around him.

“Going to fill this cunt,” he gritted out. “Been dreaming about pumping you full for months. Watching it drip out of you after. Marking you from the inside so every time you sit down tomorrow you feel me.”

“Do it,” you gasped. “Come inside me—please—”

He fucked you through another orgasm first—your fourth, or maybe fifth, you’d lost count—cunt spasming so hard around him that his rhythm faltered. Then he followed with a broken groan, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing deep inside you. The hot flood of his come filled you in thick spurts. You felt every throb, every pulse, the way it overflowed around his cock and started to drip down onto the sheets.

He stayed inside you afterward, still hard enough to keep you stretched open, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard. Those hypnotizing eyes stayed open, watching you, soft now under the residual heat.

“Not done,” he said after a long moment, voice hoarse. “Not even close. I’ve got months of filthy fantasies to work through, and you’re not leaving this bed until I’ve fucked every single one of them into you.”

He proved it.

He pulled out slowly, watching with dark satisfaction as his come started to leak from your well-used cunt. Then he flipped you onto your hands and knees, spread you open with both thumbs, and pushed back in from behind in one long thrust. The new angle let him go even deeper. He fucked you like that for a long time—slow and deep at first, then harder, one hand in your hair, the other reaching under to rub your swollen clit until you came again with a muffled scream into the pillow.

He pulled out only long enough to flip you onto your back again, hook your knees over his shoulders, and drive back in so deep you saw stars. He ate at your mouth while he fucked you, swallowing every broken sound, those eyes locked on yours even when your vision blurred with pleasure.

Later he had you ride him again, slower this time, grinding, letting you feel the thick stretch of him while his hands roamed every inch of your body. He sat up so he could suck on your tits while you moved, tongue flicking your nipples in time with the roll of your hips. When you came he followed right after, flooding you a second time, holding you down on his cock so you couldn’t escape a single drop.

Still not done, he pulled you into his lap facing away from him, your back to his chest, and fucked up into you with deep, grinding thrusts while one hand played with your tits and the other rubbed your clit. He made you watch in the mirror across from the bed—watch the way your body took him, the way your cunt stretched around his thick cock, the way your face looked when another orgasm tore through you.

By the time he finally let you rest you were a shaking, sweaty, come-soaked mess in the middle of his sheets. He was still half-hard inside you, arms wrapped around you from behind, mouth pressing lazy open kisses to the side of your neck. Those hypnotizing eyes were half-lidded when you turned your head to look at him, soft and dark and utterly satisfied.

“Next time,” he murmured against your skin, “I’m tying you to this bed and taking my time. Hours. Until you can’t walk. Until the only thing you can think about is how good this cunt feels stretched around my cock.”

You were too wrecked to answer with words. You just clenched around him once, weakly, and felt him throb in answer.

Outside the bedroom the flat was quiet—dishes still on the floor, pasta sauce drying on the table, the laundry half-finished. None of it mattered. The only thing that existed was the thick heat of him still buried inside you, the ache between your legs that would remind you of him for days, and the knowledge that every filthy fantasy either of you had ever had while staring across the kitchen was no longer just imagination.

It was real. And he was nowhere near finished making the rest of them come true.