Author's Note: Thank you for my two lovely reviewers! I've written somewhere. It's smutty and fluffy. Yes, the rating has changed. I hope you enjoy it!
Two.
Oh my, my, my, what you do to me
Like lightening when I'm swimming in the sea
There's an energy when you hold me, when you touch me
It's so powerful
As a child, home was the fenced fortress on the hill, with its sprawling gardens and cold slabs of marble. She would run through its endless hallways and countless rooms, searching, always searching. The place where she longed for warmth.
Later, home became her five-bedroom penthouse with its stunning views of the city, a physical token of her success, polished but warm, safe but lonely. Her haven in the nighttime, it would often find her curled on the living room couch, hands warm around a mug of hot tea, contemplating the darkness outside. The place where she longed for love.
Now, home is something Se-ri doesn't quite understand anymore. It slips through her fingers like sand. She feels more at home watching him patiently tidy and fold her paraglider on a nameless mountain in the Interlaken than in her own bed in Seoul.
He moves with such grace, long muscled limbs and capable hands maneuvering her equipment flawlessly, shooing her away when she tries to help. It's just as well. She's content to just watch in silence, drunk on the sight of him, counting all the little things she seems to have forgotten about the way he carries himself and the way his jaw sets at an angle when he's focused. She thinks the forgetting is her mind's way of protecting itself against going mad with missing him.
Ri Jeong-hyeok straightens to his full height, the paraglider in his arms now a neat, thick rectangle with dangling obediently straight ropes. He's taller than she remembers, a stark outline against the bright, clear sky. She feels so very betrayed by her memory. Slanting a half-smile at her, he steps in her direction. "Where would you like me to put this?" he asks.
Snapped out of her thoughts, she throws a thumb over her shoulder, down the hill. "I have to return it to the rental shop. There's a car over there, waiting to take me back to the hotel," she responds, and he nods dutifully, coming to a stop at her side, waiting for her. She turns around so they're both facing downhill, shoulder to shoulder, the breeze blowing between them carelessly, like it's everyday they get to share the same air. She glances at him and finds his gaze warm and intent on hers, inquisitive but tempered. Her eyes dart away self-consciously. He's heartbreakingly handsome with all his sharp angles and slicked back hair; she can't seem to get out of her own head long enough to put coherent words together. She starts walking, an unhurried gait that he mirrors as he follows her, quiet now, as if all his words have been depleted. It's surreal, this peaceful stroll with this man in this place. An hour ago, she was grappling with muted hope, floating through the sky aimlessly, high on a fleeting rush of adrenaline. She almost can't comprehend the suddenness of his presence, the flood of emotions that came with it and the myriad of possibilities fighting for her attention.
"I don't remember you being this quiet." His deep voice is teasing, the lilt of his words curious, an accent unlike any of her previous homes, but one that evokes unspeakable warmth and safety.
"I don't know where to start," she admits. "I'm so overwhelmed. I have a million questions."
He hums thoughtfully, a sound that comes from deep in his chest. She wants to press her ear against it, feel the vibrations of that little noise shudder through her. Even more overwhelming than the questions is this burning need to touch him. "Start at the beginning," he suggests at last. "Beginnings matter too, you know." It's a play on her musings from earlier when she was rambling about endings after a clumsy landing.
She scowls at the ground, pensive, and she can tell he's watching her. "Where is the beginning?" she wonders out loud.
"That's a good first question." They reach the rental shop, and somehow with his armload of her things, he still manages to courteously hold the door open for her. "The beginning is crossing the border, leaving you on the other side," he tells her softly and deposits the paragliding gear in the designated area. He turns back to face her, dark eyes sad with reminiscence, but when he finds her stepping out of her red overalls to reveal the black tights and oversized white button-down beneath, those eyes glint a bit brighter. A swarm of butterflies takes flight in her stomach, and she smiles as his hand reaches for hers, long fingers threading through hers, curling tightly.
"I have mixed feelings about that day," she muses, nodding at the young boy who checks in her equipment and points her towards the car outside. They walk hand-in-hand to the sleek vehicle, where the driver holds the door open, murmurs a polite greeting, and ushers them both in with a smile. "A part of me cherishes it because it was the last time I saw you and another part of me hates it for that very same reason." The words echo in the closed backseat of the black Mercedes wagon, more intimate somehow. He shifts into the middle of the backseat until the sides of their thighs are pressed together and his broad shoulder looms perilously close to her cheek, crowding her against the door. He can't seem to get close enough. He rests his hand on his leg, palm turned upwards, a subtle invitation that she takes without hesitation, sliding her smaller, colder hand into his.
"I think about that day often, what I could have done differently to make it hurt less," he confesses. The fading daylight catches his high cheekbone at an angle, and he has a magical air when he looks at her. She wants to kiss him again but settles for sandwiching his larger hand between both of hers. Knuckles and grooves feel smooth under her questing fingertips, and it's just enough to keep her from clambering into his arms. In a lulling even voice, he begins to tell her about that first year, his father's role in covering up their indiscretion, the day he got decommissioned, Pyo Chi-su taking over as captain, the unexpected tale of Seo Dan and Gu Seung-jun and then finally joining the National Symphony Orchestra as a pianist.
"You're playing the piano again," she beams, smiling proudly at his chiseled profile. It makes her inordinately happy to know that he's been doing something he loves.
He smiles back, a small smile, a flash of dimples too attractive to be let loose on the world. "I've been playing with the National Symphony for over two years. That's how I came here," he explains.
Her lips round in realization before she furrows her brow. "And how did you find me?" she prods.
His smile turns into a tickled smirk. "The part where you crash landed on me again was a coincidence."
"Coincidence!" she scoffs, indignant at his casual dismissal of what was clearly the universe contriving against all odds to bring him dashing back into her world.
"Fate," Jeong-hyeok corrects himself and twists sideways to face her, raising his free hand to cradle her cheek. He watches his thumb stroke the soft skin, mesmerized. Her throat feels dry. "I really just got on the train to explore today. I was hoping to see you tomorrow at the opening for your music program," he tells her, his hand dropping back to his side as if he doesn't quite trust what it might do.
"You know about the program?" she asks with a sense of wonder.
He nods. "I read your interview in Vogue magazine."
She can't believe her plan worked. "How did you get that magazine?" He's hardly the type to pick up the latest issue of Vogue, even if it's ever published in Pyongyang.
"Seo Dan gave it to me."
Deflated, she worries her bottom lip between her teeth. There's a laden pause, during which she tries to suppress the inexplicable surge of jealousy that rises through her. "I see," she mutters finally, averting his knowing gaze.
A single finger touches her chin, tipping it up gently. "Yoon Se-ri, are you jealous?" There's a little rhythm to the words that makes her feel hot with embarrassment.
"I'm not jealous," she refutes on a huff, throws in a stilted incredulous laugh for good measure. It only makes him raise his eyebrows in amusement. "I'm just a girl that would love to punch every other girl in the face that gives you a second look. And she gave you a lot of looks Ri Jeong-hyeok," she points out. "She almost married you!"
He laughs, a surprising melodic sound that fills the confines of their little car with merriment. His face gentles. She thinks it might be her favorite sound in the whole world. Of their own volition, her hands abandon his and reach for his face, and whatever he's about to say dies on his lips. Hooded eyes glaze over; his laughter fades into a full beautiful smile.
"Jeong-hyeok-ssi," she smiles as she dips her inquisitive fingers into his dimples, brief moment of envy forgotten. "I've never seen you laugh before," she sighs longingly.
He shrugs, an awkward shift of those broad shoulders, the stoic soldier within still alive and well. "You're funny," he says, matter-of-fact.
She gives him a skeptical look and forces her hands back to her lap where she folds them neatly. "Have you always thought that?"
"Always," he confirms. "From that very first moment I found you stuck in a tree negotiating with a walkie talkie."
"Ms. Yoon, we have arrived," the driver announces, a timely interruption that stops her from touching him again. Both backseat doors are opened from the outside, and they file out of the car in unison. She's mourning the loss of his heat when she feels his hand on the small of her back, guiding her towards the revolving doors of the Victoria Jungfrau Hotel.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Yoon," the concierge greets her at the door.
"Good afternoon, Atlas," she responds, and feels rather than sees Jeong-hyeok's respectful nod of acknowledgement.
They make their way up to her suite in silence. She opens the door without incident. Leave it to her key card to behave now when she could use a distraction from the tangle of nerves in the pit of her stomach. Inside, the curtains are open, and the early sunset paints the room in soft, soothing hues. She tries to see it through his eyes, the floor-to-ceiling windows boasting breathtaking views of the mountains cradling a crystal blue lake, the hardwood floors gleaming, the delicate white furniture of a lusciously comfortable living room, the little kitchenette tucked into the corner, the wide open door to her bedroom where a king-size bed sits unassumingly.
"It's nice," he says like he's been reading her thoughts. His voice is a little gravely.
Se-ri clears her throat and remembers her manners. "Come in, please, have a seat." She gestures towards the furniture and goes to the kitchenette. Behind her, she hears him shuffle in, hang up his coat and settle onto the white loveseat. "Can I get you anything?" she offers, pulling the fridge open to peruse its contents. "I don't have much," she murmurs more to herself than him. When he doesn't answer, she turns around and finds him gazing at her intently. "Coffee? Water?"
His smoldering eyes say: You. She swallows hard, and he lets another beat of silence pass. "Water is fine."
She's grateful he gives her something to do. She pours a tall glass of water and brings it over to him. He takes it from her hand, fingers brushing against hers accidentally or deliberately or both. The touch electrifies her. He places the glass on the small coffee table and before she can retreat, he grasps her wrist. She looks at his hand where his long fingers encircle her bones entirely, and then at his hungry gaze, and he looks positively predatory. Her heartbeat ratchets up a notch or two or a hundred. She fears her poor little heart might burst out of her chest.
He tugs her towards him, and it's more a gentle suggestion than a command. Complying wordlessly, she sits down beside him, close but not touching. His hand on her wrist turns caressing, feeling for her pulse as if he needs more confirmation that she's falling apart. She draws in a shuddering breath as he leans closer, brushing sweet, barely there kisses to her brow, her temple, her cheekbone. The hand on her wrist travels up her arm, curves over her shoulder, traces up her neck and steadies her jaw when those questing lips find the corner of her mouth and toy with it.
It's inevitable that she turns into him, like a flower drawn to the sun. Their lips meet in a tentative kiss, slow, delicious presses that she feels everywhere. The tip of his tongue finds the seam of her lips, skims along it in one probing stroke, and she opens her mouth to a thought-destroying assault of tongue and teeth and lips and breath. His fingers in her hair hold her in place as his mouth devours her, retreats and returns greedy for more. Breathless with his kisses, she fists her hands in the soft material of his dark turtleneck, holding tight onto him as if this is the only thing keeping her from falling.
When his kisses leave her mouth to find the underside of her jaw, she slips her hands under his sweater and the sturdy cotton beneath it. She finds smooth, heated skin pulled taut over muscle, bone and sinew. He hisses at the feel of her hands on him, skin-on-skin, and she delights in the quiver of all that sheer strength under her palms. Emboldened, she rakes her nails lightly up his torso to learn the shape of his chest by touch. It's agony not to see. She tries to kiss him again, but his mouth has moved on to nipping her jaw, licking a wobbly line to her neck. He pauses there, lips leaving her skin moist, but staying close, warm breath cool against her flesh, raising goosebumps in its wake. She feels her nipples tighten, her breasts grow heavy with need. Impatient, she yanks at his sweater, and he lifts his head from her neck to pull the turtleneck and his undershirt over his head in one rushed motion that leaves his hair tousled, one dark lock dipping low over his forehead.
There's a ghost of an amused smile on his unfairly full lips, a hint of devastating dimples at her unabashed admiration of his naked chest. He's magnificent, his shoulders corded with lean muscle, framing a perfectly chiseled chest that narrows into a manly waist. She's dizzy with desire, and all she can think about is tasting every inch of golden, sun-kissed skin over and over. He doesn't indulge in her stare for too long, his own impatience getting the best of him as he reaches for her, one strong arm wrapping around her, pulling her close. Delicate little kisses drizzle on her bare shoulder, where the collar of her shirt has slipped off. With little fuss, he releases all five buttons on her shirt with deft, clever fingers. Untethered now, it falls effortlessly from her frame, pooling in a white cloud at her wrists, where her hands lay nestled in the center of his chest.
Her flimsy black bra is lacy and sheer, and it leaves little to the imagination.
It's his turn to stare, and his dark gaze is unreadable as it roams over her from her swollen mouth to her flushed neck and her heaving breasts and back again. She shakes her wrists free of the shirt, and it billows to the ground below soundlessly. He doesn't say anything, but she knows his self-control is slipping when he pushes her back into the couch with his body until she's half lying down and he's hovering above her, braced on one arm that keeps some of his deliciously heavy weight off of her. He looks straight into her eyes, searching, and whatever he finds there makes him kiss her. The soft pressure of his lips belies the urgent squeeze of his fingers at her naked waist. This time, she deepens the kiss, her tongue tangling with his, stroking the roof of his mouth once, twice, and then he breaks free, lowering his head to moisten the hollow of her throat.
When he presses open-mouthed kisses to the cleft between her breasts, she moans, a needy little sound that dances in the breathy silence. She winds her hands into his dark hair, holding him closer. Large pianist hands bracket her ribs, fanning from her waist to the lower edges of her bra. It makes her feel unspeakably delicate and small. He nuzzles the skin between her breasts with his mouth and nose, the tufts of his breath fast and hot against her. One of his hands climbs up, thumb sweeping the underside of her breast for the briefest of heart-stopping moments before he moves into full-palmed possession of her breast. He treats it to a lazy massage, and she writhes restlessly beneath him, in protest of needing more of him, of this, of everything. She doesn't know when he eases the bra strap off her shoulder, but she feels the lace of the cup scrape her nipple as it breaks free of the material, bared to a cool rush of air that makes her shiver. He kisses the swell of her breast with sensual reverence, like he doesn't have a care in the world and then without warning he tugs her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue swirling in dizzying circles around the hardened nub. Se-ri cries out, gasping at the jolt of yearning that curls in her womb, and she arches towards him, hips canting into his wantonly.
Suddenly, he just stops. She whimpers in disapproval as he pulls back, leaving her bereft, undone. "Se-ri, Se-ri, Se-ri-ya," he groans, her name falling from his lips in a rasp like a supplication or a curse. "This is madness," he whispers, his wicked mouth now set against her ear. Damn him. "We have to stop." She feels him right her bra again as best he can before he pushes away from her and comes to his feet, too stable and capable when she feels like a boneless sack of jelly. Damn him.
"Why?" she asks incredulously, a little too high-pitched. Ever the gentleman, he picks up her shirt, covers her with it, and begins pacing. His black slacks are hopelessly tented at the crotch, and she would be finding it funny if she isn't so frustrated.
"We can't just," he sighs and gestures between the two of them wildly. It's a miserable place to be, caught between arousal and duty. All his self-possession is back in business.
"Why the hell not?"
TBC
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