Author's Note: Yay, getting faster at updating! Thank you for reading and reviewing. I hope you enjoy this one. I struggled through it with writer's block.
Five.
I don't quite know how to say how I feel
Those three words are said too much
They're not enough
They stop talking after that.
The sound of heavy breathing is heady in her dark room, interrupted only by the clamor of their restless limbs tangling between the sheets, the fire inside her reawakening to a slow inhale, a long press of her open mouth tracing down the strong column of his throat. His Adam's apple bobs and she licks it sensually, feels his hand grip her hip, tight, urgent. She moves against him with a slow glide, her naked breasts dragging across his chest, curling her hands into his hair to kiss him fully on the mouth. His erection juts against her thigh, hard and unsatisfied, and she has a moment of guilt, surprised at her own selfishness in taking the pleasure he offered so freely, asking nothing in return. She reaches down between them, strokes him through his slacks and his underwear, and he hisses, eyes slamming shut just as hers open to watch his face. In the dim light filtering in from the living room, the strong line of his jaw is clenched, lips slightly parted, brow creased, the strain of his need perfectly coiled into the spaces between his breaths. It makes her ache with want.
Her stomach chooses that exact moment to loudly rumble and his closed eyes snap open, hazy but somehow knowing, narrowing on her face suspiciously.
"You're hungry," he states, matter-of fact, but his voice is raspy, thick with a different kind of hunger.
Se-ri scowls at him. "How can you think about food right now?" More rumbling punctuates the darkness.
He lets out a breath of amused laughter, rubs a warm, soothing palm across her abdomen. "I'm not, but your stomach sounds angry."
"It's not," she insists, tenacious fingers closing around the waistband of his underwear.
He catches her hand, stills it and smiles at her. It's heart-meltingly gentle like his tone when he asks, "When was the last time you ate?"
"Ri Jeong-hyeok-ssi, you're really killing the mood," she complains, trying to wrest her hand away, equal parts annoyed and besotted with this fool, who put her every need above anything and everything, including himself. "We're not having this conversation now when I'm trying to seduce you."
One incredulous eyebrow lifts, and it's ridiculously attractive how a corner of his mouth twists upwards. "I'm already seduced. You don't need to try anything. Answer the question." He takes in the stubborn set of her jaw and sighs patiently. "Please Se-ri-ya."
The glimmer of worry in his eyes breaks her resolve. "Breakfast," she admits and knows the answer won't meet his approval.
It doesn't. "Breakfast was twelve hours ago!"
She scrambles to explain herself like a reprimanded child. "I didn't have time for lunch. I had back-to-back meetings with some of the sponsors and delegates. It was a busy day, and then I got here and you looked at me like…"
"Okay," he cuts her off. "Let's go get some dinner." Before she knows what he's about, he slips out of her arms and out of bed. The man's self-control knows no bounds. She's starting to get used to the sight of Ri Jeong-hyeok with a bulge in the front of his pants, which she wouldn't mind if she were given the chance to rectify the situation. As it is, he follows her gaze and tilts his hips away, self-conscious. From what she's seen and felt, he has nothing to hide. She makes a low humming sound of dissent, and he sighs again. "I'll just freshen up for a few minutes then we'll head out. Get dressed."
"Out?" she asks in a small surprised voice.
"Yes, out," he confirms. "I used to live around here you know. I'd love to show you some of my favorite places."
There's no way she can say no to the boyish enthusiasm in his gaze or the way he wants to share a piece of himself with her. "Alright," she yields finally, resigned to the fact that she has to leave this bed tonight. "Let's go out."
It's late evening when they stroll into the cold night, walking side by side but not touching. He likes how she orbits around him in dizzying circles, unspeakably intimate one minute, and somewhat shy the next. She's lit by a brilliant almost-full moon that hangs low in the clear inky sky, feels close enough to touch, and its silver glow makes her look ethereal, there like the moon but just out of reach. A light breeze drifts through the mountains, across the lake, rearranging her hair in soft dark wisps around the shoulders of her pristine white coat.
Mondays are quiet days in the Interlaken, and the streetlights are faint, sparsely distributed. He can hear everything, their footfalls, the scurry of small animals in the bushes, the rustle of the breeze in the trees around them, the soft lulling rhythm of her breathing and occasionally, the jovial laughter of a group of people echoing as they walk past.
He looks over at her again and now she's smiling to herself, lost in thought. Whatever musing dallies in her mind delights her, and Ri Jeong-hyeok files the moment away for later when loneliness would make him question every memory. He breaches the invisible chasm, reaches for her hand, locks his fingers into her cool ones, drawing her back into his gravity. Even her eyes are smiling when she cants into him. He yanks on her hand and brings her up against him, lips finding hers, soft and smooth.
Oh, how long he's waited for this.
When she breaks the kiss, it's all thrumming inside him, all that beautiful love, the things she does to him. The words stumble on his lips, unspoken, but his lovely, impatient companion huffs out a cloud and his attention splits, the moment breaking into pieces.
"So where are we going?" she prods and cups the side of his neck with her free, icy hand, rising on the tiptoes of her boots to brush absent kisses against his neck, his jaw.
He inhales sharply at the cold press of her fingers, smiles at her indulgently when she pulls her hand away in apology. "Goldener Anker, it's a Swiss restaurant, a local favorite, nothing too fancy. We would go there on Saturday nights for food and beer. Sometimes we'd even go there on special occasions," he pauses, and she turns away back into the night. "Do you like fondue?"
She starts walking again, one hand buried in the pocket of her coat, the other still tucked in his, pulling him along. "Cheese or chocolate?" she asks.
"Cheese, of course. Yoon Se-ri," he makes a tsk-ing sound of mock disappointment. "Chocolate fondue is not really authentic Swiss cuisine."
She rolls her eyes at him, haughty and entitled, every bit the self-proclaimed picky princess she'd described to him years ago, a wall she'd built around herself to protect her softest places. He can see her with a mocking twist to her lips, a condescending flicker of her lashes, and she wears royalty so well, even when it's just a game. "It should be," she says like it's every Swiss gastronomist's fault for not meeting her expectations then her voice changes, a slight inflection that no one else would notice. "You know what I'd like my chocolate fondue on right now?" Her eyes cut to his for the briefest of moments – the princess edged out in favor of the siren – before returning to the street.
He feels a jolt of awareness so piercing it knocks the breath out of him. Se-ri and melted chocolate, chased by his tongue or hers into secret places, sweet and decadent. "I don't think I can handle the answer to that question," he mutters, gruffer than he likes, but her triumphant little smile is everything, even as she tries to hide it behind her sleeve.
"I was going to say strawberries. What did you think?" There's a challenging glint to her gaze that makes him want to describe in detail all the depraved things he imagines himself doing to her with chocolate and without it. He's barely just started scratching the surface.
"I would have liked to keep you in bed all night," he admits quietly, and he thinks of those shoes, black and jeweled, brazen against her stark nakedness, a fantasy he didn't even know he had. There's so much more he would have liked to do with that one. Tension curls in his bones, hot and heavy.
She glances at him, a quick look, surprised by his boldness, but he can feel the thrum of excitement in the stutter of her even gait. "To sleep?" It's a taunt, and he takes the bait.
"We could sleep for a bit," he concedes, voice low, steady even as her fingers imperceptibly tighten around his. "But mostly I want to listen to that sound you make when I'm touching you and then I stop."
He watches as she swallows visibly, contemplates in silence, letting the words sink in. She works herself into a beautiful deep flush that spreads from her neck to her cheeks and burns hot there against the chilly air. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, worrying, and her steps grow reluctant, like she has half the mind to turn around and go back to bed.
His own composure feels shaky, but they've arrived to the Goldener Anker, and the waiter is holding the door open for them, a much-needed distraction. "Welcome!"
She looks up, startled by the intrusion of a stranger's voice, but she still finds a smile to offer, albeit a faint one.
"Hello, thank you. Could we please get a table for two?" Jeong-hyeok ushers her out of the cold and into the restaurant, walks in after her, following their waiter to a cozy, corner table, tucked under an abstract blue painting. They settle in, take off their coats and order wine, fondue and pan-seared salmon to share. When the waiter walks off with their order, he allows himself a minute to take it in: the dark wooden tables and chairs, the random frames and paintings scattered across the walls, the old bar with its staple offerings flanked by a pool table that has seen better days. Even on a quiet night, half of the tables are occupied, the buzz of chatter and laughter and lively music warm and inviting. His wandering gaze finds Se-ri studying him, her features schooled into an expression he can't name.
"So what special occasions brought you here?" she wonders, and there's a mixture of curiosity and something that looks like anxiety in the way she lowers her gaze to the cutlery, sooty lashes hiding her eyes from him.
"You know, recitals, birthdays."
She releases a brittle breath, shoots him an accusing look, like that's obviously not what she's asking. Then she leans back into her chair, squares her shoulders, bracing for impact. "With your girlfriend?"
Ah, this again. He supposes it was naïve to think they'd shelved this revelation after one drunken night. "Once or twice." He really can't remember the exact number, but she doesn't like the answer if her frown is any indication. The waiter's arrival interrupts whatever she's about to say next. He goes through the motions of offering the wine for their approval and lighting a candle under the fondue pot to keep the cheese from hardening. With a cordial nod, he wishes them a bon appetit and dashes off.
She takes a slow sip of her wine, eyes fixed on him over the rim of the glass. "When we were trapped in that school during the snowstorm, you said you didn't have a first love," she recalls as if she can't quite square this new information with whatever snippets she's been carrying around in her heart for the past few years.
You look like the forever-single type. He smiles at the memory. "I didn't exactly say that," he reminds her.
Her frown deepens, a sense of betrayal flaring to life. "You didn't say anything," she mumbles, more to herself than him.
He wants to touch her so very badly, but she's fiercely guarded in her new fortress of shifting memories. He reins it in, the urge, the outpour, gracefully collected into what he hopes are eloquent words. "Se-ri-ya, I meant what I said the other night and what you took away from my silence that day at the school." He stops for a few seconds, gathers his thoughts, wondering briefly why on earth they're talking about this now. "There's just no one else, nothing compares, past, present or future. I have no words for it." Love. All-consuming. Air. Need.
He can see her defenses crumbling, but there's still a thorn in her side, something she can't quite let go. She draws in a deep breath, drinks more wine and looks him straight in the eye. "But she was your first, Anne."
There's no mistaking the meaning of that question. "Yes," he says honestly, hates the flicker of naked pain in her eyes. Anne had been much more experienced than him, and he'd been curious to learn, to feel, to have a moment of rebellion and normalcy. It's not a time in his life he thinks about often anymore, but he understands her fixation, the inability to move past the little pieces of each other they'll never have. They get so little that everything feels like a lot.
"I don't like that," she confesses, and she's just as honest with him and with herself but infinitely braver. He loves her courage and the wise compassion in her gaze that says it's not his fault but she's still hurting, and she wants to lick her wounds, find a way to purge that image from her mind.
"I know," he murmurs, soft and mellow, and he can't help himself. He reaches across the table, grazes her hand with his fingertips; she lets him.
Her eyes flash at him like he can't possibly know.
Oh, but he does. He does. "When it's the other way around, I hate it. I want to know everything and nothing at the same time." He curls his fingers into her palm, thumb skimming over the delicate ridges of her knuckles.
"When is it the other way around?" She's dubious, hand slipping out of his grip easily to carry the glass to her lips.
"The men in Seoul."
She shakes her head, the glass suspended halfway to the table. "I told you. It wasn't like that."
"It must have been like something," he counters. "I wonder about it sometimes." He wonders about it a lot, when he thinks of her all alone in Seoul and tries to talk himself into being okay with her moving on if it makes her happy. It's a sucker punch to his gut that always seems to catch him with his guard down. Last night, after she told him she wasn't experienced in that way, he wondered in what ways she was experienced and that niggling thought taunted him all day. He knows he'll carry it back home with him, a relief and a slight clumped together like two faces of a coin.
She laughs at him faintly, pensive, inordinately pleased, somehow vindicated. She's looking at him like he has no idea, and he probably doesn't. "It's nothing like what we just did."
The words swim between them, too sharp, too recent. Too much. He wants to know more, every detail of her somethings from the past, but he knows it'll only cut in the places that hurt the most when she's away. He stays quiet, turns his attention to the food, urging her to eat.
She takes a bite of potato dipped in rich cheese. "You know I never understood jealousy before. Men would flaunt their conquests, hoping to elicit a reaction. And I used to find it sad, laughable even." Her gaze is intense, hot on his, and whatever she's feeling is dark, like the shade under a toxic shrub, and it's hungry. Insatiable. "I get it now. It's like this terrible monster living inside me that feeds on all the time we spend apart." She chews on a piece of bread thoughtfully. "The monster thinks your violinist has a crush on you," she confides in him, and she's definitely tipsy. She's on her second glass of wine and third bite of food all day.
He struggles to make sense of her words. "My violinist?" he repeats, conjuring the image of the awkward seventeen-year-old girl from Pyongyang whose mother brought her to practice at the conservatory every Wednesday. "She's just a child."
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes at the same time, clearly not impressed by his reasoning. "Not really, she's eighteen. Well, almost. She's young, but she's not a child. There's nothing childish about the way she looks at you."
"Eighteen is still practically a child, and she doesn't look at me in any special way." He spoons a generous portion of salmon into her plate. At the pace she's going with the wine, she'll be drunk before she gets to her fifth bite of food.
"Ri Jeong-hyeok-ssi, I definitely saw her giving you lovesick eyes," she says and puts a piece of food in her mouth. He doesn't replenish her glass even as she nears the last sip. "Did you meet before the program?"
He nods. "Yes. I started coaching all three of them a couple of months ago."
"I guess it's cute." She shrugs, her gaze softening as it drops to his mouth, his hands and slowly drifts back to his eyes. "You are an unreasonably handsome teacher. All that stern poise, the strive for perfection, the rare dimpled smile of approval. She didn't really stand a chance."
He leans across the table, dangerously close, his fingers finding her chin, holding her steady for the rough kiss he smudges across her lips. They break apart quickly because the logistics are tricky and the bar is suddenly too loud, but it's all it takes for her eyes to go smoky with desire. "Can we stop talking about this please? I want to know about you."
"I don't really stand a chance either."
A/N: Thanks for reading. Reviews are love x