Suha’s protests die in his throat, replaced by a sharp inhale. I don’t give him time to think, to shove me away. I pull his cock out through the open fly of his expensive slacks. He’s already half-hard, thick and heavy in my hand, proof of the stupid, undeniable chemistry that sizzles between us even when he’s trying to murder me with his eyes.
I take him into my mouth without hesitation.
The taste of him is familiar now, salt and skin and Suha. I swirl my tongue around the head, a slow, deliberate tease, before taking him deeper. My cheeks hollow as I suck, my hands moving from his hips to grip the backs of his thighs, holding him steady against the wall. His body goes rigid, a statue coming to life. A low groan vibrates in his chest, escaping through his clenched teeth.
One of his hands comes down from where I’d pinned it, tangling in my hair. His grip isn’t gentle. It’s possessive, fierce, torn between pushing me away and yanking me closer. I can feel the conflict in the tremor of his fingers. I redouble my efforts, humming around him, the vibration making his hips jerk forward involuntarily.
It doesn’t take long. Under my tongue and the heat of my mouth, he swells to full, aching hardness. His breathing turns ragged, each exhale a shaky thing that sounds almost pained. I pull off slowly, letting his cock slip from my lips with a wet sound that seems ridiculously loud. A thin string of saliva connects my bottom lip to his flushed, slick head for a second before it breaks.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the grin never leaving my face. I see the haze in his eyes, the rut-thick need that’s never fully gone simmering right under the surface of his control. Before that control can reassert itself, before he can process what’s happening and decide to be angry about it, I move.
I stand up in one fluid motion and turn my back on him.
His confused, heated noise is like music. I bend forward from the waist, grabbing my own ankles for balance. The stretch pulls at the sore muscles in my thighs, a pleasant burn. With my other hand, I reach back and yank my pants and boxers down just enough, just past the curve of my ass. I’m still loose and slick from him, from his rut, from the fucking he gave me that left me walking funny. I don’t need prep. I don’t want it.
I back up slowly, guiding myself onto him.
The head of his cock catches at my entrance, and I push back, impaling myself in one smooth, unbroken motion. The stretch is breathtaking, a sharp, full feeling that pushes the air from my lungs in a low groan. I sink down until my ass meets his hips, until I’m fully seated, his cock buried deep inside me.
Above me, Suha makes a choked sound of pure shock. His hands fly to my hips, his fingers digging into the bones, as if to steady himself or to stop me. But it’s too late. I’m already moving.
I start fucking myself on him, bouncing back against his hips with a shameless, eager rhythm. The position is awkward, bent over like this with my pants around my thighs. The angle is rough, each drive of my body taking him deep in a way that borders on painful. I don’t care. The friction is perfect, the fullness is everything. I set a quick, desperate pace, my own cock hard and straining against the rough fabric of my jeans. The sounds I’m making are filthy, little grunts and gasps that echo off the brick walls.
His hands on my hips tighten, his blunt nails biting through the leather of my jacket. For a few glorious seconds, he just lets me use him, lets me ride him in this dirty alley like I’m some cheap thrill he picked up. I can feel the tension coiling in his body, the fight he’s having with himself to stay still, to not give in and take over.
Then his hips give a short, aborted thrust, meeting my backward slam. A broken curse leaves his lips.
That’s my cue.
On the next backward rock of my hips, I pull off abruptly, his cock sliding out of me with a wet, empty sound. In the same motion, I yank my pants and boxers back up, fumbling with the button and zipper. My fingers feel thick and clumsy.
I don’t look back. I just take off running.
My boots slap against the wet concrete, the sound frantic and loud in the narrow space. I dart between the stacked pallets, my heart hammering against my ribs, a wild, exhilarated laugh fighting to break free from my throat. I can hear him behind me, a furious snarl that’s half rage, half disbelief. I don’t stop. I round the corner at the end of the alley and vanish into the warren of backstreets, the taste of him still on my tongue and the feel of him still aching inside me, a perfect, taunting ghost of a touch.
The sweat cooling on my skin under the cheap fluorescent lights of the locker room is the only thing keeping me from nodding off. My knuckles throb pleasantly, a familiar, grounding ache that’s better than any post-fight high. I’m just pulling a clean shirt over my head when the door swings open and Hansol’s scarred face appears.
“You’re not done,” he says.
I arch a brow, letting the shirt fall into place. “The fight’s over, boss. I’m paid. That’s the definition of ‘done’.”
He steps inside, the door groaning shut behind him. Hansol folds his arms, the tattoos on his knuckles—FIGHT, LIVE—stretching over the bones. “Got an important client in the private suites. Wants to meet the fighters. Shake some hands, feel important. Standard sponsor shit.”
I make a face, already feeling the boredom settle in my bones like lead. “No thanks. I’m more of a ‘fight and flee’ type. Social duties aren’t in my contract.”
“There is no contract, you little shit,” he grumbles. He runs a hand over his graying buzz cut. “Look, it’s one guy. Big investor. Throws a lot of money at this place. Makes him feel like a king to rub elbows with the talent for five minutes. You go up, you smile, you let him buy you a drink, you listen to him talk about how he ‘admires the sport.’ Then you leave. Easy.”
“Sounds excruciating.”
“It is. But it pays your purse. My purse. Everyone’s purse.” He gives me a look that’s part plea, part threat. “Just do it, Yujeong. For me. Consider it a favor.”
I let out a long, exaggerated sigh, tipping my head back to stare at the water-stained ceiling tiles. A favor for Hansol isn’t nothing. The man’s a hard-ass, but he’s fair in his own twisted way. He’s never shorted me, never sold me out, and he turns a blind eye to a lot of my... extracurricular activities. This is probably the closest he gets to begging.
“Fine,” I groan, pushing off the bench. My muscles protest, sore from the fight, but it’s a good soreness. “Five minutes. One drink. And if he tries to touch my hair, I’m breaking his fingers.”
A ghost of a smile touches Hansol’s lips. “Noted. Suite three. Top of the stairs.”
The private suites are a world away from the gritty, shouting chaos of the main floor. Up here, the carpet is actually clean, a deep burgundy that swallows sound. The walls are lined with dark wood paneling and framed photos of fighters from decades past, their faces frozen in grimaces of effort. It’s quiet, the only noise the low hum of an air conditioner and the distant, muffled roar of the crowd below. It feels like a museum dedicated to violence, sanitized for wealthy patrons.
