private lessons - jjk
genre: slow-burn smut / strangers to lovers
pairing: businessman!jungkook x tutor!freader
word count: 13.8k
synopsis: jeongguk, such a meticulous and disciplined businessman, has to learn spanish in six weeks before he's relocated to spain. he's always two steps ahead, yet none of his organization tools could've prepared him for the feelings he developed towards his tutor.
warnings: occasional cursing, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, fingering, clit rubbing, cunnilingus, creampie, nipple play, bilingual [eng/spa] dirty talk (very fun to write), praising, jeongguk is a yearner!!!!!!!
my first post! please let me know what you think of it. i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it. :)
The watch on Jeongguk’s wrist read half past five as he exited his workplace. He reached for the black umbrella in his bag as soon as the cold drizzle touched his skin. It was typical for him to stay an hour or two past his work hours, making the following day easier on himself; today, however, was the exception.
Being summoned by his higher-up had never felt as nerve-wracking as it did today. There were rumors and whispers of an alleged promotion — the kind that, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t have disrupted his strict and already impeccable routine. He wanted to believe this time wasn’t any different. Nonetheless, whoever got this promotion would be stationed in Barcelona, Spain. That single fact turned an otherwise unappealing opportunity into something he wanted badly.
Born and raised in Seoul, where he’d studied international business and spent the past six years working as an assistant director of international partnerships at a well-known global trading firm, Jeongguk had built a life that looked, on paper, exactly like what he was supposed to want. He was bored of it. Bored of the mundane, the repetitive, the predictable. Applying for the promotion had been impulsive, almost out of character, and he was certain it was a long shot. Still, he found himself working harder than ever, as if devotion now could make up for the doubt underneath it.
“Congratulations, Jeon.” Said the older man sitting across from Jeongguk, separated by a black marble desk. The highest in the food chain, as far as regional bosses go. “The position is yours. Six weeks until your flight to Barcelona departs.”
Flat and emotionless. His delivery strangely helped Jeongguk’s anxiety, which skyrocketed once he sat down before his boss. Somehow, he could not believe he was chosen, even though he was the best out of the bunch. He wasn’t particularly driven by passion or love for his craft, but he was disciplined, and most of his coworkers lacked this indispensable virtue.
“Fuck.” Jeongguk whispered to himself, staring at his wet shoes. “I can’t speak Spanish.”
The same wet shoes were quickly dropped by the entrance as Jeongguk practically ran to his home office. “Spanish… tutors… near me.” He muttered while simultaneously typing on his computer.
Jeongguk’s decision to apply for this promotion wasn’t reckless solely because it would require moving halfway across the globe, but also because he barely spoke the language his new home would require him to speak. This concern never crossed his mind before because he was naturally skilled at communicating with others and rarely needed to step outside his comfort zone when it came to foreign languages. A talented business major through and through, Jeongguk already knew three languages — Japanese, Mandarin, and English — in addition to his mother tongue. He mediated countless meetings for company branches across East Asia, to the point that he assumed the unofficial position of spokesperson whenever any of these languages were expected. He never needed to learn Spanish; now it seems as if his life depends on it.
As Jeongguk scrolled through the first tutoring website he found, he felt a level of anxiety that practically blinded him. He didn’t realize until that exact instant… He was moving to Barcelona. Away from comfort, from his predictable routine, and from everything that was familiar. As he reached the seventh page of tutor profiles, his eyes landed on one that made him pause.
It was the only profile without a profile picture or a tutor description. You only wrote your name and the languages you spoke, one of which was Spanish. You thought adding a professional headshot and highlighting your experience and skills seemed too pretentious, considering you saw tutoring as a hobby, a hobby that provided you with a few extra coins. That may be why you've only had four students in the eight months your profile has been up on the website. Jeongguk could see that those four students were satisfied with their experiences, judging by the remarkable five-star rating next to your nonexistent profile picture.
Jeongguk laughed at himself, acknowledging that it would be a terrible idea not to go with the tutor with the most experience and reviews. Again, it seemed as if his life depended on learning Spanish in six weeks. However… There was something exhilarating about taking risks— the last one had gotten him a promotion and a life in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. After a life filled with monotony, he was ready to be reckless.
You were startled by the sudden notification on your phone, more so after seeing it was a request for your tutoring services. “Okay, Jeongguk wants to learn Spanish,” you mentioned out loud while reading his message. “Fun!”
You were different from other tutors. Specifically, you preferred doing your tutoring sessions in person. In a coffee shop, at a library, or sometimes in a park. You believed that face-to-face learning triumphed over online lessons because understanding the nuances behind certain words and phrases was easier if your students could clearly perceive your gestures, something that may be complicated if you were relying on your choppy wi-fi. However, you couldn’t deny that this preference may be strange to some of your potential students due to the lack of identifiable information in your profile.
Jeongguk was one of those students. He saw your request as if the universe was giving him one last chance to change his mind, return to the first page, and book a lesson with the highest-rated tutor. He, once again, decided to ignore his logical inner voice and quickly accepted your wish to meet in a local coffee shop. Who knows? He might find the best coffee he’s ever tasted there if things keep going how they are.
Sitting down in the nearest booth with his caramel macchiato, Jeongguk was fidgeting to calm his nerves. His mind drifted into a spiral of doubt. All he knew about you was your name and that you knew Spanish. That was all he needed to know; still, he kept his expectations low, focusing his mind on the tough task of learning a new language instead. His mind continued drifting until his thoughts were interrupted by a harmonious voice.
“You’re Jeongguk, right?” You approached him, recognizing his face from his profile picture. “It is so nice to meet you.” You introduced yourself and immediately sat down in the open seat across from him once he nodded to your question.
He repeated your name to himself, taking in your looks and thanking every higher power that you were not some weird scammer. “I look forward to learning from you.”
Indeed, you were rather beautiful. It took him some time to adjust to actually focusing on your melodious voice instead of your drawing eyes. Your smile was blinding, and you seemed so carefree and pleasant, which was the opposite of what he had frequently observed while working in such a ruthless environment. Similarly, you had never seen someone like Jeongguk before. He wasn’t just handsome; he looked like a fallen angel lost on Earth, with the kind of face and body that would inspire artists from the Renaissance. It sounds hyperbolic, but you genuinely started trembling when he confirmed he was the person you were looking for. His profile picture must have been outdated, you thought, because he now had a lip ring that flawlessly accentuated his rosy lips. By the looks of his attire — clean, monochromatic, and professional —, he seemed important. You wondered why he chose you out of so many potential tutors. You were so used to teaching college students and youngsters looking for helpful phrases to use during overseas trips. This was sure to be a teaching experience unlike any you had before.
“So,” You began, digging your thoughts deeper into your subconscious. “Tell me a bit about yourself. Why do you want to learn Spanish?”
“Well, I recently got a promotion.” You briefly clapped at his news. “Thank you. The only thing is that I’ll need to relocate to Spain. In six weeks.” His expression suddenly shifted. “And, as you can probably gather from my request for your services, I don’t know how to speak Spanish.”
“That’s not too bad, six weeks is plenty of time.” You scoffed, noticing that Jeongguk seemed stressed. Six weeks was definitely not enough time, but admitting this wouldn’t make it easier on either of you.
Your reassuring words made Jeongguk feel at ease.
“Let’s start with the basics, then.” You took a few items out of the backpack you were carrying. “Tell me what you’ve done today so far. In Spanish, of course.”
Jeongguk laughed until he saw you kept a serious expression. “Oh… I guess we have different definitions of basics.”
"Basics for me just means figuring out where you're actually starting from," you said, softening it when you saw the color drain from his face. "Everyone's basics look different. So humor me." You slid a vocabulary book across the table. "Tell me about your morning. In Spanish."
He blinked. "All of it?"
"However much you can manage. Doesn't have to be pretty."
He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. Not even a stumble— just silence, and the particular stillness of a man realizing he had absolutely nothing to draw from. You watched the composure that had gotten him through a promotion interview start to slip, replaced by something closer to genuine alarm, and it caught you off guard how quickly you wanted to walk it back for him.
"Okay," you said, gentler. "Let's try something smaller. Just tell me what you're drinking." You nodded at his cup.
"Café," he said, cautious, like it might be a trap.
"Good. Now put a sentence around it. 'Estoy tomando café.'" I’m drinking coffee.
"Estoy… tomando café." He repeated the phrase slowly, testing its shape in his mouth, and something in his shoulders eased when it came out right. "That's it?"
"That's it. You just said your first sentence."
He looked, for a second, genuinely pleased with himself. The kind of small, unguarded pride that didn't match the composed man you sat down across from ten minutes ago. It made you smile, watching that shift. "Okay. What else can I say?"
"Depends. What do you actually want to be able to say?"
"Anything. Everything. I have six weeks and apparently zero foundation to work with." He said it lightly, but there were real nerves beneath the surface, and you found yourself softening your approach without realizing it.
"Six weeks is tight, but it's workable if we're smart about it," you said. Then, because it felt wrong to let the reassurance sit there unchallenged, you added, "Honestly, tight is generous. It's going to be a lot of repetition and probably some frustration. I'd rather tell you that now than have you find out in week three."
He considered that, turning his cup slowly on the table. "I appreciate the honesty."
"I figured you'd prefer brutal honesty rather than a nicer version."
"I do." A small, surprised smile. "Most people give me the nice version."
"I'm not most people."
"Clearly." He said it like an observation, not a line, and something about the plainness of it sat warmer than a joke would have. His eyes lingered on yours longer than your heart could handle. "Alright. Teach me something else. Something I'll actually use."
You started him on simple present tense—estoy, tengo, quiero—building sentence by sentence off things actually in front of him: his coffee, the rain outside, the fact that he was nervous, which he refused to say out loud in his native language, let alone Spanish, until you needled him into it. He was quick, quicker than most students you'd had, picking up patterns after hearing them once and testing the edges of what he could say instead of just repeating what you gave him. It made sense when you learned that he was already proficient in a few languages. Holding this fact, you intentionally tried to increase the difficulty level. By the time you'd worked through a dozen sentences, he'd stopped bracing before he spoke.
"You're better at this than you think," you told him, and meant it.
"I had a good teacher rip the training wheels off in the first five minutes. Bit unconventional, but it worked."
"Don't get used to gentle. That was a warm-up."
"That was gentle?" He asked with genuine concern.
"Compared to what's coming? Extremely." You closed the notebook halfway, marking your place.
By the time the coffee shop's lights dimmed for closing, you'd gone through two rounds of conjugations, one increasingly ridiculous argument about whether "tú" or "usted" was the correct way to address your own boss, and a solid ten minutes where Jeongguk insisted he'd already mastered "estoy" and kept trying to bolt it onto everything, including things that didn't need a verb at all.
"Estoy Jeongguk," he tried, testing it.
"That's not how it works."
"Estoy... very confident that it does."
"It does not. You don't 'estoy' a name, you just say the name."
"You're telling me I can't improvise."
"I'm telling you that you tried to conjugate your own identity, and I need you to sit with that for a second."
"See, when you put it like that, it sounds insane."
"It was insane in real time, too." You laughed louder than you meant to. "Same time in two days?"
“Can’t wait to learn more from you.” Your heart skipped a beat seeing his smile as he waved goodbye to you.
On your next lesson, something was different. Same booth, similar monochromatic outfit, but he had a notebook of his own this time— not the one you'd given him, a different one, small and battered, already half full of handwriting.
"What's that?" You pointed to the notebook.
"Homework." He said it like a confession. "I looked up some things after our lesson. I wanted to see if I could get further on my own before you decided I was a lost cause."
"I don't decide people are lost causes."
"You did call me insane after I butchered the conjugation of ‘estoy.’"
"That was a joke, not a professional assessment." You reached for the notebook before he could stop you, flipping through it, and found — of course you did — that it was organized by category, verb tenses on one page, useful phrases on another, a small section labeled simply MISTAKES with three entries under it, each one crossed out with a correction written beside it in tidier handwriting than the original.
"You made yourself a mistake log." You were impressed, and your face showed it when you turned to look at a seemingly embarrassed Jeongguk.
"I like tracking things I've gotten wrong so I don't get them wrong twice."
"That's either extremely disciplined or deeply unwell."
"I like to think of it as a diversified skill set." He took the notebook back before you could read further, a little more self-conscious than his tone let on, and you found the sudden shyness almost more interesting than the notebook itself, because up until now, he hadn't shown you a single thing he wasn't fully in control of.
"Show me the mistakes," you said.
"Absolutely not."
"Jeongguk." This time, you finally sat down, your face inching closer to his.
"They're embarrassing."
"That's exactly why I want to see them."
He caved, eventually, sliding the notebook back across with the reluctance of a man handing over evidence at trial. You went through his mistakes: a gender agreement error, a mixed-up preterite, and a phrase he'd apparently misheard from a YouTube video and written down completely wrong. You corrected each one without laughing, though it cost you some effort, especially on the third, which you couldn’t even pretend you understood.
"This isn't even a real sentence," you said. "This means 'the elephant regrets nothing.'"
"I thought it meant 'no worries.'"
"It does not mean 'no worries.'" You both laughed at how ridiculous this mistranslation was.
"Well, now I know that. That's what the log is for."
You couldn't help it. You laughed again, and he looked so pleased with himself for causing it that you had to look back down at the notebook just to stop him from seeing exactly how pleased that made you in return. The rest of the lesson went quickly after that, buoyed by whatever he'd built on his own, and by the time you packed up, he'd added a fourth mistake to the log, this one made in real time, in front of you, without flinching.
"Progress," you said, nodding at it.
"Diversified skill set," he said again, and this time you both laughed.
He pulled out his phone to add your next session to his calendar, and you found yourself glancing over without quite meaning to—color-coded blocks stacked neatly across the week, each one labeled with a precision that bordered on excessive. Although you were the teacher, you thought there were many things you could learn from Jeongguk. So calculated, so thorough. So coordinated, so organized. It made you curious.
You gathered your things a few minutes later, the usual routine — notebook zipped away, pen capped, mental checklist for next time — except tonight you caught yourself lingering over it, in no particular hurry to leave the booth. It wasn't something you let yourself examine too closely on the walk to your car. However, you noticed, distantly, that you'd already started looking forward to the mistakes he'd bring you next time, and that this was not, strictly speaking, a normal thing to look forward to about a client.
For your third meeting, he was late for the first time, which felt so out of character that you almost texted to check on him before he came jogging in, tie slightly crooked, apologizing before he'd even sat down.
"Sorry. The meeting with the Barcelona branch ran long. They've started wanting updates every other day now.” He plopped himself down on the seat next to you. “I can't tell if that means they're excited or if they think I'm going to back out."
"Breathe. No need to apologize." The sudden proximity took you aback. He didn’t seem to mind how close he sat.
"I am breathing."
"You're breathing like you just ran here."
"I did just run here." He said as he let out a deep sigh, dragging a hand through his hair, and for the first time since you'd met him, the composure actually cracked all the way. "Sorry. I know I'm paying you to teach me, not to see me having a small breakdown in a coffee shop."
"You're allowed a small breakdown.” You reassured him. “This is a lot, what you're doing."
"Is it? Everyone at work keeps calling it exciting."
"It can be exciting and a lot. Those aren't mutually exclusive." You slid your own coffee toward him, only half-joking. "Drink that. You look like you need it more than I do."
He took it, and something in his shoulders came down half an inch. "Thank you."
"For the coffee or the pep talk?"
"Both. Neither. I don't know." He exhaled, finally looking like himself again, if a slightly more unguarded version of himself. "Can we just do something easy today? I don't think I have the bandwidth for you tearing apart my subjunctive."
"We can do easy." You considered him for a second, something softening in you that you didn't examine too closely. "Tell me about Barcelona. Not the job. Just— what do you actually know about the city? What are you looking forward to, if anything?"
It was meant as a distraction, a simple way of easing him back into speaking without the pressure of being right. He answered slowly, actually thinking about it, and what came out surprised you both. Something about wanting to walk somewhere without a schedule attached to it, about not remembering the last time he'd done something just because he wanted to and not because it was useful. He’s searched online for places to visit once he arrives. He looked excited, for once. You listened and didn't correct a single verb the whole time he talked, even when he got things wrong, because it didn't feel like it was your place to interrupt.
"That's the first real thing you've told me about yourself," you said, once he'd trailed off, a little embarrassed at how much he'd said.
"Is it terrible?" He looked self-conscious.
"Not at all, it's just very you. Apparently, even the stuff you want is efficient. You want to do unstructured activities, but you're already planning how you'll do them."
He laughed and didn't put any distance back between you, the way you half expected him to once the moment passed. If anything, he'd settled in closer over the course of the conversation, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him against your arm, and something eased between you that hadn't been there minutes before. The particular ease of two people who'd stopped performing for each other and stopped minding how little space was left between them.
In your next session, the coffee shop was particularly loud. A birthday party three tables over, someone's badly-timed acoustic guitar rendition of a song you both silently agreed was better left unplayed, and halfway through trying to explain the subjunctive over the noise, Jeongguk finally set his pen down.
"I can't hear myself think, let alone conjugate."
"Welcome to public spaces." You smiled. It was becoming hard for you, too.
"I'm serious. Is this shop usually this lively?" Jeongguk felt a headache coming on, so used to his completely silent office.
"Lately, yeah. New owner started doing live music nights, I think."
He considered something for a second, turning his cup, the same slightly-too-careful expression he got right before he said something he'd clearly been sitting on. "Would it be easier somewhere quieter? My place isn't far. I don't mind hosting, if that's okay with you."
You studied him for a beat too long, long enough that he visibly wondered if he'd overstepped, opening his mouth like he might take it back —before you shrugged, keeping your voice light even though something in your chest had gone very still. "Quieter's better for listening comprehension anyway. Send me the address."
Your mind started racing as you parked in front of his apartment. There was no power imbalance besides the clear teacher-student dynamic you were desperately trying to maintain. Regardless, it felt strange crossing this boundary with a client, as if you were doing something you knew was wrong. You were unsure why you felt this way… It wasn’t as if you were about to do something you weren’t supposed to. Right?
You shook the thought off before it could finish forming, grabbed your bag, walked up to his door, and knocked. Whatever this feeling was, it could wait until after the lesson, or so you told yourself, right up until he opened the door.
His apartment was exactly what you expected from someone who color-coded his calendar: clean lines, nothing out of place, a bookshelf organized by height instead of subject. You almost laughed when you saw it.
"What?" he asked, catching your expression.
"Nothing. It's very... you."
"Is that an insult?"
"Depends on how the rest of the lesson goes."
"Ominous." He toed off his shoes at the door with the practiced neatness of a man who'd never once left them scattered. "Coffee?"
"Only if it's better than the shop's."
"It's way better than the shop's." He quickly scoffed.
"That's exactly what someone with worse coffee would say." A chuckle escaped your lips. You enjoyed teasing him this way.
He made it anyway and set the cup in front of you with the particular smugness of someone certain he'd win the argument once you tasted it. You didn't give him the satisfaction of admitting he was right, though the small, betraying sound you made after the first sip probably gave you away.
"I heard that," he said.
"You heard nothing."
"I heard a sound of defeat. I’ll claim the victory this time.” Still so smug, it was nice to see him being silly after your previous lesson.
You settled at his dining table, Jeongguk quickly sitting in the chair next to yours. The lesson went the way previous lessons had gone: efficient at first, then slower, then punctuated by tangents that had nothing to do with grammar. He asked about your other students, clearly fishing to find out if any of them got the same treatment he did.
"So," he said, entirely too casual for someone trying to be subtle about it, spinning his pen between two fingers instead of using it. "Your other students. Do they get this, too?"
"Get what?" Your face and voice conveyed confusion, but you knew exactly what he meant.
"This." He gestured between you, slow, deliberate, like he already knew the answer and just wanted to hear you say it. "The banter. The constant teasing. How observant you are of every little detail about me."
"That's a very specific thing to accuse me of." You maintained eye contact, believing it was exactly what he wanted from you.
"Is it wrong?"
"Why does it matter to you?"
"It doesn't. I'm just curious." He wasn't backing down, still watching you with that same deliberate patience, like he had all the time in the world for you to answer. "So. Do they?"
"No." You held his eyes when you said it, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away first. "Everyone else just writes down what I say and follows my directions. You're the only one who argues back."
"So I'm special." His smile couldn’t get any wider.
"You're a pain in my ass, is what you are."
"That wasn't a no."
You scoffed at that, and he knew it, watching you with the particular arrogance of a man who'd gotten exactly the answer he wanted the entire time. "It also wasn't a yes."
"You're smiling."
"I'm not."
"You are. Very small. Very poorly hidden." He leaned back, pleased with himself in a way that should’ve been unbearable and somehow wasn't. "For the record, I like being the only one."
You went back to the lesson after that, or tried to. Still, you kept catching it, the thing you'd apparently been noticing without quite naming it until now: how he squared his shoulders every time you corrected him, like the mistake itself was a personal failure rather than just a wrong verb ending, how he'd repeat a corrected phrase three or four times under his breath until it was flawless, not satisfied until it was. How rattled he'd looked, days ago, defeated over not being able to form a complete sentence in a language he did not know— not embarrassed exactly, more like a man encountering a gap in himself he hadn't accounted for.
That was something worth asking about. "Can I ask you something?"
"Depends what it is." He kept writing things down in his notebook. You assumed he was correcting another of his mistakes.
"Why are you so bad at accepting help?" You said it lightly, half a joke, expecting a joke back, but he actually seemed to consider it, setting his pen down instead of deflecting.
"I don't know. I'm good at things I've already decided to be good at. I don't really do the part where I'm bad at something in front of someone." He reached for his cup, not quite meeting your eyes. "This is a lot of being bad at something. In front of someone."
"You're not bad at it." And you truly meant it. He was one hundred percent more invested than any other student you’ve taught.
"I was barely able to say a simple sentence two weeks ago." Jeongguk raised his eyebrows, perceiving your words as ironic.
"And now you're arguing with me about verb tenses like it's a personal insult. That's basically fluent."
"Very generous benchmark." He shrugged.
"I'm a generous person." You weren't, particularly, not with anyone else, and you both seemed to spot that fact at the same time. He didn't have a good answer for that, covering the silence by pretending to be very focused on his verb chart, jaw doing something complicated that wasn't actually about grammar at all. You decided to interrupt whatever he was doing. "You're stalling."
"I'm concentrating."
"You've been staring at 'poder' for two minutes. It's not that deep."
"It's a philosophically rich verb."
"It means 'can,’ Jeongguk."
"Exactly. Can I, can I not— very existential." He was grinning when he looked up, clearly pleased with himself, and you threw your pen cap at him for it. He caught it with a look of pride in his eyes.
"Teach me something useful," he said, halfway through his second cup, spinning the pen cap between his fingers like a trophy. "Not textbook stuff. Something people actually say."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Flirting.” Your eyes slightly widened at his request. “Isn't that useful? I'm moving to a city full of people I don't know how to talk to."
"And this is a professional request, right?"
"Extremely professional."
"Uh huh." You raised an eyebrow, but there was something under his tone — half joke, half something else entirely — that made you set your pen down instead of picking up the textbook again. Two could play at this game. "Fine. Repeat after me.” You looked him dead in the eye and said, with perfect, theatrical seriousness: “¿Tienes un mapa? Porque me perdí en tus ojos."
He repeated it, slow and careful, actually trying to get the pronunciation right before he asked, "What does that even mean?"
"'Do you have a map? Because I got lost in your eyes.'"
There was a beat of silence, and then he put his face in his hands. "That's the worst thing I've ever said in any language."
"It's a classic."
"It's criminal. Have you used it before?"
"Nope, it's objectively one of the worst pickup lines in existence, which is exactly why I'm teaching it to you."
"So you're setting me up to fail."
"I'm setting you up to make someone laugh so hard they fall for you. There's a strategy here." As the words came out of your mouth, you knew they sounded insincere. For some reason, the thought of Jeongguk flirting with a random girl annoyed you.
"A strategy," he repeated, deadpan, and then broke, laughing for real, dragging a hand down his face like he couldn't believe he'd actually said it out loud. You were laughing too, at the sheer commitment he'd put into something so deeply stupid, and for a second, neither of you managed to stop. "Okay," he said, once he'd recovered, still grinning. "Give me a real one. Something I could actually use."
You considered him for a second. Flushed from laughing, pen cap in his hand, looking at you like you were the only thing worth paying attention to in the room, and the next phrase came out quieter than you meant it to.
"Me encantas."
"What's that one?"
"It means I’m into you. I’m crazy about you, actually." You said it lightly, like it was still part of the lesson, but something in your voice gave you away, and you watched him catch it.
"Say it again." Something in him shifted; his eyes became even darker as he moved closer to you.
"Jeongguk—"
"Say it again."
You did, slower this time, without the joke to hide behind.
“Me encantas.” He repeated it back to you like he meant it, because he did, you both did.
The words were the same, but the delivery was different—quieter, more deliberate, aimed at you rather than at a hypothetical stranger at a bar in Barcelona. Jeongguk felt the difference in his spine, a warm pressure spreading downward. The pen cap he'd been spinning clattered to the table, forgotten, as your faces came closer.
Jeongguk closed the gap between you by kissing your lips like a starved man. One of his hands held the back of your neck, attempting to bring you even closer, as if that was possible. His tongue explored yours relentlessly, bringing out breathless moans from you. Jeongguk felt blessed to hear you fall apart thanks to him. You felt his lip ring against your bottom lip when he bit it. It made you lose your composure. Your hands approached him, tugging his hair and pulling him away from you to take a breath. Although you were both breathing heavily, Jeongguk was far from done. He pecked your face, trailing kisses along your cheek and down your neck, where he stayed and left a few wet kisses.
“That feels so fucking good, Jeongguk.” You pushed your legs together and began grinding the seat, the sensation in your core intensified by Jeongguk’s neck kisses and grunts near your ear.
“Cursing, teach? That’s unacceptable.” He teased you, but you could only worry about how empty you felt without his lips on your skin. You were blinded by the pleasure you felt; you could barely discern what was appropriate from what wasn’t.
You sat on his lap, your legs straddling his, and he instinctively held onto your hips, smiling at how desperate you looked already. “What can I say? I think you bring out a different side in me that no other student sees.” He smiled, lips redder and lip ring shinier than before, and the increasing pulse in your crotch became painful. This time, you kissed him. Your hands found his hair again, and you loved how soft it was.
Jeongguk didn’t think having you on top of him was enough. His fingers explored every inch of you they could reach. He rubbed your back, your exposed thighs, until he reached your ass and lingered there, holding onto both cheeks and taking control of you, forcing you to grind against him. You could feel how hard he was getting, and the pleasure created by the friction between your bodies was overwhelming.
“Eres hermosa,” Jeongguk whispered as your lips abandoned his. You are beautiful.
You stared at him, impressed. You hadn’t taught him that; he’d done his homework. Those words reached a deep point inside you. Your head fell back, and your hips moved faster, the feeling of his hardened cock even more intense against your clothed clit. Jeongguk felt on top of the world, knowing that he had this effect on you. His lips found your neck once more, bridging the distance between you while his hips matched the rhythm of yours.
Before you could completely surrender yourself to the wave of pleasure that washed over you, the grating sound of a phone notification disrupted your rhythm, bringing you back to reality when you almost felt as if you were floating. You and Jeongguk shared a look, welcoming an awkward tension that was not there before. Behind you and towards the dining table, you realized it was your phone that cockblocked you. Reaching for it, your best friend’s name flashed on the screen.
“Fuck, I completely forgot about it.” Still straddling Jeongguk, you covered your face in embarrassment. You made plans with her a while ago, way before Jeongguk was a regular part of your schedule. If only you were as organized as he was, you would have realized that you double-booked yourself.
"Everything okay?" His hands were still resting at your waist, not pulling away, not pushing either, just steady, like he was giving you room to think without making you feel like you had to move yet. He didn’t want you to move away. His voice had dropped back into something calmer than it had been minutes ago, though his chest was still rising at the same speed it had been the past few minutes.
"I have to go. My friend, she’s waiting for me. I lost track of time, no— I forgot that I was supposed to meet her today." You sounded anxious.
"Don't." He interrupted you before you'd even finished getting up, quiet, almost surprised at himself for saying it at all. He didn't let go of your waist right away, thumb still resting against your hip like he wasn't ready to stop touching you yet. "Not yet. Just— give me a second before you go."
You stilled, half off his lap, caught by the shift in his voice. "Jeongguk—"
"I keep a color-coded calendar because if I don't plan something, it doesn't happen. That's not a joke, that's just how I've lived for the past few years. I decide what I want, I build a system for getting it, I execute." He wasn't looking at you now, focused instead on some point over your shoulder, as if it was easier to speak if he wasn't looking directly at you. "I didn't plan for this. These feelings. I don't know what to do with something I didn't see coming."
Now he did look at you, and whatever composure he'd been holding onto slipped the rest of the way. "I've had a mistake log for our lessons because I hate not knowing how to do something in front of you. That's how much I dislike disappointing you. And now you're about to walk out that door, and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with how much I don't want you to."
You hadn't expected that. The specificity of it, no metaphor to hide behind, just him handing you the actual, unflattering shape of what he'd been carrying around this whole time. Something in your chest gave way at the honesty of it, some last piece of the distance you'd been keeping without quite admitting you were keeping it.
"I rescheduled a client for you last week." You said it like a confession, too. Quiet, meeting his gaze. You hadn’t noticed he was clenching his jaw until now. "Someone whom I’ve been teaching every single week for a year. I told him I had a conflict… I just wanted to see you sooner."
"You didn't tell me that."
"I wasn't going to. It's not exactly professional." A short, unsteady laugh, nothing like your usual sharpness. "I just didn't want to go a whole week without seeing you, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I lied to a client instead of admitting it."
He didn't say anything right away. Just reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, slow, like he wanted an excuse to keep touching you a second longer.
"Good," he said finally, quietly. "I'm glad it wasn't just me."
Neither of you said anything after that; nothing was left that felt safe to say out loud. So you did the only thing that felt true instead: you kissed him again, slow, nothing like the urgency from an hour ago, just the quiet certainty that you weren't done with this, with him. Not even close, even if you weren't ready to admit how not close yet. When you finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours for a second longer, like neither of you wanted to be the one to end it.
"Go," he murmured, though he didn't let go of your hand until the very last second. "Before I actually get on my knees and start begging you to stay."
You didn't remember the walk to your car. You remembered the door closing behind you, and the cold air hitting your face, and standing there for a full minute before your legs remembered how to move. Something in you needed a second to catch up with what had just happened before it would let you drive.
Two days passed before your next lesson, and they passed strangely. The kind of strange where every hour felt both too long and somehow already over before you'd noticed it happening. You went out with your best friend that night as you'd promised, sat across from her at the same bar you always went to, and heard maybe half of what she said. She was mid-story about a coworker's disastrous drama, and you were nodding at what you hoped were the right moments while your phone sat face-up on the table between you, screen dark, willfully unread.
"You're doing the thing," she said, snapping her fingers in front of your face.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you're here, but you're not here." She narrowed her eyes at you over her drink. "You've checked that phone four times in the last ten minutes, and it hasn't even buzzed."
"I have not."
"You have. Who is he?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
She didn't push it, which was somehow worse, because it meant she already knew there was someone, and was simply choosing to let you sit in the discomfort of being caught. You picked up your phone under the pretense of checking the time and found nothing waiting for you. No message, no missed call, nothing. You put it back down, feeling unreasonably disappointed by the absence of something you hadn't even told him to send.
You weren't usually like this. You'd always been the easy-breezy one, the friend who didn't lose sleep over a guy, who could go months without thinking twice about someone she'd kissed once and moved on from without much ceremony. Whatever this was, this counting down the two days until your next lesson like it was a deadline instead of a Tuesday, was new and a little embarrassing. You weren't sure yet whether you minded.
You mostly failed at that. You caught yourself rereading his one text from that night things got heated — made it home safe? sent a couple of hours after you'd left, casual on the surface, nothing underneath it you could point to and call proof of anything. You caught yourself, twice, standing in front of your closet trying to decide what to wear to your next lesson, before catching your own reflection in the mirror and feeling genuinely ridiculous about it. You'd worn the same three sweaters to previous lessons without a second thought, and now, apparently, that no longer applied.
By the time the second day rolled into evening, you'd stopped pretending to yourself that the anticipation was about anything other than him.
He opened the door differently this time. No pressed shirt, no perfectly squared-off notebook waiting on the table, none of the rehearsed composure he usually greeted you with, the kind that made him look like he was walking into a client meeting rather than a Spanish lesson. Just him, in a soft gray t-shirt instead of his usual monochromatic uniform, hair slightly less deliberate than usual, lip ring catching the hallway light when he tilted his head. He looked, unmistakably, like he'd spent the last two days thinking about the same thing you had and hadn't landed on what to do with it either.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
Neither of you moved for a second. The air between you was thick with everything that hadn't been finished, everything that had been sitting, unresolved, for two days that had felt considerably longer than two days. Two days of half-read texts and half-worn outfits and half-listened-to best friends, and you suspected, watching the careful way he was holding himself in the doorway, that his version of the last two days hadn't looked all that different from yours.
"I didn't set anything up," he said finally, glancing back over his shoulder at the bare kitchen table. No cards, no notebook. "Didn't see the point in it."
"No flashcards? No mistake log?"
"I've been distracted." His voice had dropped, quieter than the joke deserved, and there was nothing careful about the way he was looking at you now. None of the calculated thoroughness he brought to everything else in his life, the thoroughness you'd watched him wear like armor since the day you met him. "You have that effect on me, apparently. Turns out it's hard to plan a grammar lesson when you can't stop thinking about the last one."
"That's very unlike you. Being unprepared."
"I know." He didn't sound bothered by it. If anything, he sounded almost relieved, as if being unprepared for once, in front of you specifically, was closer to a relief than a failure. "I figured we both already know where we left off."
"Do we?"
"I think so." He stepped back to let you in, close enough as you passed him that you felt the warmth of him even without touching, and something about the restraint of it made the two days of waiting feel almost unbearable. Both of you very deliberately did not close that last inch, not yet.
The door clicked shut behind you, and the sound of it—that small, final latch—sent something electric down your spine. Neither of you moved for a breath. The air in his apartment felt different tonight, charged with everything that had been simmering since you walked out two days ago with his taste still on your lips.
"Two days is a long time," he said, voice low, not quite steady.
"You have no idea."
"I think I do." Jeongguk reached for you, fingers sliding along your jaw, tipping your face up toward his. The pad of his thumb traced your bottom lip, slow, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of it. "I kept thinking about how you sound when I kiss your neck. Couldn't focus on a single fucking thing at work."
His voice dropped lower, rougher, as his thumb slid down to your chin, tilting your head just enough to expose the column of your throat. "I kept replaying that little noise you made, the one right before you pulled me back in. The one that told me you didn't actually want to leave." You felt the heat of his breath against your skin before his lips followed, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the spot just below your ear. "I sat through a three-hour meeting with the Barcelona team, and all I could think about was this." His teeth grazed your pulse point, featherlight, deliberate. "The way you feel in my hands. How you said my name like it meant something."
His hand slid from your jaw to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. "I don't get distracted. I don't let myself get distracted. But you—" He exhaled against your skin, a sound that was half laugh, half surrender. "You're in my head. All the time.” His lips brushed your earlobe, his voice a low rasp.
"Show me what you were thinking about."
The words left your mouth before you'd fully decided to say them, and you watched the effect they had on him in real time—the way his pupils blew wide, the way his breath caught and held for half a beat too long. His thumb, still resting on your hip, pressed harder, a reflexive response he probably didn't even notice.
"I was thinking about this," he said, voice rough, and his hand slid from your hip down to the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the seam of your jeans with deliberate slowness. "About how you felt in my lap. About the way your hips moved when I kissed your neck." His fingers curled, pressing against you through the denim, not quite touching where you wanted him most. "I was thinking about how you taste. I kept wondering if it would be as good as I remembered, or if I'd built it up in my head." His hand moved higher, cupping you through your jeans, palm applying just enough pressure to make your breath stutter. "And then I spent the rest of the night wondering if I'd ever get to find out."
"You're finding out now."
"Barely." He pressed harder, and you felt it everywhere, a dull, aching pulse that made you rock into his hand. "I want more. I want to memorize every sound you make, every way your body moves when I touch you."
His fingers found the button of your jeans, flicking it open with practiced ease, the zipper lowering with a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet of the room. "I thought about this part too." He slid his hand inside, palm flat against your underwear, the heat of him searing through the thin cotton. "About getting you out of these clothes and taking my time." His fingers traced the edge of your panties, teasing, never quite slipping beneath. "About how you'd look spread out on my bed, telling me exactly where to touch you."
"I can show you instead."
"No." His voice was firm, but there was a tremor underneath it. "Quiero oírte." I want to hear you. He shifted his weight, pressing his hips harder against yours as he closed the space between your body and the nearest wall, so you could feel exactly how much control this was costing him. "I don’t want you to hold back when I make you cum." He brought his mouth to your ear, breath hot and uneven. His teeth grazed your earlobe before he pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes searching yours. "That’ll be today’s lesson. I want to practice my Spanish while I make you feel good. I've been repeating phrases in my head all day, trying to figure out how to say the things I want to do to you. Now I want to see how you fall apart when I say them to you.”
The challenge in his voice sent a fresh wave of heat through you. He was trembling with the effort of holding back, but he was waiting, giving you space to meet him there, to play his game. His thumb traced your hip bone in slow, patient circles, and the corner of his mouth lifted when he saw the answer forming on your lips.
His mouth found yours before the words came out, hungry and impatient in a way that made your knees weaken. You could taste the lingering notes of the coffee he'd been drinking while he waited for you, bitter and warm and so distinctly him that your fingers curled into the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, needing more.
"Bedroom," you managed against his lips. "Ahora." Now.
He carried you through the apartment with a confidence that hadn't been there two weeks ago, each step deliberate, like he'd memorized the distance between the door and his bedroom and knew exactly how many seconds he had left to savor the weight of you in his arms. His grip tightened as he shouldered the bedroom door open, and the look he gave you—dark, hungry, certain—made your breath catch in your throat.
Jeongguk carefully laid you in his bed, and you pulled him down with you. He caught himself on his forearms, caging you beneath him, and for a moment he just looked at you—really looked, the way he'd been doing since the first lesson, like you were a problem he was determined to solve.
"Say something else," you said, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. His skin was warm, slightly rough with the shadow of stubble he'd missed shaving. "En español." In Spanish.
"Eres lo más bonito que he visto." His voice had gone rough, the words deliberate and careful. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Good pronunciation." You deflected, pretending that his words didn’t form knots in your stomach.
"I have a good teacher." His hips pressed into yours, and you felt exactly how much he meant it. "Now you. Tell me something. Anything."
"Quiero sentirte dentro de mí." I want to feel you inside me. Your eyes never left his.
The sound of pure ecstasy he made vibrated against your throat as his mouth found your neck again. His hips rolled against yours, slow and deliberate, and the friction of denim against denim was nowhere near enough.
"Otra vez," he breathed against your skin. Again.
"Quiero sentirte dentro de mí."
“Fuck.” His hands slipped under your sweater, palms sliding up your stomach, your ribs, stopping just below your breasts. "I've thought about this. About you. About the sounds you'd make when I finally got my hands on you."
"Show me."
He sat back on his heels, pulling you up with him just enough to work your sweater over your head. His fingers traced the edge of your bra, following the line of lace with the same careful attention he'd given his verb charts. "You're shaking. Good." He unhooked your bra with one hand, practiced, confident, and let it fall away. You made a mental note to ask about that particular skill later. "I want you to remember this. Every second of it. I want you to think about it the next time you're supposed to be teaching me and can't focus because all you can remember is how my mouth felt on your skin."
He lowered his head, lips closing around one nipple, and your back arched off the mattress. His tongue worked in slow circles, the metal of his lip ring cool against the sensitive skin, and when his teeth grazed the peak, a sound escaped your throat that you didn't recognize.
"Like that. Make that sound again." He murmured against your breast.
He moved to the other nipple, giving it the same attention, and this time, when you moaned, his hips bucked against the mattress. His free hand slid down your stomach, fingers dipping below the waistband of your open jeans, and when they found the wetness already soaking through your panties, he swore under his breath in a language you hadn't taught him.
"You’re this wet from just my mouth on your neck?" His fingers traced the outline of you through the damp cotton, teasing, never quite pressing where you needed him. "Or did you think about this last night, too? Did you touch yourself thinking about what I'd do to you?"
"No." You reached for him, fingers hooking into his belt loops, pulling his hips back down against yours. "I wanted to wait for you."
"Fuck." The word came out almost pained. Capturing your mouth again, he kissed you deep and desperately while his fingers finally pushed your panties aside and found you bare and slick and ready. "All this for me?"
"Solo para ti." Only for you.
One finger slid inside you, then two, and your hips rose to meet him without conscious thought. He moved them slowly, deliberately, watching your face with the focus he usually reserved for his mistake log.
"Look at me," he said, and when your eyes met his, he curled his fingers forward, finding the spot that made your vision blur.
"There. Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning to." His thumb found your clit, drawing tight circles that matched the rhythm of his fingers, and the dual sensation sent you hurtling toward the edge faster than you'd ever gotten there with anyone else. Your hands fisted in his sheets, your hips moving against his hand in a rhythm you couldn't control.
"Jeongguk—"
"I know." His voice was raw. "I can feel it."
When the trembling finally subsided, he withdrew his fingers slowly, bringing them to his mouth without breaking eye contact. He licked them clean, one by one, and the sight of it sent another pulse of heat through your already oversensitive body.
"Sabes mejor de lo que imaginaba." You taste better than I imagined.
"Your Spanish is getting better."
"I had motivation to practice." He lowered himself over you again, and this time, you felt the full length of him pressed against your thigh, still trapped behind his jeans. "But I'm not done yet. There's a phrase I need to try."
"What phrase?"
He didn't answer with words. His mouth found the hollow of your throat instead, then lower—collarbone, sternum, the soft curve of your belly. Each kiss came slower than the last, deliberate and unhurried, as he'd already calculated exactly how long he wanted to spend on every inch of skin between your neck and where he was headed.
"Jeongguk." Your voice came out thinner than you meant it to. "You said there was a phrase."
"There is." His breath fanned hot against your navel. "But I want to earn it first."
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your jeans, tugging them down past your hips, your thighs, your ankles. Your panties followed. The cool air hit your bare skin, and you shivered. Not from cold, but from the way he was looking at you. That same careful, cataloging attention he'd given his vocabulary lists. Only now the subject was you, spread out beneath him, still trembling from what his fingers had done minutes ago.
"You're staring."
"I'm learning." He settled between your thighs, his shoulders pushing them apart, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin on the inside of your knee. "Every part of you. Every reaction. I want to know what gets you to make that sound again."
His lips brushed the crease where thigh met hip. Not a kiss—barely a suggestion of one. Your hips jerked toward his mouth without permission.
"Just like that." His words hummed against your skin, sending shivers throughout your body.
"What are you learning exactly?"
"How you taste." His tongue traced a line along your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you needed him. "How you respond to pressure. How long I can tease you before you start begging me."
“I won’t beg.”
"Not yet." He said it with absolute certainty, the same tone he'd used when he'd insisted he'd master the subjunctive before his flight to Barcelona. Then his mouth moved higher, and higher still, until his breath was right there—warm and wet and maddeningly close—and then he stopped. "The phrase," his lips brushing against you as he spoke. "I looked this one up. Wanted to get it right."
"Tell me."
"Quiero saborear cada parte de ti." I want to taste every part of you.
"That's—"
His tongue flattened against your clit before you could finish the sentence.
The sound that came out of you wasn't a word. It wasn't even close. Your hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, and he groaned against you like he'd been waiting for exactly that reaction. The vibration traveled straight through you, sparking along nerves still raw from your first orgasm.
"Where did you learn that one?"
"I've been doing my homework." His tongue dipped lower, tracing your opening, and your grip on his hair tightened. "Dulce." Sweet. He licked again, slower. "Suave." Soft. A third time, deeper, his lip ring cold against your heat. "Mojada." Wet. "Dime cómo se dice." Tell me how to say it. He lifted his head, chin glistening, dark eyes finding yours across the plane of your stomach. "I want to describe you. Every taste. But I need the vocabulary."
Your breath caught. He was serious. Beneath the hunger, beneath the way his hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise, he was still your student—still that same meticulous man who learned languages by memorizing patterns until they became instinct.
"Dulce," you managed. "You said dulce already. Sweet."
"Dulce." He lowered his mouth again, tongue working in slow circles. "What else?"
“Salado. Salty.” Talking became harder, your words coming out between gasps.
"Salado." He tasted you again, lapping at the slick gathering between your thighs. "Both. Dulce y salado. Like caramel with sea salt."
"Poetic."
"I've been reading Spanish poetry." His tongue circled your clit, slow and precise, and the deliberate pressure made your back arch off the mattress. "The Romantics. Bécquer. Neruda. I wanted to know how to talk about you without sounding like a textbook."
"Most students just learn how to order coffee."
"I thought you knew I’m not like most students."
His mouth sealed around your clit and sucked, hard, and coherent thought dissolved. The room narrowed to the hot slide of his tongue, the wet sounds he was making, the steady pressure of his hands holding your thighs open. He worked you with the same relentless focus he'd brought to verb conjugations. Patient, methodical, adjusting his approach based on your reactions.
"Amargo," you gasped, when he slowed down to kitten licks. “Bitter.”
"Where?" He sounded genuinely curious, pausing mid-lick.
"The edge. When I'm close, it tastes different. Sharper."
"Enséñame." Show me. His voice had gone rough. "Let me taste the difference."
Two fingers slid inside you, curling forward against that spot he'd found minutes ago, and his mouth returned to your clit with renewed intensity. The dual rhythm—fingers pressing, tongue circling—built something seismic in your lower belly, a pressure that made your thighs shake against his shoulders.
"More," you heard yourself say. "Ahí, justo ahí." There, right there.
He repeated the motion exactly, the same pressure, the same angle, his tongue working you in tight spirals. His eyes were glued to yours, seeking your approval.
"Sí. No pares." Don't stop.
"No voy a parar." His words vibrated against you. I'm not going to stop. "I need you to cum in my mouth."
The command undid you. That, or the way his fingers pressed deeper, or the way his lip ring caught against your clit with every stroke of his tongue. It didn't matter. The orgasm crashed through you in pulses, each one wrenched out by the steady rhythm of his mouth, and he didn't stop—didn't slow down, didn't pull back—just kept licking and sucking and groaning against you like he was the one falling apart.
"Amargo," he breathed, pulling back only when your hips stopped bucking. His lips were swollen, his chin wet, his eyes nearly black with want. "You were right. Sharper. More intense." He licked his lips. "I like it."
"Come here." Your arms reached for him, shaking as you still felt your heartbeat in your throat.
He crawled up your body, and you tasted yourself on his tongue when he kissed you. Dulce, salado, amargo, all of it mixed. His length pressed against your thigh, still trapped behind denim, and you felt the damp spot where he'd been leaking through the fabric.
"Your turn," you said, reaching for his belt. "Quiero enseñarte otra cosa." I want to teach you something else.
His breath hitched. "What?"
"How you sound when you let go. En cualquier idioma." In any language. Your fingers worked his belt open. "Whatever comes out."
"Prometo que voy a estudiar," I promise I'll study. His hips jerked into your hand as you freed him, hot and thick and already slick at the tip. "Every word. Every sound. I'll write it all down in my mistake log."
"Don't." You guided him between your thighs, lining him up where you were still wet and open from his mouth. "Some things you don't correct."
His breath caught when you guided him against you, the head of his cock pressing into wet heat. For a moment, he just stayed there, forehead dropping to yours, lips parted around a word that wouldn't come.
“Wait.” He pulled back, and the loss of contact made you whimper before you could stop yourself. "Condom. I need—"
"No."
His jaw tightened. The lip ring caught the lamplight as he processed the word, turned it over, and examined it from every angle like one of his vocabulary lists.
"No?" Confusion flickered across his face, then something hungrier. "But—"
"Quiero sentirte." I want to feel you. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, pulling him down until his mouth hovered inches from yours. "All of you. Nothing between us."
He swallowed hard. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything." Your thumb traced the sharp edge of his jaw. "I'm on birth control. And I haven't been with anyone in months. You?"
"Not since before the promotion." His voice had gone hoarse. "Not since I started wanting you." He said it plainly, like a fact he'd stopped trying to argue with, and the simplicity of it hit harder than any elaborate confession could have.
"Then what are you waiting for?"
He searched your face for any change in your expression, that careful scanning look, like he was checking for any sign of hesitation. Whatever he found must have satisfied him because he exhaled and something in him shifted. Surrender. Relief. The particular recklessness of a man who'd spent his life planning everything and was finally letting himself want something unplanned.
"You're going to ruin me." He said it like a fact, as if he'd already accepted the outcome. "I'm going to feel you, and I'm never going to be able to think about anything else."
"Good."
He pushed inside you in one slow stroke.
The stretch stole your breath. No barrier, just him, hot and bare and somehow more than you'd imagined despite spending weeks imagining exactly this. Your nails bit into his shoulders through his t-shirt, and he groaned, a sound dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Fuck." He stilled, buried to the hilt, every muscle in his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing ragged, voice frayed at the edges. "Tell me what you want me to do to you now that I'm inside you. I want to hear you say the dirty things you're thinking while you can feel exactly how much I want you."
You felt him pulse inside you, a reminder that he was still holding on by a thread, and the power of that, the control you had over a man who controlled everything, sent a fresh wave of heat through your already oversensitized body. Your hips rolled experimentally, just a fraction of an inch, and the sound he made in response was worth more than any confession.
"You want to hear me talk?" Your voice came out lower than you intended, rougher. "Fine. I want you to move. Slow at first. I want to feel every inch of you dragging against me while I watch your face. I want to see the exact moment you stop thinking about Barcelona and start thinking about nothing except how good I feel."
His breath stuttered. His hips twitched, a reflexive forward press that made you both gasp, and you smiled against his mouth.
"I want you to learn a new word tonight. Despacio. Slow. Because I'm going to make you take your time. I'm going to make you feel every second of this, every heartbeat, every breath, until you can't remember what it felt like to want me from a distance."
Jeongguk's hands found your hips, grip tightening like he needed something to anchor himself. "That's—" He swallowed hard. "That's a lot of instructions."
"You asked for them." Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently at the roots. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No." The word came out desperate, immediate, and he seemed to realize how much he'd given away because he pressed his forehead to yours again, hiding. "No. Keep going. Please."
"Then here's your next lesson." You shifted beneath him, adjusting the angle just slightly, and the way his eyes rolled back was its own reward. "When I tell you así,” Like this, “you don't change a thing. You keep the same rhythm, the same depth, the same pressure. You let me feel exactly what you're giving me until I tell you otherwise."
His nod was jerky, barely controlled.
You tightened around him deliberately, watching his pupils blow wide. "Now show me how well you follow instructions."
He shuddered at the command, his hips stuttering as if your words alone could break his rhythm. But Jeongguk was nothing if not disciplined. Even now, even with his cock buried bare inside you and his mind swimming in the haze of desire, he found the control to slow down. His next thrust was measured, deliberate, the kind of precise movement that spoke of a man who had spent his life learning to obey instructions perfectly.
The slow drag of him against your walls was almost unbearable. Somehow too much and not enough all at once. Every nerve ending was alight, hyperaware of every inch of him, every ridge and pulse. He was watching you with an intensity that bordered on reverence, memorizing every micro-expression that crossed your face, learning what made you gasp versus what made you moan.
"Sí," you managed, the word coming out as a breathless sigh. "Just like that. No faster. No deeper. Just—" Your voice caught as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. "—así."
He repeated the same stroke, same angle, same depth, and the precision of it, the way he'd already learned what you liked, sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with temperature. His thumb, still resting against your clit, began to move in matching circles, slow and steady, synced to the rhythm of his hips.
"You're so wet," he observed, his voice carrying a note of wonder. "I can feel it. Every time I push in, there's more. Is that because of me? Because of what I'm doing?"
"Don't fish for compliments while you're inside me."
A smug smile crossed his face, but he didn't stop. Didn't speed up. Didn't change a thing. Just kept that maddening, perfect rhythm, dragging moans from your throat with every slow, deliberate stroke. His free hand found yours, fingers intertwining, pinning your palm to the mattress beside your head.
"Tell me if I'm doing it right." The vulnerability in his voice cut through the stillness of pleasure. "I need to know. I need to hear you say it."
"You're—fuck, Jeongguk—you're doing it right." The words came out broken, punctuated by a gasp as he hit that spot again. "Don’t change anything. Así."
He groaned at the Spanish, at the confirmation that he was following your instructions correctly. His hips maintained their rhythm, but his thumb pressed harder, circles growing tighter, and you could feel the trembling in his thighs. The effort it took for him to hold back, to stay controlled, to give you exactly what you'd asked for, even as every fiber of his being wanted to take more.
"You’re so obedient. I love it," you whispered, and the sound he made in response—a desperate, wrecked noise that seemed to come from somewhere primal—told you everything you needed to know about how much those words affected him. Being under your spell, completely surrendered inside you.
His hips jerked involuntarily, a short, sharp thrust that made you both gasp. "Don't." Another slow thrust, deeper this time, his lip ring glinting as he smiled. "Don't tease me right now. I'm barely holding on."
He maintained that pace: long, deep strokes that filled you, the drag of him bare against your walls sending sparks up your spine with every movement. No rush. No urgency. Just the steady rhythm of his hips and the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.
"Eres perfecta." The words fell from his lips like he'd been holding them in for weeks. You're perfect. "Perfecta. Tan apretada. Tan caliente." So tight. So hot.
"Harder." Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him deeper. But instead of speaking, you arched into him, a wordless demand. His answer was a low growl against your throat as his hips snapped forward, harder this time, stealing the breath from your lungs. The slightly slow, measured pace shattered; he drove into you with a desperation that rattled the headboard against the wall, each thrust a conversation you no longer needed words for. His mouth found yours, swallowing every broken sound you made as he took what you'd offered, and gave back twice as much.
His thrusts faltered, rhythm slipping as he lost himself in the sensation. You watched it happen, watched the careful composure crack further with every stroke, watched his eyes go dark and unfocused, watched his mouth shape words he couldn't quite voice. His teeth grazed your pulse point, and the sharpness of it, pleasure edged with just enough pain, made your inner walls clench around him. He shuddered, a full-body tremor that you felt everywhere.
He lifted his head, eyes finding yours. "Do that again."
"What?"
"Squeeze me like that again." His thrusts were harder, deeper, hitting a spot that made your vision blur. His rhythm didn't break. If anything, it grew more deliberate, each stroke aimed with the precision of a man who'd spent weeks learning exactly where to find what he was looking for. "Again. Otra vez. I need to feel it again."
The demand in his voice, rough and frayed, sent a fresh pulse of heat through you. You tightened around him deliberately, a slow clench that started at the base and rolled upward, and watched his composure fracture in real time. His jaw went slack. His hips stuttered. A sound escaped him, low and wrecked, that didn't sound like it belonged to the businessman who organized his bookshelf by height.
He let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan, and pulled back just enough to look at you. His pupils had swallowed most of his irises, leaving only a thin ring of dark brown around the black. "You're going to kill me. You know that, right? I'm going to die inside you, and I'm going to thank you for it."
His hips began to move again, slower this time, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive nerve you had. The sensitivity from your previous orgasm made every stroke feel sharper, more electric, like he was relearning your body all over again. His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, hooking your leg higher over his waist, opening you further. The new angle made him hit deeper, and you felt it everywhere. A sharp, maddening hit of pleasure that made your toes curl and your back arch off the mattress.
His voice was low, almost reverent. "Your cunt is still so tight. You’re clenching around me, taking me so well." His thrusts got deeper, letting you feel the fullness of him. "Is that normal? Or is that just—me? Just what I do to you?"
“It’s you. Just with you.” You felt your face getting hotter, feeling exposed not only because you were naked.
A shudder ran through him at your admission, and he pulled out almost entirely before sliding back in with excruciating slowness. The drag of him against your oversensitive walls made you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He watched your face with that same intense focus, taking all of you in.
"Good." He repeated the motion—slow withdrawal, slower reentry—and the deliberate pace was almost more overwhelming than the frantic rhythm from before. "Because I want to remember this. Every detail. The way you look right now. The sounds you make. The way your body welcomes me every time I push back in." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm going to think about this non-stop. When I'm alone. When I'm supposed to be focusing on meetings. I'm going to close my eyes and remember exactly how you feel around me, and I'm not going to be able to think about anything else."
His rhythm shifted, growing slightly faster, the shallow strokes targeting a spot that made your vision blur at the edges. His thumb found your clit again, pressing in tight circles that matched his thrusts, and you could feel another orgasm building; slower this time, deeper, gathering in your core like a wave about to break.
"Así," you moaned, the word barely making it past your lips. "Así. Please don't change a thing."
He didn't. He kept that same rhythm, that same depth, that same relentless pace, his thumb finding your clit in matching circles. And when you clenched around him again—involuntary this time, pulled from you by the sheer overwhelming pleasure of his cock inside you—he groaned your name like a prayer, like he'd been saying it in his head for weeks and was only now allowed to let it out loud.
His pace quickened, the slow, deliberate strokes giving way to something more urgent. The wet sound of him moving inside you, no barrier between your bodies, filled the room alongside your broken moans.
"I’m close." You said, barely a whisper.
He felt it. Of course he did. His cock could feel every shift deep inside you.
His hips snapped forward, a sharper thrust that made you cry out. "Every word. Every sound. Every lesson. I've been taking notes on you since the day we met."
"You’re obsessed."
“Yes." No denial. No deflection. Just the word, hot against your throat, as his rhythm faltered and rebuilt itself. "Estoy obsesionado contigo. Con esto." I’m obsessed with you. With this. "Con la manera en que dices mi nombre." With the way you say my name.
"Jeongguk."
"Así." Like that. His voice had gone ragged. "Otra vez." Again.
"Jeongguk—"
The orgasm hit without warning, ripped out of you by his name on your tongue and his cock buried bare inside you and the relentless pressure of his thumb. Your vision whited out. Your body clenched around him in waves, each pulse drawing a broken sound from his throat. The pleasure crested, ebbed, crested again. When you finally surfaced, he was still buried inside you, still hard, still trembling.
"You didn't—"
"I wanted to feel it." He said it like a confession. "All of it. Every second. The way you—" His voice broke. "I've never felt anything like that. Someone cumming around me. Bare. Like this."
"Cum inside me." You said it for him, watching his eyes go wide and dark. "Déjate ir dentro de mí." Let yourself go inside me.
"Fuck." His composure was completely shattered. No more careful student, no more meticulous planner. Just him, raw and desperate, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that had nothing to do with patience and everything to do with need.
The permission in your voice, quiet, steady, utterly certain, was the final thread holding him together, and it snapped. His hips drove forward once, twice, a third time, each thrust shorter and more desperate than the last, chasing a release he'd been holding at bay since the moment he first touched you.
Your name tore out of him, ragged and broken, as his rhythm shattered entirely. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, and you felt the exact moment he lost control. The way his whole body tensed, the way his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, the way a drowned whimper came out of him.
He came undone inside you. You felt it in pulses, hot and deep and endless, each wave drawing a shudder from his frame, each pulse pulling a broken sound from his throat. His hips kept moving through it, involuntary now, grinding against you like he couldn't bear to stop, like he needed to feel every last second of this before it ended.
You tightened around him, and he gasped, his whole body jerking as a sharp sting of pleasure rolled through him. His teeth grazed your shoulder, not quite biting, grounding himself against the overwhelming sensation of being so completely undone.
When he finally stilled, he was trembling. Not the fine tremor of exertion, but something deeper. A full-body shake that spoke of a man who had given everything he had and was still trying to find his way back to himself. His breathing was uneven, his face still pressed into the curve of your neck like he couldn't bear to lift his head and face what had just happened.
He stayed there for a long moment, buried inside you, his lips pressed against your pulse point like he was memorizing the rhythm of your heartbeat. When he finally spoke, his voice was wrecked. Hoarse and raw and honest in a way he'd never let himself be before.
"Me encantas." The words came out broken, barely a whisper, pressed into your skin like a secret he'd been carrying too long. "Me encantas tanto que no sé qué hacer." I'm so crazy about you that I don't know what to do.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and there was no armor left. Just him, flushed and spent and vulnerable, his lip ring glinting in the low light as he searched your face for something—reassurance, maybe, or permission to keep feeling what he was feeling.
You opened your mouth to answer him, and nothing came out.
It struck you as almost funny, in some distant part of your brain that was still capable of finding things funny in such a serious moment. You, who'd spent weeks handing him the exact right words for every occasion, who'd built entire lessons out of teaching him how to say the things he couldn't say on his own, and now here you were, wordless, in every language you knew. Nothing in your vocabulary felt big enough. Nothing felt like it wouldn't shrink the second it left your mouth.
So you didn't try. You reached up instead and pressed your palm flat against his chest, right over the place where his heart was still going too fast to be anything but honest, and held it there like you could say it that way instead. Like touch might succeed where every word you knew had just failed you. He went still under your hand, watching you with something that looked almost like relief, like he understood exactly what you were doing and didn't need the words either, not really, not when this was so much louder.
You leaned in and kissed him instead and felt him exhale against your mouth like he'd been holding his breath since the words left him. When you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his, you found your voice again, small and unsteady and entirely true.
"I don't know what to do with it either," you whispered. Not a lesson. Just the truth, handed back to him in the only language you had left.
His arms tightened around you, and for a long moment neither of you said anything else. Because for the first time since that coffee shop, there was nothing left that needed saying out loud.
You left before he woke up, convincing yourself to do so. Somewhere between his front door and your car, the relocation in a few weeks stopped feeling like something happening to him and started feeling like something happening to you, too. You didn't examine that thought too closely. You just opened your phone and searched flights to Barcelona instead, and didn't ask yourself why.