── good ol' neighborly conduct ☼︎ yang jeongin
[ ▸ ] — jeongin is spending the summer taking care of every odd job in the neighborhood, but there’s one thing on your list that requires a much more hands-on approach. it's time the boy next door uses his own tools on you.
[ ☰ ] — event masterlist - schedule
[ ✐ ] — 5k
[ ⌗ ] — jeongin x reader friends/neighbors to lovers they're horny fr sweaty boy handyman? sorta cocky innie confident reader graphic & detailed smut some rimming slight exhibitionism oral ( f receiving )
[ ✉︎ ] — nooooooo! we're at the end now y'all! i hope you guys had as much fun reading as i've had writing this filth for you hehe <3 thank you all so much for the love and support you've shown me and miss joy. cannot thank you enough! please listen to domino or charmer for this! and don't stop streaming run it <3 as always babes, enjoy!
The first thing you notice when you pull into the driveway isn’t the heat shimmering off the asphalt or the way your mom’s hydrangeas have exploded into blue-purple chaos.
It’s Jeongin’s shoulders.
Specifically, the way they’ve somehow gotten broader since last August, straining against whatever t-shirt he’s wearing while he hauls a ladder across the Kangs’ front lawn.
You kill the engine and sit there, fingers still curled around the steering wheel, watching him.
He hasn’t seen you yet. Too busy lifting Mrs. Kang’s ancient wrought-iron patio furniture onto her deck, biceps flexing with each heave. His dark hair is a little longer than last year, falling into his eyes when he bends down. Fox eyes. That’s what you’ve always called them in your head—those sharp, angled eyes that flatten into two lines when he smiles at your mom across the hedge.
Jesus Christ.
The car door groans when you push it open. The sound carries across the cul-de-sac, and Jeongin’s head snaps up like a dog catching a scent. And then he grins.
“Well, well. The prodigal daughter returns.” He sets down a wrought-iron chair with an exaggerated flourish, dusting his hands on his jeans. They’re hanging low on his hips. Dangerously low. “Thought maybe you’d found a summer internship in Europe or something.”
“No internship this year.” You yank your duffel bag from the backseat, hyper-aware of how gross you feel after hours in the car. “Decided to grace you with my presence instead.”
His dimples crater into his cheeks. Those fucking dimples. “Missed you too.”
“Didn’t say I missed you.”
“Didn’t have to.” He leans over the waist-high fence separating your yard from the Kangs’, biceps bulging. The movement makes his shirt sleeves tighten around his arms, drawing your eyes to them. “Your face is doing all the talking.”
You roll your eyes but your face is already flushing, a blush that creeps up from your collarbones. You hitch your bag higher on your shoulder and aim for nonchalant. “My face says I’ve been in a car with my own stank for hours. I need a shower.”
“Don’t let me stop you.” He does a little bow, sweeping his arm toward your front door like a butler in a period drama. “Your mom’s inside. She made lemon bars.”
“Of course she did.”
“She’s been talking about them for three days. Lemon bars for the homecoming. Very ceremonial.”
You pause at the front steps, keys jangling in your hand. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. “Hey, Jeongin?”
“Yeah?”
You look back.
He’s still leaning against the fence, but his posture has shifted. One thumb hooks in his belt loop, his head tilted at an angle that makes the late-afternoon sun catch the gold undertones in his brown eyes.
“You look good,” you say, because apparently your brain-to-mouth filter has disintegrated in the heat. “The manual labor thing. It’s working for you.”
His smile goes crooked. “Is that so.”
Three syllables. Three syllables shouldn’t make your stomach drop like you’ve missed a stair.
But here you are.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” You shove the door open and escape into the air-conditioned dimness of your parents’ house, heart thudding against your ribs like a rabbit’s foot.
The screen door bangs shut behind you.
From outside, muffled but unmistakable: soft laughter.
The first week home is a study in controlled torture.
Your parents, oblivious as ever, hire Jeongin for a laundry list of summer maintenance projects. The gutters need cleaning. The fence needs repainting. The treehouse your dad built when you were twelve needs to be dismantled before it collapses and takes out the Jeons’ shed. And Jeongin—sweet, polite, church-boy-smile Jeongin—accepts every job with a “yes, ma’am” and a “no problem, sir” that makes your parents practically swoon.
“He’s such a nice young man,” your mom says at dinner on Wednesday, passing the potatoes with an expression of beatific approval. “So hardworking. Not like those boys who just play video games all summer.”
“Mm-hmm.” You spear a potato with unnecessary force.
“His mother says he’s saving up for a study abroad program. Tokyo, I think.”
“Fascinating.”
Your dad glances up from his pork chop. “You should hang out with him. You two were so close in high school.”
Close. That’s one word for it. You’d orbited each other since childhood—neighbors, playmates, study partners, occasional co-conspirators in sneaking out to bonfires at the lake. He’d been cute then, all gangly limbs and soft smiles, but you’d never quite crossed the line from friends to whatever it was you’d secretly wanted.
Now? Now he’s not gangly. Now he’s lean and cut and walks around your parents’ yard shirtless with a tool belt slung low on his hips like some kind of construction-themed centerfold.
Now you catch him watching you through the kitchen window while you’re making coffee, and he doesn’t look away when you catch him. He just smiles—slow, deliberate, a smile that says I know exactly what you’re thinking—and goes back to hammering a loose fence post.
Testing your willpower. That’s the game. You figured it out in record speed.
Every interaction is a chess move. He holds eye contact a beat too long when he says goodbye to your parents. He finds reasons to be in whatever room you’re in—refilling his water bottle, grabbing a band-aid for a “cut” that’s suspiciously healed five minutes later. He says “excuse me” when he brushes past you in the hallway, but his hand ghosts the small of your back in a way that is absolutely not accidental.
And you’re not exactly playing defense.
You start taking your morning coffee on the back deck, wearing the silk robe your roommate got you as a joke birthday gift—the one that’s too short and too thin and leaves very little to the imagination. You plan your route whenever you go for a run, timing it perfectly so you pass him as he’s working, sweat glazing his collarbones, his t-shirt clinging to the ridges of his abdomen.
You stretch. A lot. More stretching than any human body technically requires.
Friday afternoon, you’re sprawled on the living room couch, fan whirring as you try and beat the heat, when the front door opens and Jeongin’s voice floats in from the foyer.
“…and I’ll patch the drywall tomorrow.”
“You’re an angel, Jeongin. Truly. Let me get you some lemonade.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Nonsense. Go cool off in the living room. I’ll be right back.”
Footsteps. Then Jeongin rounds the corner, wiping his forehead with the hem of his shirt—and you get a full, uninterrupted view of his stomach. All defined planes, dips and valleys, and smooth skin.
You grab a book from the coffee table and open it to keep from ogling. Because you have some dignity.
“Enjoying the view?” His voice is low enough that your mom won’t hear it from the kitchen.
“I’m reading.”
“Your book is upside down.”
You glance at the page. Shit. You close it and throw it back on the coffee table. When you look up, he’s grinning—and it’s not the polite, charming grin he deploys for the neighborhood.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” you say.
“Doing what?”
“The…” You gesture vaguely at his entire torso. “The shirt thing. The leaning. The smirking.”
He leans against the doorframe. “I don’t smirk. I have a very sincere face.”
“Your sincere face looks a lot like a smirk.”
“That’s just my bone structure.” He crosses his arms, and his biceps do that straining thing again. “Maybe you’re projecting. Maybe you’re the one doing something on purpose.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That robe,” he says, clicking his tongue. “Every morning. Eight a.m. You stand on the deck, drinking your little sugary coffee.”
Your eyes narrow. “How do you know it’s sugary?”
“Oh, I know it is.”
“So you’re watching me instead of working?”
“Multitasking.” The word comes out like a purr. “I’m very talented.”
Footsteps come from the kitchen as your mom finishes mixing the lemonade. Jeongin straightens up instantly, his expression shifting into boy-next-door innocence so fast you get whiplash.
“Lemonade!” Your mom bustles in, proffering a sweating glass. “And I put in a little extra sugar. You work so hard, honey. You need the energy.”
“That’s okay, Mom. I don’t want a glass,” you grumble.
“Okay,” she says cheerfully. Your eye twitches.
Jeongin accepts the glass with both hands and a slight bow. “Thank you, eomeonim. You’re too generous.”
“Oh, stop.” She beams at him, then at you. “Isn’t he just the sweetest?”
You make a noise that might be “yep” or might be a strangled scream. Hard to tell.
Jeongin takes a long sip of lemonade, his eyes fixed on you over the rim of the glass. A drop escapes the corner of his mouth. He catches it with his thumb, then sucks it clean all while maintaining eye contact with you. Your clit twitches.
Your mother, mercifully, has already turned back toward the kitchen, nattering about dinner plans.
“Anyway,” Jeongin says, chugging the lemonade and letting out an ahhh as he exhales. “I should head out. But I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?” your mom asks, returning to take the glass from him.
“Pool cleaning.”
Your heart stops.
“Oh, wonderful!” Her eyes widen and she smiles brightly. “The chemicals have been sitting in the shed since last year. I was worried they’d gone bad.”
“I’ll test everything before I add them. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”
“Take your time, sweetheart. We’ll be gone all afternoon—visiting my sister in Ulsan. You remember my sister? The one with the hip replacement?”
“Of course. Hope she’s recovering well.”
“Oh, she’s a trouper.”
They exchange pleasantries for another minute, but you’re not listening. You’re thinking about tomorrow.
About an empty house and a pool and Jeongin’s hands skimming the surface of the water.
About the tiny black bikini buried at the bottom of your suitcase—the one you bought last spring break and never actually wore.
About what it would feel like to stop playing chess and just flip the board.
Jeongin catches your eye one more time before he leaves. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw is tight.
Game on.
Saturday dawns hot and hazy, the kind of humid heat that makes the air disgusting.
By eleven, your parents are gone, the car packed with a casserole and a get-well-soon card and your mom’s insistence that the drive is only an hour, they’ll be back before dinner. Your dad, not much of a talker, just waves and kisses the top of your head.
You watch their sedan disappear around the corner, count to thirty, and then sprint upstairs.
The bikini is exactly where you left it, crumpled at the bottom of your suitcase like a shameful secret. You shake it out. It’s even smaller than you remember—two triangles of black fabric connected by strings that look like they’d snap if you breathed too hard.
Perfect.
You put it on. Adjust the straps. Adjust them again. Regret every decision that led you to this moment. Then you catch your reflection in the mirror—the way the black fabric cuts against your hip bones, the way the top does its best to contain your tits but leaves very little to the imagination—and the regret evaporates.
“If you ever actually wear that thing, someone’s gonna lose their mind,” your roommate had said last spring when you’d tried this on, laughing.
Time to test that theory.
You grab a towel, smear on a layer of sunscreen that smells aggressively like coconut, smack your lips after applying your cherry gloss, and pad barefoot out to the backyard.
Jeongin is already there. He’s crouched by the pool’s edge, back to you, fiddling with the filter housing. His shirt is off, of course, and the sun is doing obscene things to the musculature of his back. Sweat glistens in the dip of his spine.
“You’re early,” you call out.
He turns and freezes. The wrench in his hand splashes into the shallow end, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
His eyes travel from your face to your chest to your hips and then back up. You can practically feel the drag of his gaze across your skin.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
“Not quite.”
You spread your towel across the lounge chair nearest the deep end, taking your time. Bending at the waist. Letting the strings of the bikini pull taut against your skin.
When you straighten up, Jeongin’s knuckles are white where he’s gripping the edge of the pool.
“Something wrong?” You blink at him with wide, innocent eyes.
“You know exactly what’s wrong.”
“I’m just sunbathing. It’s a hot day.”
“Uh-huh.” He pulls himself to his feet, still staring. His chest is rising and falling faster than it was a minute ago, glistening and rippling. “And that’s what you wear to sunbathe.”
“It’s a bikini. People wear them at pools, Innie.” You settle onto the lounge chair, crossing your ankles, tilting your face toward the sun. “It’s not a big deal.”
A beat of silence. Then, “Bullshit.”
Your eyes snap open. Jeongin is standing over you now, blocking the sun, his expression unreadable. The polite mask is gone. The charming smile is nowhere to be found. This is a different Jeongin—the one you’ve been circling all week, the one who’s been testing you just as hard as you’ve been testing him.
“You’ve been fucking with me since you got home,” he says, low and rough. “The robe. The running shorts. The stretch-and-bend routine every goddamn time I’m in the yard.”
“I don’t know what a stretch-and-bend routine is.”
“Bullshit,” he says again.
You prop yourself up on your elbows. His crotch is at eye level. “Maybe I’m just literally stretching.”
“Maybe you’re literally trying to see how far you can push me.” He drops into a crouch beside the lounge chair, bringing his face level with yours. Up close, you can see the gold flecks in his irises, the sheen of sweat on his temples, the muscle ticking in his jaw. “Is that it? You want to see me crack?”
Your pulse thuds in your throat. The game has shifted—chess pieces scattered across the board, both of you just staring at each other across the wreckage. “And if I do?”
He inhales deeply. “Then congratulations,” he murmurs. “You win. I’m cracked.”
The tension between you is a physical thing, a rubber band pulled tight enough to snap. You can smell him—chlorine and sunscreen and something musky and warm.
“I’m not playing anymore,” you hear yourself say. “I’m done playing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His hand comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. The touch is feather-light, almost questioning. “Tell me what you want. I need to hear it.”
Consent. The word flashes through your brain, and something in your chest goes soft. Even now, even with his pupils blown wide and his breathing ragged, he’s making sure.
“I want you to stop being polite,” you say. “I want you to stop being the nice neighbor boy.” Your hand finds his wrist, pulling him closer. “I want you to fuck me, Innie. On this lounge chair. Until neither of us can walk straight.”
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “God. Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”
And then his mouth is on yours. It’s hungry and messy and his tongue slides against yours like he’s been thinking about this for years. His hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the angle. The other hand finds your waist, grip firm.
You bite his lower lip and he groans into your mouth.
“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just far enough to speak. His forehead presses against yours. “You smell like coconut.”
“It’s sunscreen.”
He gives you another kiss. “Taste like cherries.”
“It’s the lip gloss,” you pant out.
“It’s torture.”
Then his mouth is trailing down your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. He takes his time there, tongue tracing circles that make your hips buck involuntarily. His hands are everywhere—cupping your breasts, skimming the curve of your waist, toying with the string of your bikini top.
“This fucking thing,” he mutters against your skin. “You wore this on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re a menace.” His teeth graze your shoulder, just hard enough to make you gasp. “A calculated, manipulative little menace.”
“Takes one to know one.”
He laughs—a real laugh, surprised and bright—and then his fingers find the knot at the back of your neck and pull.
The bikini top falls away and his reaction is immediate. He sits back on his heels, just looking at you, biting his lip. “Holy shit.”
“Eloquent.”
“Shut up.” But he’s grinning, those dimples carving into his cheeks. “I’m having a religious experience here.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Mm, yeah, your idiot.” He lowers his head, mouth finding the swell of your breast, and whatever retort you were crafting disintegrates on your tongue.
He’s thorough, tongue circling your nipple before his lips close around it. The suction makes your back arch off the lounge chair. The sun is hot on your skin, but his mouth is hotter. He alternates between breasts—licking, sucking, grazing with his teeth until you’re squirming beneath him, fingers clawing at his shoulders.
“Jeongin.” Your voice comes out wrecked. “Jeongin, please.”
“Please what?” He lifts his head, lips swollen, eyes glazed. “Tell me. Be specific.”
Oh, so he wants to play that game.
“Please touch me.”
“I am touching you.” His thumb swipes across your nipple, demonstrative. “This is touching.”
“Lower.”
“Lower where?” The bastard is grinning. “You gotta use your words.”
You grab his wrist and drag his hand down your stomach, pressing his palm to the top of your bikini bottoms. “Here. I want your fingers in me.”
His grin flickers. “Yeah? You want my fingers in your pussy?”
The word hits you like a jolt of electricity. Polite, church-boy-smile Jeongin, saying pussy in that low, rough voice.
“Yes,” you manage. “Fuck. Yes.”
He hooks a finger under the string of your bikini bottoms.
“Take them off,” you say, practically begging
He does. Slowly, torturously, sliding the fabric down your thighs, his knuckles dragging against your skin. When he tosses them aside, you’re completely naked on the lounge chair, legs parted, the afternoon sun warming every inch of you.
“Fuck, look at you. You’re so wet already.”
You don’t need to look to know he’s right. You can feel it—the slick heat between your thighs, the ache that’s been building since you put on the bikini.
His fingers trace your inner thigh, maddeningly light. “Been thinking about you. Every night. Lying in bed, jerking off, thinking about this exact moment.”
“What were you thinking about?” Your voice is embarrassingly breathy.
“This.” His thumb finds your clit in a slow circle that makes you see stars. “Your pussy. How it would taste. How you would sound when I got my fingers and my cock inside you.”
He slides one finger in. Your hips lift as you let out a gasp and a soft moan.
“Like that,” he murmurs. “Just like that sound you just made. That little gasp thing. Fucking perfect.”
He adds a second finger, curling them inside you, and your vision tunnels. His thumb keeps working your clit in steady, rhythmic circles while his fingers pump deeper, finding that spot that makes your thighs tremble.
“That’s it.” His breath is hot against your ear. He’s leaning over you now, propped on one elbow, his body a wall of heat along your side. “You’re so tight around my fingers. Can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”
“Then do it.” You’re panting, hips rolling to meet his hand. “Stop talking about it and fuck me.”
“Not yet.” He scissors his fingers, stretching you, and your moan echoes across the empty backyard. “You’re gonna come on my fingers first. Then I’m gonna eat your pussy until you come again. And then I’m going to fuck you. Yeah?”
You don’t have words. You have sounds—incoherent, desperate sounds that get louder as his fingers speed up.
“That’s right.” His voice is honey and gravel. “Let go. I’ve got you. Come on my fingers, baby.”
Baby. The word tips you over the edge.
The orgasm hits you like a wave—no, not a wave, not that cliché. It hits you like a door bursting open. Your body clenches around his fingers, your back bowing off the chair, a cry tearing from your throat that’s half his name and half just noise.
He works you through it, murmuring praise you can barely hear over the roar in your ears. “So good. So fucking good for me.”
When the shudders finally stop, you’re limp against the lounge chair, staring up at the cloudless sky and wondering if you’ve ever actually experienced an orgasm before this one, because holy shit.
Jeongin pulls his fingers out slowly. You watch, hypnotized, as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean.
“You taste incredible,” he says, conversational, like he didn't just suck pussy juice off his fingers. “Now flip over.”
“What?”
“Flip. Over.” He taps your hip. “I’m gonna eat your pussy, and I’m gonna eat your ass, and you’re gonna come on my tongue. And then maybe I’ll fuck you. But probably.”
You move quickly, flipping over. The lounge chair’s mesh digs into your knees and elbows. You feel exposed, vulnerable, the sun warming the backs of your thighs.
Jeongin groans at the sight of you. "Definitely fucking you." And then his hands spread you open, thumbs pulling you apart, mouth lowering onto you.
From behind, the sensation is different. Dirtier. His tongue laps at your clit from an angle that makes you bury your face in the towel and cry. He licks into you, nose pressed against the sliver of skin between your pussy and ass, and the wet sounds are obscene—slurping, sucking, his groans vibrating against your flesh.
“Jeongin. Jeongin, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
He pulls back just long enough to speak. “You like that? You like my tongue in your pussy?”
“Yes. Yes. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping.” His tongue traces higher, circling the tight ring of muscle that makes you jolt. “You ever had your ass eaten before?”
“No. No, never.”
“Then you’re in for a treat.”
His tongue presses against you—wet, insistent, swirling in slow circles—and you lose all ability to form words. Your brain short-circuits. There’s only sensation: the scratch of the towel against your cheek, the sun on your back, his tongue lapping at your little hole.
He alternates between your pussy and your ass like he’s trying to decide which tastes better. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing fast circles, and the combination of sensations sends you hurtling toward a second climax.
“Gonna come again?” His voice is muffled against your skin. “I feel you clenching. Come on my tongue, baby. Give it to me.”
You do, harder than the first one. Your thighs shake and you wail into the towel, grinding back against his face as the pleasure rips through you. He keeps licking through the aftershocks until you’re twitching with oversensitivity.
“Okay.” His voice is wrecked now, hoarse and desperate. “Okay. I need to be inside you. Right now.”
You hear the clink of his belt buckle, the rustle of denim. When you manage to push yourself up onto your elbows, he’s standing beside the lounge chair, shoving his jeans and boxers down his thighs. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, the tip slick with pre-come.
He’s gorgeous. All lean muscle and sun-gold skin and that v of his hips leading down to where his hand is wrapped around his length, stroking it. And by it you mean his cock. And by his cock you mean his big cock.
“Lie back,” he says. “I want to see your face.”
You frantically shift onto your back, legs falling open immediately. He kneels between them, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance.
But he doesn’t push in yet. Instead, he drags the head of his cock through your folds—up, down, up again—bumping your clit with deliberate precision.
The sound you make is not human.
“Listen to that.” He does it again, slapping the head against your clit. The wet smack echoes across the pool. “Listen to how wet you are. That’s my favorite sound in the world.”
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Each tap sends a jolt through your oversensitive nerves. Your hips buck. Your fingers dig into his shoulders.
“Please,” you hear yourself begging. “Please, I can’t—I need—please fuck me. Please put your cock inside me. I’ve been waiting all summer. Please.”
Whatever restraint he’s been holding onto finally breaks.
He sinks into you in one long, slow thrust that makes both of you groan. The stretch is intense—you read how hung he was just moments ago—and for a moment you just lie there, adjusting, feeling every inch of him.
“Fuck.” His forehead drops to yours. “Fuck, you feel amazing, baby. So tight. So wet.”
“Move. Move, please.”
He does. His hips set a rhythm that’s hard and fast from the start. This is weeks of tension finally breaking, months of summers spent watching and wanting, years of circling each other without quite touching.
The lounge chair creaks and rattles beneath you. You can hear the slap of skin against skin and the filthy, broken sounds spilling from both your mouths, not even caring that the neighbors can hear you two fucking out in the open.
“You like that?” His voice is strained, breathless. “You like getting fucked on this chair? Where anyone could see?”
“Yes. Fuck. Yes.”
“You want them to see? You want them to hear? Want the neighbors to watch me, hear me fucking this tight little pussy?”
“I don’t care. I don’t care. Just don’t stop.”
He fucks you harder, deeper, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other braced on the back of the chair. His hips snap against yours in a rhythm that’s almost punishing, and every thrust punches a sound from your throat.
“So pretty.” His eyes are wild, hair falling into his face. Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest. “So fucking pretty when you’re taking my cock. God, I’ve wanted this. Wanted you." He lets out a grunt, hips rolling, abs flexing. "Wanted you when I saw your ass in those little running shorts, that fucking robe. Wanted you bent over, fucking you until you screamed.”
His words are gasoline on the fire in your belly. You’re close again—already, impossibly—the pressure building low and hot.
“I’m gonna come,” you gasp. “I’m gonna—Jeongin—I’m—”
“Do it. Come on my dick, baby. I want to feel that pussy squeeze me.”
He shifts his angle, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision white out, and you’re gone. The third orgasm rips through you like a storm—your body clenching, milking him, a scream tearing from your throat that’s definitely loud enough for the neighbors to hear but you don’t give a single fuck.
He fucks you through it, pace turning erratic, his own control fraying at the edges.
“Where do you want it?” The words come out strangled, desperate. “Fuck. Baby, I’m close—where—”
“Inside.” You wrap your legs around his waist, locking him against you. “Come inside me. Fill me up.”
“Fuck.” His hips stutter. “Yeah? You want my cum in that little pussy?”
“Yes! I want to feel it!”
That’s all he needs. He buries himself to the hilt and comes with a loud groan that sounds like it’s been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. “Oh my—fuck! Oh god, baby. Fuck, yes,” he growls out.
You can feel it—the hot pulse of his release, the way his cock twitches inside you, the shudder that runs through his entire body. His arms give out and he collapses on top of you, chest heaving, heart hammering.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. But the sun is starting to beat down on you both, so you whine from under him. Jeongin lifts his head. His eyes are still hazy, lips kiss-swollen, hair a disaster. He looks absolutely wrecked.
“So,” he says, voice hoarse, “does this mean you’re gonna stop doing the stretch-and-bend thing?”
You laugh—a real, full-bodied laugh that makes him slip out of you with a wet sound that’s absolutely filthy. You both sit up, slightly uncoordinated, and you feel his spend start to leak out.
“Not a chance."
He grins, dimples cratering into his cheeks. “Good. I like the stretch-and-bend thing.”
He leans forward and kisses you, softer this time. His tongue traces your lower lip, and just before you can push him away so you can get the fuck out of the sun, he murmurs, “Is there more of that lemonade? That was gas.”
You roll your eyes. Typical.
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