Game Night is Over
It started with a dare. It ended with Jimin between your thighs. When a harmless game night turns into a slow-burning seduction, you find yourself toeing the line between curiosity and complete surrender. What began with a single kiss unravels into a night of whispered commands, stolen breaths, and the kind of pleasure that rewires your very soul. He’s not just Chimchim anymore. He’s Jimin—dangerous, delicious, and dead set on making sure you never forget the way he says your name.
~~~
It all started as a dare—a stupid, sexy dare. Mei squealed in delight when the bottle landed on you, and you could practically hear the gears turning in her head—wicked and diabolical as always.
“Bunny, I dare you to kiss Jimin.”
The nickname, paired with that dare, sent a jolt of electricity—no, terror—through your body. You weren’t sure you could go through with it, not in front of everyone. But you missed something crucial. You missed the way Jimin’s eyes darkened when Mei said his name. You missed the way his tongue snuck out to wet his bottom lip. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he’d been waiting for this.
“Scared?” he asked, lounging beside Taehyung, casual as sin.
You chewed on your lip for a moment, watching him sip his whiskey like it was water. Even that—God, even that—was sexy. It lit something in you you couldn't put into words. Grabbing a shot off the table, you downed it in one go, grimacing at the burn, before standing up and walking toward him. Jimin stood at his own pace, unbothered. Confident. Deadly.
He rolled his eyes, the kind of roll only he could make look alluring, as the girls squealed and the guys egged him on. You felt shy, heat rushing to your face, but then—then—he looked at you. And just like that, the rest of the room melted away.
“Lemme help,” he murmured.
He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you in. There was barely enough space to breathe. You could smell his cologne—something smoky, expensive, undeniably him. His fingers drummed against your waist as your gaze flicked down to his lips.
God must’ve handcrafted them—pouty, plush, unfairly perfect. You wanted—needed—to know if they felt as soft as they looked. In a haze, you let your fingertips trace his mouth. He watched you with hooded eyes, dark and hungry. And when he dipped his head slightly to take your finger into his mouth, everything inside you short-circuited.
That tongue—slow, warm, and sinful—licked down your finger like it knew your secrets. He raised an eyebrow, silently daring you to do something about it.
You did.
Fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, you rose up on your toes. His eyes flickered, just for a moment, before your lips finally—finally—met his.
The first kiss was tentative, testing the waters. The second? Possessive. Decisive.
Jimin's hands gripped your hips, holding you against him like he’d earned you. His mouth moved with a purpose, like he had something to prove. You whimpered, clutching his hair, your dress riding up with every shift of his fingers.
You teased his lips with your tongue until he gave in, groaning low and filthy as he opened for you. That sound—it rewired your entire brain. You chased it like a drug, doing everything you could to make him moan again.
Somewhere in the background, Taehyung muttered, “Yeah… I think game night’s over.”
Jimin didn’t stop. Just pulled back enough to growl, “It is. Get out. All of you. We’ll finish this tomorrow.”
“Is he serious?” Jungkook whined.
But you weren’t listening. You couldn’t. All you could hear was his voice—rough, low, the polar opposite of the bubbly Chimchim who greeted you earlier.
This was Park Jimin. And he wanted you.
You took your chance, pressing your lips to his neck and licking slowly, tasting salt and heat and skin that felt like silk.
“Oh, see what she’s doing?” Jimin muttered to the group. “This is gonna get her fucked. Y’all have a minute to leave.”
Your thighs clenched. Your panties didn’t stand a chance.
You pulled away from his neck just long enough to glance apologetically at Mei, who was already packing up her Switch.
“I’ll call you tomorrow?” you offered.
But Jimin gently took your chin between his fingers and turned you back to face him.
“Uh uh. Look at me.” His voice was velvet and command all at once. “They’re leaving. Don’t worry about them. Worry about me—and how you’re gonna convince me to let you leave my bed for the next two days.”
If you weren’t already soaked, you sure as hell were now. And when Taehyung whispered, “Wait, two days? I thought we were finishing game night tomorrow…” Yuqi shot back, “Okay, then go correct him.” Taehyung just pouted. “No thanks.”
One by one, your friends left—quickly, wisely—until the house was silent. Jimin turned the lock on the front door with a decisive click.
“Come upstairs with me.”
He held out a hand, and you took it. Next thing you knew, he was lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist.
Your mouth traced a trail along his jaw and neck as he carried you up the stairs. Your breath grew heavier with every step. You raked your nails across his back, kissed the shell of his ear, and when he finally reached his room, he kicked the door shut and laid you out on the bed like a gift.
You started to unwrap yourself, legs loosening around him, but Jimin caught your ankle.
“Don’t.” His voice dipped lower. “Keep them around me.”
His mouth found your neck next, sucking, tasting, claiming.
The red t-shirt dress was pushed up over your hips as he left open-mouthed kisses down your body. You writhed, hands twisting in his hair, and he hummed in approval.
His fingers glided down your thighs, unlocking your legs, spreading them wide.
He slipped off your sneakers and socks, kissing your ankle as he admired your golden anklet.
“I like this,” he murmured.
Before you could respond, he was biting softly up your legs, lips hot against the inside of your thighs.
You whined—desperate, aching—and he didn’t even have to touch you there to unravel you.
You tugged off his shirt, hungry for skin. Jimin shirtless, between your legs, with that wicked glint in his eye… it should’ve been illegal.
He sat back, beckoning you forward, fingertips grazing your neck before his hand threaded through your hair.
“Will you take this down for me?” he asked, nodding to your bun.
It was undone in seconds.
“You listen so well,” he praised.
You shrugged, stripping off your dress with a smirk. “When I want to.”
His brows raised. “Yeah?”
You let one strap of your bralette fall. Bit your lip. Nodded.
Jimin crawled over you, pressing you back down beneath him.
“So what makes you wanna listen to me?” he whispered.
You thought about it—how he looked at you, how he touched you like you were fragile and dangerous all at once.
And just as he pulled your panties down, the answer slipped from your lips:
“Because I know what you can do to me.”
He met your eyes from between your thighs, his voice dark and sure:
“No you don’t.”
Then his mouth was on you.
His lips sucked your clit gently, fingers sliding through the mess you’d made just for him. Then lower, tasting you like it was the first sip of heaven.
Your back arched. Your body trembled.
Jimin devoured you.
And when you made the mistake of looking down—seeing him between your legs, eyes closed, mouth working—you felt drunk off it. High.
He pulled back, breathing heavy. “As much as I want you to cum like this,” he murmured, licking his lips, “I don’t have great self-control when I’m tipsy.”
You thought he meant he’d stop. That he’d slow down. But then came the instruction:
“Turn around.”
