warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, degradation, crying during sex, emotional manipulation, heartbreak, public sex (bathroom), mentions of cheating, swearing, heavy angst, possessiveness, jealousy, alcohol consumption.
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. 🔞
you shouldn’t have come.
you told yourself that five times already, standing in the hallway of the dream frat house, plastic cup sweating in your hand, trying not to look too long in his direction. but you couldn’t help it.
he was there. of course he was there.
jaemin always loved the attention, the parties, the validation.
you just didn’t expect him to have her in his arms.
minjeong.
the girl he used to talk about like a dream, back before he ever touched you. before he ever pressed you up against the backseat of his car, before he ever made you moan his name with your thighs shaking around his head.
and now she’s sitting next to him, giggling into his neck, wearing his jacket like it means something. he presses a kiss to her cheek and you swear the cup almost cracks in your hand.
“you okay?” someone asks you. it’s jisung, sweet and concerned, but you can’t answer. because no— you’re not okay.
jaemin never kissed you like that.
never touched you that softly.
never looked at you like you were worth showing off.
you were the girl he fucked when no one was looking. not the one he brought to the party.
and yet…
he still looks at you.
when her attention is elsewhere, sipping her drink or laughing with her friends, he glances over. his eyes find you in the crowd like a ghost that won’t stop haunting him. he smirks. like it’s funny.
like he knows you still want him.
and the worst part is—he’s right.
you last ten more minutes. just enough to pretend you tried. then you’re pushing past the people in the hallway, heading upstairs, into the nearest bathroom you can find. you lock the door, lean against it, chest heaving like you ran a marathon.
you hate him.
you hate yourself more.
a knock comes. not gentle. not curious. just… knowing.
“open the door.” that voice.
you’d know it anywhere.
“go fuck minjeong,” you snap, but you’re already unlocking the door.
he steps inside like he owns the place. like he owns you.
the door clicks shut behind him and he doesn't say a word. just looks at you with that same cocky smirk that used to make your stomach twist and your thighs clench.
you hate how much you missed it.
“you looked real pretty downstairs,” he finally says, voice low, thick with something darker than just lust. “all alone. all jealous. were you thinking about me while i kissed her?”
you swallow hard, backing into the bathroom counter.
“fuck off, jaemin” you breathe, even though your knees are already weak. “i’m not playing this game again.”
but he closes the distance in two strides, presses his body to yours like he never let it go.
“then why’d you unlock the door?”
your silence is all the answer he needs. his hands grab your hips, rough and impatient, lifting you onto the cold marble counter. your skirt rides up your thighs instantly and he doesn’t hesitate—he pushes them apart, stepping between them like he’s done it a hundred times.
“spread wider,” he murmurs against your neck, hot breath fanning over your skin. “let me see if you missed me.”
you do. fuck, you do.
his fingers slip under the hem of your panties and he groans when he feels how wet you are. slick, messy, all for him. you whimper as he runs two fingers through your folds, slow at first, then with purpose—rubbing circles over your clit like he never forgot what made you squirm.
“fucking soaked,” he growls, eyes locked on yours in the mirror. “how long’s it been, baby? you touch yourself thinking about me?”
you nod, shame flooding your cheeks.
he grins. “good girl.”
his fingers dip inside you, stretching you open with ease, fucking into you slow and deep. your back arches off the mirror and your moan is loud, helpless.
“shhh,” he whispers, biting your earlobe. “don’t want anyone knowing how desperate you still are for me, huh?”
you shake your head, breathing ragged.
“then be quiet while i ruin you.”
he drops to his knees in front of you, tugging your panties off with one harsh yank. his tongue replaces his fingers before you can beg for it—licking a long, slow stripe up your slit before flicking over your clit, soft at first, then fast, relentless. your hands fly to his hair, tugging, trying to ground yourself, but it’s useless.
he eats you like he’s starving. like it’s the last time. like he wants you to remember this every time he touches her instead.
“fuck, jaemin—please—” you gasp, thighs trembling around his head.
he pulls back, chin glistening, eyes wild.
“turn around,” he says, breathless. “hands on the mirror.”
you do as you're told, heart pounding, legs shaking. he yanks your skirt higher, lines himself up behind you, and slams into you with one rough thrust.
you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out. he’s so deep. too deep. every inch of him fills you like he’s trying to erase everyone else.
he grips your hips, fucking into you mercilessly, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror.
“look at yourself,” he pants. “look how pretty you are when i’m fucking you like this.”
you can’t look away. not when he’s pounding into you so good, your body already tightening around him.
his hand slides up your back, wraps around your neck, pulling you up against his chest. “you think she takes it like you do?” he whispers in your ear. “think she begs like you? drips like you? screams my name like it belongs to her?”
you’re crying now, from the pleasure, from the pain. from everything you never got to be.
“you think she screams for me like this?” he pants. “you think she takes me raw, begging to be full again?”
“no,” you cry, thighs shaking. “only me.”
“no one makes you feel like this,” he growls, fucking you harder, rougher. “no one. say it.”
“no one,” you sob. “no one but you.”
“that’s right, baby. i own this pussy.”
he reaches around, fingers rubbing your clit while he fucks you through your orgasm. your legs give out but he holds you up, forces you to take it.
you come undone with a cry, body shaking, completely at his mercy.
he doesn’t stop.
“fuck, i’m gonna fill you up,” he mutters, pounding into you like he’s lost in it. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days.”
“please,” you cry, delirious. “please do it. fill me—”
he groans your name as he spills inside you, hips stilling, cock twitching deep in your soaked cunt. you feel everything.
he stays there for a moment, breathing heavy, arms wrapped around you like maybe—just maybe—it meant something.
he pulls out slowly, the thick mess of him leaking down your thighs immediately. you’re still bent over the counter, breathless, skin flushed, tears drying on your cheeks.
he doesn’t say anything. just watches your reflection for a second, lips parted like he might regret something— but of course he doesn’t.
"don’t smile because it happened," you whisper, voice hoarse, broken.
he freezes.
"cry because it’s over."
he meets your eyes in the mirror again, jaw clenched. his hands curl into fists at his sides, like your words punched him in the ribs. but you keep going, tasting the ache on your tongue.
"you’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her."
his silence screams louder than anything he’s ever said. but then—
“shut the fuck up.”
his voice is rough. sharp. but not angry—desperate.
before you can blink, he’s spinning you around, grabbing your face with both hands, and crashing his lips against yours.
it’s not gentle. it’s not soft.
it’s punishment. it’s pain.
it’s everything you’ve never said.
“you want a goodbye fuck that bad?” he growls, already pulling your shirt up, fingers twisting your nipples roughly through your bra. “i’ll give it to you. i’ll give you something to cry about.”
you moan into his mouth, hips grinding against his thigh shamelessly, already sensitive, already needy.
he lifts you again, this time placing you directly on the cold marble counter, knees pushed up and wide.
he doesn’t even bother teasing—his fingers find your entrance and slide in deep, curling inside the mess he left.
“still fucking dripping,” he mutters. “didn’t even try to close up around anyone else, huh?”
you gasp, fingernails digging into his forearms.
“because no one else fits,” you breathe.
he groans, dragging his cock through your folds again, already hard.
“then take me again,” he snarls. “take every inch and beg for it.”
he thrusts into you with one brutal motion, and your head falls back as you cry out, body arching from the shock of it.
you’re still raw, still pulsing—but you take it, just like he asked. just like you always do.
this time, he stays closer. one hand on your throat, the other under your thigh, holding you wide open for him. his pace is relentless, cock slamming into your deepest parts like he’s trying to hurt you— but it’s not pain you want him to stop.
you want him to ruin you.
so you let him.
“look at me,” he hisses, eyes locked on yours. “fucking look while i break you.”
you meet his gaze, tears spilling again, mouth open in a silent moan.
"i want you to miss me," you whisper. "i want you to miss me..."
he slows, just a little. his thrusts go deeper, not softer, and his eyes change. like the words hit something he wasn’t ready for.
“fuck,” he breathes, leaning in, pressing his forehead to yours. “why do you always say shit like that?”
“because it’s true.”
he fucks you harder again, hands everywhere—your face, your hips, your breasts. he licks and bites your neck, groaning as your walls flutter around him.
he pulls you impossibly close, your chest to his, as he slams up into you one last time.
“then fucking cum for me again. now.”
you do. violently. you scream into his mouth as your orgasm crashes through you, shaking, your whole body giving out.
he follows with a growl, biting your shoulder as he spills inside you again, deeper this time, grinding through it until you’re both a mess of sweat and tears and cum.
you’re quiet after. he doesn’t move right away.
he stays inside you, breathing hard, forehead still resting against yours.
and for a second, it almost feels like more.
but you know better.
he pulls out slowly, the mix of both your orgasms dripping down your thighs.
you reach for the counter to steady yourself, blinking at your ruined reflection. red cheeks, swollen lips, glazed eyes.
he’s already adjusting his jeans, grabbing the doorknob again like nothing happened.
before he walks out, he looks at you one last time.
"don’t leave, jaem..." you whisper again, hollow.
but he does.
and he doesn’t cry either.
but you do.
he leaves.
just like that.
no kiss. no goodbye. not even a look back.
the door shuts behind him and the silence hits harder than anything else. your legs are trembling, your thighs sticky and slick, your body aching in every way it shouldn’t.
you stay there. sitting on the counter. bare. empty.
you don’t move for a while. not even when someone knocks on the door a few minutes later, asking if it’s occupied.
your voice cracks when you say, “just a minute.”
but no one hears the way you start crying again once they walk off.
the music is louder now.
bass heavy. laughter spilling from the kitchen. lights too bright. bodies moving past each other like none of it matters. like nothing hurts.
you feel dizzy. your lips are swollen. your mascara is ruined. you try to fix your hair in the mirror before stepping out of the bathroom, but there’s no point. you look exactly how you feel.
broken.
you think maybe if you just disappear into the crowd, he’ll forget you’re still here.
but the universe is cruel.
and he sees you.
from across the room—leaning into jeno.
jeno, who’s always been kind.
jeno, who notices the way your hands are shaking.
jeno, who gently cups your face, wiping a tear that trails down to your lips.
you’re crying again, and jaemin watches.
you’re talking, but he can’t hear you.
you’re speaking between choked sobs and breathless hiccups, mouth trembling like you’re trying to explain your own pain to someone who might finally care. someone who might actually listen.
jeno pulls you close, arms wrapping around your frame like protection, like comfort.
and that’s when it hits.
jaemin’s still holding his red cup, but he’s not drinking anymore. not moving. just watching. frozen.
your voice is swallowed by the music—by the beat, by the blur of voices and bass—but he can see it in your eyes:
you weren’t supposed to fall apart like this. not for him.
you were never supposed to cry because it was over.
and yet—
you are.
and jeno is holding you together in the same house where jaemin tore you apart.
jaemin looks down at his drink. it’s warm. forgotten.
he doesn’t smile.
he just stands there, for a long time, watching the girl who used to beg for him now melt in someone else’s arms.
AN: Saw this photo and Immediately ran to write about how hot he looks with a beard... And my god Im obsessed with this. 🫠
Smut in Part 2
Twelve months.
Twelve months without seeing Kit in person.
Twelve months since we wrapped Maybe, Possibly, Us, the rom-com that had us kissing underneath fake snowfall and falling asleep on each other between takes.
We’d promised ourselves we’d stay professional.
We had careers, reputations, boundaries.
We didn’t want to be those actors who blurred reality with fiction.
So when filming ended, we hugged, exchanged numbers, texted a few times…
And then our schedules swallowed us whole.
I’d convinced myself I’d moved on.
That the feelings were just remnants of playing two people who fell in love.
That was before I saw him today.
We were both called to a studio for press.
I stepped out of my car, smoothing my coat, taking a deep breath.
And Kit turned around.
And he had a beard.
Not stubble.
Not scruff.
A beard.
Full, soft-looking, golden-red in the light, making him look older and broader and...
My knees genuinely wobbled.
“Y/N?” he said, smiling slowly. “Hi.”
Dear God.
“Your...your face,” I blurted.
He laughed, low and warm. “Still got one. Good sign.”
“No, I mean...” I walked straight up to him without thinking, eyes glued to his jaw. “You have a beard.”
Kit’s cheeks went faintly pink. “Oh. Yeah. For the show I just finished.”
I didn’t hear a word past yeah.
“Kit,” I said, staring. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Warn you?” He grinned, stepping closer. “Would it have helped?”
No.
Not even slightly.
I reached out, without thinking and brushed my knuckles lightly along his jaw.
The hair was soft, thicker than it looked, warm under my fingers.
Kit inhaled sharply.
“Oh,” he whispered. “So that’s the reaction.”
I snatched my hand back, mortified. “Sorry. Sorry, that was unprofessional.”
Our publicist cleared her throat loudly.
Right. Interviews. Cameras. Work.
But I was already gone.
We were sat side by side on a sofa, lights hot, cameras rolling.
Kit answered the question first, voice smooth as honey.
And I stared at him.
Not the polite kind of co-star admiration.
No I stared at his mouth.
His jaw.
The way he scratched at his beard thoughtfully.
The interviewer laughed. “Y/N, you’re very focused. Anything you want to add?”
Kit looked at me, lips twisting knowingly.
I blinked. “Um. Yes. Sorry. Distracted.”
Kit’s knee bumped mine intentionally.
“You ok?” he murmured, just for me.
“You look good,” I whispered back. Too honest. Too fast.
His breath hitched almost silently.
In the next interview, when someone asked about working together, I said “Kit’s even more handsome now than when we filmed.”
The camera crew actually laughed.
Kit turned bright red.
Between clips, he leaned in, voice low enough to tickle my jaw.
“If I’d known you’d react like this…” he murmured, “I would’ve convinced the director to let me grow a beard for the film.”
My heart just about burst out of my chest.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I whispered.
“Maybe I missed you,” he whispered back. “Maybe this is me making up for lost time.”
I almost forgot we were still on camera.
We finally got a break.
I flopped onto the backstage sofa, fanning myself.
Kit stood over me, smirking.
“You’re really affected, aren’t you?”
“I am not,” I lied pathetically.
“You touched my beard within ten seconds of seeing me.”
“Scientific curiosity.”
“You sighed.”
“I did not”
“You also stared at my mouth for forty minutes.”
“…allegedly.”
He laughed, completely delighted, and sat beside me close enough that our thighs pressed together.
I was staring again.
His beard.
His jaw.
His lips.
Kit tipped my chin up with one finger.
“You can touch it again,” he murmured, “if you want.”
My breath caught.
“Kit”
“It’s just between us. No cameras.”
That was all the permission I needed.
My hand slid along his jaw again, slower this time.
He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch as if starved for it.
“You look older,” I whispered. “In the best way.”
“How much older?” he murmured.
“Mmm… dangerously.”
He chuckled, breath warm against my cheek.
“You’re going to kill me,” he said.
“Likewise.”
Our noses brushed just barely.
Then the publicist shouted that we were needed again.
We both exhaled shakily.
At the London premiere the venue buzzed with photographers and fans.
I stepped out of the car first, waving and smiling
Then Kit stepped out behind me.
In a fitted black suit.
With the beard.
The crowd screamed.
I nearly did too.
He walked to my side, slipping his hand around my waist like he’d been doing it for years.
“Hi,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Being” I gestured at him helplessly. “This.”
He grinned.
We posed for photos.
Except… we weren’t really posing.
Kit’s hand stayed firmly on my waist.
Sometimes he slid it to the small of my back, guiding me gently.
Sometimes he leaned close to whisper jokes so he could feel my laugh against him.
At one point, when the crowd shouted for a photo of “just the two of you,” he rested his forehead briefly against my temple.
My eyes fluttered shut.
Flashbulbs went insane.
When the photographers asked us to look at each other, we did.
And instantly regretted it.
Because nothing about it was acting.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered so quietly only I could hear.
“Kit”
He squeezed my waist. “Let me say it.”
My heart practically disintegrated.
We were ushered inside to our seats.
Kit sat beside me.
The lights dimmed.
Our movie started.
Five minutes in, he leaned closer.
“You keep touching me,” he murmured. “And I keep thinking about how you never did that while filming.”
“We were being professional.”
“We’re not filming now.”
My pulse jumped.
His fingers brushed mine on the armrest tentative at first, then firmer when I didn’t pull away.
Halfway through the film our big on-screen heated kiss scene I felt Kit’s gaze.
I turned.
He was already looking at me.
“Kit…” I breathed.
His voice was low. “You have no idea how much I wanted that scene to keep going.”
The tension snapped like a pulled wire.
“Why didn’t you say any of this a year ago?” I whispered.
“I thought you wanted space.”
“I thought you did.”
He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
Then so incredibly gently he brushed his thumb over my cheek.
Not a kiss but just enough contact that I felt my entire body light up.
“If we weren’t surrounded by five hundred people…” he whispered.
I swallowed. “What would you do?”
He leaned close enough that his beard scraped lightly along my jaw.
“I’d show you exactly what your little beard obsession is doing to me.”
I went dizzy.
The after party was crowded and loud, but Kit stuck to me like gravity.
Every time someone dragged me away for conversation, he found me again.
Hand on my back.
Fingers brushing mine.
Knee bumping my knee when we sat.
He was warm and soft-spoken and devastatingly gorgeous.
At one point, he tugged me into a quiet corner behind a curtain.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Hi,” he murmured back.
We both laughed softly.
“This feels ridiculous,” I said. “We’re adults.”
“We’re idiots,” he corrected. “Twelve months wasted.”
I stepped closer until our shoes touched.
“You look too good with the beard,” I said, voice low. “It’s not fair.”
He smiled, breath catching.
“And you,” he murmured, “keep looking at me like you want to climb me.”
I choked on a laugh. “You can’t say things like that in public.”
“No?” he asked, eyes gleaming. “Then take me somewhere private.”
My heart lurched.
“Kit…”
He cupped my jaw again, thumb brushing the edge of my mouth.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” he whispered. “And I’ll stop.”
I stared up at him.
At the beard.
At the eyes that had looked at me like I hung the moon all evening.
“I can’t,” I whispered.
His forehead touched mine.
“Good.”
He didn’t kiss me.
Instead, he let his thumb drag gently across my bottom lip.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Enough to unravel me.
I swallowed hard “You’re killing me,” I whispered.
His smile was soft and wicked all at once.
“Right back at you.”
When the night finally ended, our cars pulled up.
Mine first.
His second.
We stood in the cold air, the sounds of the party fading behind us.
“I don’t want this to be the end of it again,” he said quietly.
“It isn’t.”
His relief was palpable.
Then he stepped close, hand sliding around my waist again, pulling me gently into him.
I pressed my palms to his chest.
Warm.
Solid.
So familiar despite the time apart.
“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.
“Anything.”
“Would it ruin things if I’d kissed you tonight?”
I exhaled shakily.
“No,” I whispered. “It would ruin me if you didn’t.”
His breath caught.
He dipped his head his nose brushed mine and his beard grazed my cheek and he stopped.
Not because he didn’t want to.
But because he was being careful.
Respectful.
Kit.
“I want to do this right,” he whispered. “Not rushed. Not half-hidden.”
I nodded, heart pounding. “Then ask me properly.”
He smiled, eyes warm and bright.
“Y/N,” he said softly. “Can I take you out? A real date. Tomorrow. Just us.”
I grinned, breathless. “Yes. God, yes.”
He leaned in, forehead resting against mine, voice a low rumble.
“Good. Because I’ve waited a year to kiss you properly. And when I finally do…”
His hand tightened on my waist.
“…I’m not stopping at one.”
My knees genuinely buckled.
He caught me.
Smirking.
Kit texted me the next morning at 8:12am.
KIT: Breakfast or dinner?
KIT: Actually… both?
KIT: I’m making up for a year, remember.
My stomach flipped so dramatically I had to sit down.
ME: Dinner. Somewhere quiet.
KIT: Quiet gives me ideas.
ME: Kit.
KIT: I’ll be good.
KIT: …ish.
I genuinely had to close the chat before I said something that would make me combust on the spot.
By the time 7pm came around, I’d changed outfits six times and cursed the universe for making my heart behave like a teenager's.
His message came when he was close.
KIT: Two minutes.
My pulse kicked up.
And then a knock.
I opened the door.
And folded.
He’d shaved the beard down just a fraction.
Still thick.
Still warm and golden.
Still unbelievably unfair.
But neater.
Sharper.
Somehow even more devastating.
He was in a dark green jumper and a coat that made his shoulders look sinful.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
I leaned against the doorframe because my knees were apparently not on my side today.
“You trimmed it,” I whispered.
“I did.” His lips lifted. “Thought you might want to touch it without looking like you’d lose consciousness.”
“I’m not that bad.”
Kit stepped inside, closing the door behind him, his chest brushing mine as he moved past.
“You are,” he murmured. “It’s adorable.”
I shoved him lightly. “I’m not adorable.”
“You’re adorable,” he said again, voice lower. “And you’re staring at my mouth again.”
“I am not.”
He raised a brow. “Sweetheart. You haven't looked away once.”
I absolutely hadn’t.
He was too close.
Too warm.
Too smug.
I swallowed. “Are we… going?”
He smiled soft, teasing, fond. “We are. But just so you know if you keep looking at me like that, we’re going to be late.”
The restaurant was small, dim, candlelit the kind of place where whispers carried and tables were close enough that his knee touched mine every time he shifted.
He didn’t move away.
Not once.
We ordered food neither of us paid much attention to. We were too busy watching each other.
I caught him staring at me over his drink. He didn’t look away.
“What?” I asked, heat creeping up my neck.
He tapped the edge of his glass thoughtfully, beard brushing his thumb. “You’re different tonight.”
“How?”
“More open,” he said slowly. “More… aware.”
“Of you?”
His smile deepened. “Yeah.”
I exhaled. “Well… you look like this now. With that beard. It’s distracting.”
His eyes darkened. “Distracting how?”
“Kit.”
“No, really.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Tell me.”
I stared at him helplessly. “It makes you look older. Confident. Not the boyish charm you had during filming. More like…”
I paused “Like someone who knows exactly what he wants.”
His breath caught just slightly.
“And what do you think I want?”
The question snapped straight through me.
“Me,” I whispered.
His knee pressed harder into mine under the table.
“Correct,” he murmured.
Heat coiled low in my stomach.
Then his hand slid across the table. He held it out not demanding, just offering.
I placed mine in his.
Warm. Big. Gentle.
His thumb stroked over my knuckles like he’d been waiting years to do it.
“I keep thinking about....” he said quietly. “The way you touched me.”
My cheeks burned. “You told me I could.”
“And you listened,” he said with a soft smile. “I liked that.”
His thumb brushed higher, slow and warm.
“And then,” he continued, “you said it would ruin you if I didn’t kiss you.”
“I meant it.”
“Good,” he breathed. “Because it’s the only thing I’ve been thinking about.”
My throat tightened. “Kit…”
“If we weren’t in public,” he said barely above a whisper, “I would already have you against that wall.”
My breath stuttered.
He smiled at my reaction not cocky, not arrogant, just pleased. Like he was finally giving a name to something that had lived between us for over a year.
Dinner passed in a blur of touches his fingers brushing my wrist as he poured water, his knee sliding against mine every time he shifted, his hand finding my lower back when he leaned close to tell a joke.
He didn’t stop touching me.
I didn’t want him to.
Outside, the night air was cold.
Kit stepped close, rubbing his hands together once before resting them on my waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Cold?” he asked softly.
“You’re wearing a coat. I’m not.”
He shrugged his off instantly, draping it over my shoulders without hesitation.
I swallowed hard. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
His beard brushed my cheek as he adjusted the collar, fingers lingering at the back of my neck.
Warmth shot straight through me.
“Kit,” I whispered.
He froze but not because he wanted distance.
Because he wanted the opposite.
“Come here,” he murmured.
I didn’t even think. I stepped into him, hands sliding up his chest, gathering the front of his jumper in my fingers.
He inhaled sharply.
“This alright?” he breathed.
“Yes.”
His hands found my hips.
Not tentative.
Not hesitant.
Possessive.
Slowly, he walked me backwards until my shoulders brushed against the wall of the restaurant building shadowed, tucked away, quiet.
His forehead touched mine.
“If I kiss you,” he whispered, “I’m not stopping”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He exhaled, a soft, shaky sound that did something shamefully satisfying to my insides.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.”
He cupped my jaw with both hands, beard brushing my skin in soft, warm strokes as he tilted my face up.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
I did.
And then he kissed me.
Slow at first.
Careful.
Like he wanted to memorise the shape of my mouth before taking anything more.
His lips moved against mine in soft, deliberate pulls that made my knees threaten mutiny.
Then he deepened it.
Kit’s hand slid to the back of my neck, guiding me closer, while his other hand tightened on my waist, pulling me into him completely.
Heat rolled through me in a wave.
I fisted the fabric of his jumper, fingers brushing the ridge of his collarbone, and he groaned a quiet, low, rough sound into my mouth.
That sound went straight to my spine.
His beard grazed my jaw as he angled his head, kissing me deeper still slow but hungry, like he’d been waiting a year to do it properly.
“God,” he breathed against my lips. “You taste…”
He cut himself off with another kiss, harder this time. His thumb stroked my cheek as our mouths moved in perfect, desperate sync.
I slid one hand up into his hair. The second I tugged he made a sound I will absolutely think about on my deathbed.
“Careful,” he whispered, forehead pressing to mine for a moment. “I’m trying to behave.”
“Why?” I whispered back.
He laughed once breathless, soft, delighted and lifted my chin to kiss me again, slower but no less intense.
This one felt like sinking.
His nose brushed mine, his beard scraping gently against my skin in a way that made my entire body tingle. I couldn’t stop touching it the soft hair brushing my fingertips, warm against his jaw.
Kit shivered.
“You really like it, don’t you?” he murmured against my mouth.
“Obsessed,” I breathed, kissing him again. “Completely obsessed.”
His grip tightened on my waist. “Good.”
He kissed me like he wanted to devour the last twelve months one second at a time.
Like he was making up for every moment we’d pretended our chemistry wasn’t real.
I kissed him back just as fiercely.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a few inches both of us breathing hard, foreheads touching, his thumb brushing my lower lip like he wasn’t done, not even close.
“You alright?” he whispered.
“No,” I whispered. “Absolutely not.”
He laughed, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of my mouth.
“Same.”
We stood there for a long moment, bodies close, breath mingling, neither of us wanting to break the spell.
Finally, he murmured, “Come home with me.”
Warmth bloomed in my chest.
“Okay,” I said softly.
His smile was slow and content and utterly beautiful.
He laced his fingers through mine.
“Good,” he said, kissing my temple. “Because I’m not done kissing you tonight.”
I exhaled shakily. “Good.”
He grinned, beard brushing my cheek as he leaned in one more time.
