Janet just cannot believe she’s here—
Kimchee pauses from the job of working a hickey into the tender skin of her collarbone. “You good?” He raises himself on his elbows so that he looms slightly over her. “I’m not squishing you, am I?”
She shakes her head and he hums, pleased, before returning to his work. She’ll have to cover the mark when she goes home for dinner tomorrow. Shit.
It had all started with sushi. Or, more specifically, it had started with Janet madly craving sushi, but still being too creeped out by Gerald’s weird girlfriend to suggest a Friday night roomie outing. Then Jung was in one of his sulky moods, taking ages to respond to texts and then barely giving an answer when he did. And even that had been to inform her that he had plans.
Her parents’ company was—ugh, not even worth thinking about.
Sadly, that had left Kimchee. Janet had tried not to think too hard about what that meant.
“Yo, you want me to go bald, or what?” Janet loosens her grip on the handful of Kimchee’s hair that she had, she belatedly realises, been tugging in time to his ministrations. She uncurls her fingers and finds that they instead drift to the nape of his neck, brushing over the buzzed stubble. He shivers. “S-sorry,” she stutters. He kisses her in response, which reminds her why her brain feels like something that’s fizzled and snapped.
Suddenly they’re moving, her world tipping and spinning until she’s braced above Kimchee, her hips just barely hovering over his. She feels like she might throw up, her heart is hammering so fast. Her hands are under his shirt, somehow, fingertips brushing the overheated skin.
“Why so quiet? Not that I would, but if I had to guess I’d have figured you for a talker.”
She tries to offer him a weak smile in response, but can’t even hoist it fully onto her face before it falls. She immediately wants to kick herself. Who else could put their foot in their mouth without even saying anything? What is she even doing? Aside from ruining a relationship with a guy she’s known since she was in diapers, obviously. Oh God.
She is so lost in her own head that she scarcely notices him gently pushing her away to create space between their bodies. She snaps back to reality when he speaks.
She looks at him, as best as she can in the dull orange light that filters in from the street. Only the lines of his face are illuminated, the gleam of his eyes; his voice swims out to her through the darkness. She can remember, now, why she had agreed to go home with him. Because even she can read the interest in his eyes when he watches her. Because it isn’t unreturned. The serious rumble of his voice is one of the few things that cut through the nonsense babble of her anxious thoughts. And his quiet moments of sincerity make her feel—well. Anchored. Safe, if not always comfortable.
“Do you want to stop?”
Janet takes stock. Her ponytail is half undone. The skin of her throat tingles a little in the cool bedroom air. The electricity in her veins has settled into a heavy liquid heat.
She un-tenses, allowing her hips to sink until she sits fully on his lap. He grunts. She feels his heart racing, under her palm. She feels—oh. She feels that, too.
“No,” she breathes, and grinds her hips down, again and again and again.