Chapter Text
The deck is packed with Europe’s worst and wealthiest.
String quartet in one corner, champagne towers in another, and a breeze that does nothing to cool the heat rolling off the two people pretending to be civilized.
Cha-young is wearing a backless emerald silk dress that cost more than most people’s cars and stockings so sheer they look like liquid moonlight on her legs.
Vincenzo is in midnight black, jacket abandoned an hour ago, sleeves rolled to the elbow, wedding ring glinting every time he lifts his glass.
They are standing with a loose circle of guests (two Swiss bankers, a Russian oligarch’s wife, and a very nervous Sicilian judge).
Conversation is about art auctions and tax havens. Vincenzo’s left-hand rests politely at the small of Cha-young’s back.
His right hand is under the slit of her dress. No one can see.
The tablecloth is long, the lighting is low, and he is the picture of composure, except for the way his thumb is currently tracing slow, deliberate circles on the inside of her thigh, just beneath the lace band of her stocking.
He leans in under the pretense of listening to the judge and murmurs against the shell of her ear, voice pitched for her alone, velvet and filthy Italian.
“Sei già bagnata per me, avvocata? Perché se alzo solo un altro centimetro, sento quanto vuoi che ti scopi contro il parapetto mentre tutti guardano senza sapere.”
You’re already wet for me, aren’t you, counselor? Because if I slide my hand just one centimeter higher, I’ll feel exactly how much you want me to fuck you against the railing while everyone watches and never knows.
Cha-young’s breath catches hard enough that the Russian woman glances over.
She covers it with a sip of champagne, but her free hand clamps onto Vincenzo’s wrist under the table, not to stop him, just to anchor herself as his fingers creep higher.
He keeps talking, lips barely moving, every word a slow burn.
“Immagina se strappassi queste calze proprio qui. Ti piegherei sul tavolo, ti alzerei questo vestito inutile e ti prenderei così forte che dimenticheresti il tuo nome. Ma continueresti a sorridere a questi idioti mentre vieni sul mio cazzo.”
Imagine if I tore these stockings right here. Bent you over this table, pushed this useless dress up, and took you so hard you’d forget your own name. But you’d still smile at these idiots while you came all over my cock.
His fingertip finds the edge of lace panties and presses, just enough. Cha-young’s knees buckle a fraction.
She locks them, nails digging into his wrist, and somehow manages to laugh at whatever the Swiss banker just said. Vincenzo’s smile is small, lethal, and utterly calm.
He slips one finger beneath silk, strokes once, slow, wet, deliberate, then withdraws just as smoothly, bringing that finger to his mouth behind the cover of his glass and licking it clean while maintaining eye contact with the judge.
Cha-young’s composure fractures.
She excuses herself with a breathless, “I need some air,” and walks away, hips swaying like she’s fine, thighs trembling so hard she has to grip the railing the second she’s out of sight.
Vincenzo follows thirty seconds later.
He finds her in the narrow corridor that leads to the owner’s private stateroom door locked, music muffled.
Before she can speak, he has her pinned against the wall, mouth on hers, hand already back under her dress.
Rip. The stocking on her left leg tears from mid-thigh to ankle in one clean tug.
Cha-young moans into his kiss, fingers yanking his hair.
“You absolute bastard,” she hisses, voice wrecked.
He spins her, presses her front to the wall, and slides his hand between her legs from behind, no teasing now, just two fingers pushing inside her while his thumb finds her clit.
“Count to ten in Korean,” he growls against her ear.
“Quietly. If you get loud, I stop.”
She tries. She really does.
By 3, she’s already shaking apart, forehead against the cool wood, biting her own arm to stay quiet while he works her mercilessly.
When she comes it’s silent and devastating, thighs clamping around his hand, entire body locked in a shudder she can’t hide.
He doesn’t give her time to recover.
Withdraws his fingers, spins her again, and drops to his knees, right there in the corridor.
Pushes her dress up, mouth replacing his hand, licking into her like he’s starving.
Cha-young’s second orgasm hits so fast her legs give out. Vincenzo catches her, rises, and kisses her with her own taste on his tongue.
“Fix your lipstick,” he murmurs, wicked and tender. “We’re going back out there.”
She stares at him, wrecked, lipstick smeared, one shredded stocking, the other miraculously intact.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
He smirks, adjusts himself in his trousers, painfully hard and making zero effort to hide it, and smooths her dress back into place.
“No, you don’t.” He walks out first.
Cha-young follows two minutes later, poised and perfect again except for the faint limp, the ruined stocking skillfully hidden through the slit, and the flush riding high on her cheeks that no amount of powder can kill.
Vincenzo meets her at the bar, hands her a fresh champagne, and leans in one last time.
“Next time,” he whispers, “I rip both stockings. And I don’t let you come until we’re home.”
Cha-young takes a sip, smiles like an angel, and answers in perfect Italian for anyone close enough to hear.
“Promises, promises, Capo.”