Maybe this was a mistake.
Jisung sat in the middle of a row at Pauley Pavilion, flanked by seven other men in hats and masks, feeling like the world’s most conspicuous secret. The arena air was chilled and still, smelling of polished maple and distant, stale popcorn. The only sounds were the distant squeak of sneakers from warm-ups and the soft, echoing scuff of their own shoes on the concrete steps. To his left, Jeongin was trying to stuff his bright orange hair into a black beanie, failing miserably. To his right, Chan sat with the calm stillness of a general surveying a battlefield, which, Jisung thought, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. But the disguise operation, the risk of being recognized—that wasn’t the problem. The problem was standing on the court fifty feet below them.
Kelsey.
She was a flash of blue and gold in the dim arena lights, a spark of impossible energy. Her uniform was a crime. The skirt was shorter than the one she’d worn to his concert, so short the blue cheer shorts beneath were visible every time she shifted her weight. The top was a cropped thing that cut off just under her chest, tying behind her neck and leaving the smooth expanse of her back and stomach bare. Her hair, usually straight or in a practical ponytail, fell in long, dark waves past her waist, curled and shiny. She had more makeup on than he’d ever seen—sparkle on her eyelids, a bold red on her lips. She looked bright and shiny and untouchable, a perfect UCLA product beaming for the crowd that was beginning to trickle in.
Under his mask, Jisung smirked. She looked really, really good.
He’d braced himself for jealousy, a sharp, possessive ache at having to share her with a stadium. Instead, a low, warm pride settled in his chest, followed immediately by a much hotter, much more specific feeling. He was turned on. Viscerally, undeniably turned on. Because she was exactly where he’d always wanted her—vibrant, powerful, on display—and now he knew what she felt like under his hands, coming apart. The knowledge was a live wire in his veins.
She bent at the waist, pom-poms behind her, and flipped her hair back in a practiced, crowd-pleasing move. Jisung’s breath caught. She did it again, laughing with the girl next to her. His brain wasn’t running in its usual anxious loops. It was cataloging. It was planning. Every swing of her hips, every flash of her smile, every time her skirt rode up, his mind supplied a corresponding, explicit image of what he would do to her later. His hand on that bare stomach, pulling her back against him. His mouth on the nape of her neck, right where her hairline met skin. The sound she’d make.
“Wow,” Hyunjin breathed out from a few seats down, leaning forward. He let out a low, appreciative whistle. “She’s… wow.”
Yesterday, Jisung would have thrown a jacket at him. Yesterday, the possessive burn would have been pure acid. Today, he just leaned back in his seat, the mask hiding his smile. He knew where Kelsey was going to end up. Let them look. Let them try. Everyone could try. She was going to end up in his bed, under his hands, saying his name. The certainty of it was a drug.
The game was a blur of noise and movement he barely processed. He watched Kelsey. He watched the way she commanded her section of the court, the sharp precision of her jumps, the dazzling smile she turned on the crowd that didn’t quite reach the warmth of the one she reserved for him. He tracked the glances thrown her way from the players’ bench, from the stands. A guy in a letterman jacket a few rows down hadn’t taken his eyes off her. Jisung’s knee bounced. Not with anxiety. With anticipation.
When the final buzzer sounded and the crowd began to disperse in a roar of victory, Jisung was already moving. He nudged Chan. “I’m going to find her.”
Chan nodded, his eyes knowing. “Athletic exit. We’ll meet you at the van in twenty. Don’t get mobbed.”
Jisung slipped through the emptying corridors, the echoes of the game fading behind him. He found a secluded alcove near a set of double doors marked ‘ATHLETICS ONLY’ and leaned against the cool cinderblock wall, pulling his mask down. He waited.
The door pushed open, and she emerged, still in her uniform, a large duffel slung over one shoulder. Her pom-poms were shoved haphazardly into the top. Her makeup was smudged slightly around the eyes, and a fine sheen of sweat glowed on her skin. She looked real. She looked his.
Her eyes found him in the shadowed alcove, and the performer’s brightness melted away, replaced by a soft, private warmth. “Hey,” she said, her voice a little hoarse from cheering.
He pushed off the wall and closed the distance between them in two steps. He didn’t kiss her. He framed her face with his hands, his thumbs stroking over her cheekbones, smearing her glitter a little. “You,” he said, his voice low, “were driving me crazy out there.”
She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing for a second. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, to the strip of bare skin between her top and skirt. “The bending over. The hair flip. You did that on purpose.”
A slow smile spread across her lips. “Maybe.”
He groaned softly, dropping his forehead to hers. “You have no idea what you do to me. What I’ve been thinking about for two hours.”
“Tell me later,” she whispered, her breath warm against his lips. “Maya’s at the library until midnight.”
That was all he needed to hear. He took her bag, slinging it over his own shoulder, and grabbed her hand. “Your car. Now.”
The drive to her apartment was a tense, silent bubble of want. He sat in the passenger seat of her convertible, her hand on the gear shift, her skirt riding high on her thighs. Every stoplight was torture. He let his hand rest on her knee, his thumb drawing slow circles on her inner thigh. She didn’t look at him, but he saw the flush spread up her neck, saw her grip tighten on the wheel.
They didn’t speak in the elevator. They didn’t speak as she unlocked her door. The apartment was dark and quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator. She dropped her keys on the counter with a sharp jangle that echoed in the silence.
Then she turned, and the last thread of his control snapped.
He had her against the front door before it fully closed, his mouth on hers, hungry and consuming. It wasn’t like the kisses on the couch, full of wonder and confession. This was pure claim. He tasted the remnants of her lipstick, the salt of her sweat. His hands went to her waist, sliding under the crop top, feeling the frantic beat of her heart against his palms. She made a sound into his mouth, part gasp, part plea, and her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer.
“The uniform,” he muttered against her lips, his hands already tugging at the knot behind her neck. “This fucking uniform.”
He got the top undone. It fell away. He just stared for a heartbeat, his breath ragged. In the dim light from the streetlamp outside, she was breathtaking. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her skin flushed. He bent his head and took one peaked nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his hands gripping her hips to hold her still. She cried out, her head thudding back against the door.
“Jisung—”
“Quiet,” he breathed, switching to the other side, his tongue laving, his teeth grazing. “I watched everyone look at you. Now you’re mine to look at.”
He sank to his knees on the hardwood floor. His hands slid up her legs, pushing the short skirt up around her waist. The blue cheer shorts were damp. He could see the dark patch of arousal. He pressed his face against the fabric, inhaling deeply—the scent of her, cotton, and sweat. He mouthed her through the shorts, and her legs trembled.
“Please,” she whimpered, her fingers tangling in his hair.
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and pulled them down, along with her underwear. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside. He didn’t give her a second to feel exposed. He pulled her to him, his arms wrapping around her thighs, and put his mouth on her.
She was wet. So wet. He licked into her, deep and slow, savoring the taste he’d only just learned, the taste that was now his favorite thing. He felt her muscles clench, heard her choked-off sob above him. He focused on the spot that made her thighs shake, using his tongue in firm, relentless circles. His own arousal was a painful, demanding pressure in his jeans, but this was all that mattered—her pleasure, her surrender, the proof that all that bright, shiny performance was for him to unravel.
“I’m—I can’t—” Her words broke apart. Her hands tightened in his hair, not pushing him away, holding him closer.
He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, and she came with a sharp, broken cry, her body bowing over him. He gentled his mouth, drinking her in, until her tremors subsided and she was sagging against the door, boneless.
He stood up, his own body aching. He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips. “Bedroom,” he said, his voice rough. “Now.”
She led him, her steps unsteady. In her room, the bed was still unmade from that morning. The memory of waking up with her, tracing his tattoos, was a sweet echo beneath the urgent need of now. He stripped off his own shirt, his tattoos on display. Her eyes darkened as she looked at them, then at him.
He pushed her back onto the bed. She lay there, gloriously naked, her makeup smeared, her hair a wild halo around her head. He stripped off his jeans and boxers, his cock springing free, hard and flushed. He fumbled in his discarded jeans pocket for his wallet, pulling out a condom. His hands weren’t quite steady.
She watched him roll it on, her gaze hot. “Come here,” she said, her voice husky.
He didn’t need to be told twice. He settled between her thighs, the head of his cock nudging against her slick heat. He looked down at her, at the girl who had been his best friend, his secret, his home. “Kelsey,” he breathed, and it was a prayer, a curse, a promise.
He pushed inside.
It was different from the first time. That had been awe, discovery. This was possession. This was necessity. She was tight and hot and she wrapped around him perfectly, her legs locking around his hips, pulling him deeper. He buried his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume and sex, and began to move.
It wasn’t slow. It was deep, relentless, each thrust a punctuation to the hours of watching, wanting, planning. She met him stroke for stroke, her nails scoring down his back, over the script of ‘Resplendent Life’. She chanted his name, not ‘Han’, but ‘Jisung’, the private name, the real one.
“You see?” he gritted out, driving into her, watching her eyes lose focus. “You see? This is where you belong. Right here. With me.”
“Yes,” she gasped, arching beneath him. “Jisung, yes—”
Her second climax tore through her, a silent, breathless scream as her body clamped around him, milking him. The sensation ripped his own control away. He followed her over, his release punching through him with a force that left him blind and deaf to everything but the feel of her, the sound of their ragged breaths mingling in the dark room.
He collapsed on top of her, careful to keep his weight on his elbows. He felt her heart hammering against his, a frantic echo of his own. Slowly, the world filtered back in: the feel of her sweat-slicked skin against his, the distant sound of traffic, the smell of sex and her shampoo.
He finally rolled off, disposing of the condom before gathering her against his side. She curled into him, her head on his chest, right over the ‘Blessed’ tattoo. Her fingers traced the compass on his shoulder.
“So,” she said after a long while, her voice sleepy and sated. “The game.”
He huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to her hair. “The game was hell. And the best thing I’ve ever watched.”
“Hyunjin whistled,” she murmured. “I heard it.”
Jisung’s arm tightened around her. “Let him whistle.” He tilted her chin up so she could see the absolute certainty in his eyes. “You’re coming home with me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a fact, simple and solid as the floor beneath them.
She searched his face, her own softening into a smile of pure, unguarded joy. She didn’t say yes. She just kissed the tattoo over his heart, her answer clear in the quiet, perfect peace of her body against his.