The air in the dimly lit bedroom had become a living thing, thick with the heavy, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and the musk of raw, unchecked arousal. The amber glow of the aromatherapy candle flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to wrap around Joon-ho and Mirae, isolating them from the rest of the world. The silence of the penthouse was gone, replaced by the rhythmic, wet sounds of their intimacy and the jagged, uneven pattern of their breathing.
Joon-ho stood at the head of the massage table, his body a pillar of strength and command. He looked down at Mirae, whose eyes were glazed with a mixture of love and desperation. The previous minutes of teasing had pushed her to the brink; she was no longer just accepting his pleasure—she was hunting for it.
"You've been so patient," Joon-ho murmured, his voice a low, guttural rasp that sent a shiver of anticipation down Mirae's spine. "But I think we've had enough with the teasing."
