Nana sat on the couch, mechanically munching on cookies, her eyes fixed on the clock.
Midnight. And Rafayel still wasn't home.
Her famous artist husband—the one who'd just won a prestigious award—had been gone since morning for a fan meeting across town. She'd sent him messages throughout the day. None of them had been read.
With a pout, she grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, hoping to distract herself from the lonely feeling creeping in.
But the entertainment news made everything worse.
There he was—her Rafayel—in his elegant dark suit, surrounded by what looked like hundreds of fangirls. They were pressed close for group photos, touching his hands, offering him snacks, squealing his name like he was the last strawberry cake in the world.
And he was smiling. That beautiful smile that made her fall in love with him.
Nana's insecurities bubbled up. Those girls were taller than her 153cm frame. More mature. More sophisticated. They probably understood art and could have deep conversations about his paintings.
What did she have to offer? She was just... small. Young. Innocent.
And in three months of marriage, Rafayel had never done more than kiss her forehead when she hugged him in bed. Never touched her intimately. Never claimed her as his wife in the way Mina and Jisu whispered about.
Maybe he didn't want her that way. Maybe she wasn't attractive enough. Maybe he regretted marrying someone so inexperienced—
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She turned off the TV and went to the bedroom, burying herself under the blankets.
Tonight, she wouldn't wait up for him. Let him stay out with his fangirls if he was so happy there.
.
.
.
.
.
🐚🐚🐚
Rafayel arrived home the next morning, exhausted but eager to see his wife. The fan meeting had run late, and by the time it ended, he'd been too tired to make the long drive home safely. So he'd stayed at a hotel, planning to surprise Nana first thing in the morning.
He'd stopped to buy her favorites—macarons, bubble tea, snacks—an apology for being gone so long.
But when he opened the bedroom door, his heart broke.
Nana was crying under the blanket, her small form shaking. Her pretty eyes were red and puffy, tears still streaming down her face.
"I'm back, my bride," he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Hmph!" She turned away from him.
"Look, I brought something—" He held up the bag of treats.
She didn't even glance at him, just hid deeper under the blanket.
Rafayel sighed. He understood exactly why his little hamster was upset—he'd seen the news coverage, seen himself surrounded by fans, knew how it must have looked to her.
He pulled the blanket off and scooped her into his lap before she could protest.
Nana froze, her eyes going wide. They'd never been this close before—never sat like this, her body pressed against his, his arms around her waist.
Her face turned bright red, and despite her tears, she looked utterly adorable.
"Don't laugh! I'm sulking!" she said, her pout deepening even as her blush intensified.
"I know," he said gently, brushing hair from her face. "And you're devastatingly cute when you sulk."
"You looked so happy there! With all those girls!" The words burst out. "Touching you and smiling at you and—"
"I wasn't happy." His dual-toned eyes—pink and blue—locked onto hers. "I was miserable. All I wanted was to come home and hold you. But my manager wouldn't let me leave."
"Really?" Her voice was small, uncertain.
"Really." He cupped her face. "You're the only one I see, Nana. The only one I want."
She bit her lip, then asked the question that had been haunting her: "Husband, why haven't you claimed me yet? Mina and Jisu said married couples do that. Why haven't we?"
Rafayel's breath caught. "Because you're so young. So innocent. So beautiful. I'm afraid I'll break you. Ruin your innocence. I'm not—" He struggled for words. "I'm not gentle when it comes to things I want. When it comes to you."
"But I want it." Her small hands grabbed his tie, tugging him closer. "I want to be yours. Completely yours. I'm afraid that if we don't... if you don't claim me... another girl might seduce you—"
"What?! No! I don't even see them—"
"Then prove it." She was wiggling in his lap now, testing his control. "Claim me. Please, husband. Make me yours."
Rafayel groaned. He'd been hard since last night, lying alone in that hotel room, imagining coming home to find her in those short pajamas she wore to bed. And now she was in his lap, begging him to take her—
"Are you absolutely sure?" His voice had gone rough. "It will hurt at first. And once I start, I won't be able to stop. I'll want all of you."
She kept wiggling, and he realized—she knew exactly what she was doing. Mina had definitely been giving her ideas.
"Fuck it," he muttered. "I can't hold back anymore."
He kissed her—not the gentle forehead kisses she was used to, but a deep, claiming French kiss. His tongue plunged into her mouth, exploring, tasting, overwhelming her.
She squeaked against his lips, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Three months of restraint shattered in an instant.
His hands moved to undress her, and when she was finally bare before him, he groaned at the sight.
"You're a masterpiece," he breathed. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And I'm going to paint you with my touch. Mark every inch of you as mine."
His fingers found her core, and he smiled darkly. "Already wet for me, cutie?"
She whimpered, and the sound made him feral.
He slid down her body and put his mouth on her—kissing, licking, devouring her like a starving man. Because he was starving. Three months of sleeping beside her without touching her had been torture.
"Rafayel—!" she gasped, her hands flying to his purple hair.
"Let me taste you," he murmured against her. "Let me worship you like you deserve."
He worked her with his tongue and fingers, bringing her to the edge again and again. When he finally slid a finger inside, she was impossibly tight.
"This might hurt," he warned, adding a second finger to stretch her. "Tell me if it's too much."
She just whimpered and nodded, trusting him completely.
When he finally positioned himself at her entrance, he paused. "Last chance to stop me."
Instead of answering, she pulled him down by his tie and kissed him messily.
He pushed in slowly—so slowly—watching her face. She was incredibly tight, her body resisting, and when he broke through her barrier, she cried out in pain.
Tears leaked from her eyes, and panic seized him.
"No—wait—I'm hurting you—" He tried to pull out.
But she wrapped her legs around his waist, trapping him. "Don't stop," she gasped through tears. "Please don't stop—"
She pulled him into another kiss, clumsy and desperate, and he groaned.
"I'll go slow," he promised, starting to move carefully.
But slow didn't last long. The feeling of her around him, tight and hot and perfect, combined with three months of pent-up desire—it destroyed his control.
"I can't—" he groaned. "I can't be gentle anymore—"
"Then don't be," she whimpered.
He moved like a man possessed—like he'd die without this, without her, without feeling her wrapped around him. She was so small beneath him, so perfect, whimpering his name like music.
"Mine," he growled with each thrust. "You're mine. Only mine. Say it."
"Yours—only yours—Rafayel—!"
She came first, her body clenching around him rhythmically, but he didn't stop. He was chasing something more—some impossible peak where he could prove to both of them that she was his entire world.
He pulled her into his lap, bouncing her on him like she weighed nothing. "Look at yourself," he said, angling them toward the mirror. "See how beautiful you are taking me? See how perfectly you fit around me?"
She was gasping, overwhelmed, her small hands clutching at his shoulders.
"No fangirl could ever compare to this," he continued, his voice rough. "To you. To how you feel. How you look. How you sound."
He took her against the window—pressing her body to the glass, taking her from behind as the city lights sparkled below. "Let them all see," he growled. "Let everyone know you're mine."
Then on the floor. Against the wall. In front of every mirror in the room—he wanted her to see herself from every angle, understand how beautiful she was to him.
Finally, he laid her on the bed and positioned himself above her, thrusting deep.
"I love you," he said, his eyes—pink and blue—blazing with emotion. "I've loved you since I first saw you. I'll love you until the ocean dries up and the stars fall from the sky. You're everything, Nana. Everything."
"I love you too—" she gasped. "So much—ah!—Rafayel—!"
When he finally came, buried deep inside her, it was overwhelming—three months of restraint releasing all at once. He filled her so completely it overflowed, dripping onto the sheets.
They collapsed together, both trembling and gasping.
"Are you okay?" he asked immediately, checking her over. "Did I hurt you too much? Was I too rough?"
"I'm perfect," she said, smiling despite her exhaustion. "Better than perfect. I'm yours."
"Damn right you are." He pulled her against his chest, pressing kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. "And I'm never letting you forget it."
As they lay tangled together—sweaty and satisfied and glowing with love—Nana realized her insecurities had been ridiculous.
No fangirl could compete with this. With the way he looked at her like she was his whole world. With the way he whispered her name like a prayer. With the way he held her like she was precious and irreplaceable.
"No more fan meetings without me," she mumbled against his chest.
He laughed. "Deal. You can come to every single one. Stand right next to me and hold my hand."
"Good." She yawned. "Because you're mine too. And I don't share."
"Possessive little cutie," he teased, but his arms tightened around her. "I like it. Be possessive. Be jealous. Remind me every day that I belong to you."
"I will," she promised.
And as they drifted to sleep—finally, completely, utterly claimed by each other—Rafayel thought that this was better than any painting he could ever create.
Because Nana wasn't art he could capture on canvas.
She was art he got to live with. Love. Worship.
Forever.
🐚🐚🐚