Kink: ...self explanatory? Lol.
The doorbell chimes, cutting through the hum of your TV show. It’s a chill weekend night, and you’re fresh from a bath—hair tossed up in a messy bun, skin glowing from your skincare routine, munching chips like nobody’s watching.
You shuffle to the door in your comfiest fit: a loose tee that swallows your frame and soft cotton shorts that feel like a hug. Cracking a chip between your teeth, you swing the door open, and—bam—you’re engulfed in a warm, familiar embrace.
“Hey, sunshine,” Chan drawls, all dimples and no concept of personal space, his leather jacket brushing your bare arms.
“Missed you so damn much,” he says, pouting like a kicked puppy, and your heart does a stupid little flip. It’s been a week, and here he is, looking like he walked out of a magazine in his signature black jeans, white tee, and that damn jacket.
“Got you these,” he adds, thrusting a bouquet of sunflowers into your hands—how the hell did he find sunflowers at this hour?
“And dinner,” he grins, holding up plastic takeout bags, smelling like your favorite food.
God, this man. You let him in, suddenly hyper-aware of your oversized clothes making you look like a mushroom.
Whatever—he’s seen you in worse.
You plop the flowers in a vase, and soon you’re both sprawled on the couch, TV droning in the background as you ramble about your week.
“And then this dude had the nerve to—” you’re mid-sentence when you catch it: Chan’s not listening.
His eyes are glued… lower. Right on your chest.
Heat floods your face. Your buds, traitorously perky from the AC’s chill, are poking through the thin tee. You clear your throat, smirking. “Staring’s not exactly polite, Christopher.”
He snaps up, ears flaming red. “Oh, I—uh—sorry, you uncomfortable?” he stammers, but his voice is all gravel, eyes still flickering downward.
Uncomfortable? Nah. Turned on? Hell yeah. You shake your head, biting your lip, and his whole demeanor shifts—puppy to predator in a heartbeat.
“So… I can keep looking?” he teases, leaning closer, that cocky grin making your pulse race.
“Hey!” you laugh, swatting his chest, but he catches your wrist, tugging you until you’re half in his lap. Your giggles mingle, but then his other hand slips under your shirt, grazing the sensitive skin just below your chest, pausing like he’s waiting for your green light.
Your heart’s hammering—he feels it, smirking as his thumb brushes higher, teasing the curve of your bossoms.
“What about dinner?” you murmur, voice shaky, trying to play it cool.
“Dinner can wait,” he growls, squeezing just under your ribs, fingers splaying possessively. “Right now, I’m starving for something else.”
And that’s it—game over. He yanks your shirt up, exposing your bare chest, and his mouth’s on you, kissing, sucking, teasing you with slow, deliberate flicks of his tongue.
You’re gasping, fingers tangled in his curly hair, pulling him closer as he groans against your skin, like you’re his favorite f*cking meal.