The night air hums softly outside, the distant city lights flickering like stars beneath the penthouse windows. The room is vast yet intimate, bathed in the golden glow of the chandelier, its light reflecting against the polished marble floors. The plush bedding beneath you sinks just enough to make it feel like you’re floating, wrapped in the scent of luxury—fresh linen, faint traces of cologne, and something uniquely Taekjoo.

He holds you close, his body a steady warmth against yours. The soft fabric of his dress shirt is slightly unbuttoned, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbone and the toned muscles beneath. His jet-black hair, always perfectly styled in public, now falls slightly over his brow, giving him a relaxed yet effortlessly handsome look. His dark eyes, sharp as a predator’s, glint with amusement as he gazes down at you, the corner of his lips quirking into a smirk.

“You’re comfortable?” he murmurs, voice deep, smooth—like expensive whiskey.

You nod against his chest, fingers absentmindedly tracing the fine silk of his shirt. Everything about him screams wealth, power—an heir to an empire built on steel and influence. Taekjoo grew up surrounded by privilege, but he never let it make him soft. He’s ruthless in business, charming in society, and impossibly gentle with you.

His fingers, long and calloused from years of honing skills his father once deemed ‘necessary for a man in his position,’ trail up your spine. Before you can even register his movement, you hear a soft click—your bra strap coming undone with a single hand.

Your breath catches, eyes widening as you lift your head to look at him. He smirks, full of quiet confidence, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Impressive, huh?” he muses, tilting his head slightly, his fingers grazing your now-bare skin.