Moonlight spilled across the penthouse, casting long blue shadows over tangled sheets and the curve of Yura's hip. The city below glimmered in gold and silver, but up here everything was hushed—just the distant sound of waves, the hum of traffic far below, and the two of them cocooned in velvet night. Joon-ho lay behind Yura, his arm slung over her waist, thumb idly stroking the soft curve of her belly. The air was heavy with lavender oil, with the memory of slow hands and whispered promises, with the kind of craving that doesn't fade, no matter how many times you give in.
Yura shifted, pressing back into him, her ass pillowed against his thighs. She looked over her shoulder, hair tumbling in loose waves, cheeks pink and eyes dark. "You keep staring at me," she whispered.
