Chapter 12
The world had shrunk to the confines of the soft sofa, a sanctuary lit by the flickering dance of candlelight. Bright, a man possessed by a love finally unleashed, mapped the territory of his boyfriend's body with a reverence that was both tender and ravenous.
He began again, his lips finding Win's, pouring every ounce of his devotion into the kiss before he began his journey. He kissed Win's forehead, a benediction. His eyelids, feeling the delicate flutter beneath his lips. The bridge of his nose, earning a soft, shaky sigh. The shell of his ear, where his tongue traced a path that made Win gasp and squirm, his fingers digging into Bright's shoulders.
For most, only a few select areas were erogenous. For Win, it seemed his entire being was a live wire. Every touch, every brush of lips, sent tremors through him. Bright had first discovered this exquisite sensitivity during their kissing practice, the way Win would jolt at the slightest unexpected touch. Now, with permission granted, he worshipped it.
He didn't stop. How could he? Each tremor was a confession, each gasp a prayer. He nuzzled into the junction of Win's jaw and neck, inhaling his scent—a mix of expensive cologne and pure, nervous Win. Then his lips found the pulse point there, and he kissed it, soft at first, then with more pressure, finally sucking the tender skin into his mouth.
Win's reaction was instantaneous. A low, broken moan escaped his lips, a sound so utterly sinful and involuntary that it shot straight through Bright. Encouraged, he sucked harder, lavishing the spot until a vivid purple bloom blossomed against Win's porcelain skin—a mark of possession, a brand of his love.
Win had become a moaning mess beneath him, his head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, lost in a whirlpool of sensation he'd never known existed. His sounds were a symphony that drove Bright to the edge of his control.
He moved lower, to the elegant arch of Win's collarbone. He traced it with his tongue before biting down gently, then sucking another dark bruise into existence, mirroring the one on his neck. Win's back arched off the couch, a sharp cry torn from his throat.
Bright's hands, which had been roaming Win's back, now slid to his chest. In the series, Sarawat's obsession with Tine's chest was a running joke, a scripted desire. In reality, it was a burning, all-consuming need. Win's skin was like fine porcelain, so fair and delicate that the lightest touch left a pink blush, a harder one a lasting mark.
He palmed Win's pectoral, feeling the firm muscle beneath the impossibly soft skin before his thumb brushed over a nipple. Win jolted as if electrocuted, a sharp, surprised gasp replacing his moans.
"S-sensitive..." Win managed to mumble, his voice strangled.
Bright looked up, his eyes dark with desire and affection. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "You'll feel good. I promise. Just let me love you."
He lowered his head and took the pert bud into his mouth. He laved it with his tongue, then circled it, before closing his lips around it and sucking, hard.
Win cried out, his body bowing off the sofa. It was a sensation so intense, so foreign, it bordered on pain before tipping over into blinding pleasure. Bright didn't relent. He suckled and nipped, worshipping the peak until it was a hardened, purple nub against the pale skin.
When Bright finally pulled away, a thin, glistening strand of saliva connected his lips to Win's abused nipple for a second before breaking.
The sight shattered the last vestiges of Bright's restraint. A possessive growl rumbled in his chest and he descended on Win with a new, vigorous intensity, kissing him with a hunger that stole the air from both their lungs. Win tried to reciprocate, to match his fervor, but he was drowning, utterly overwhelmed by the sensory onslaught. Bright was no longer a man; he was a force of nature.
Bright's hand slid down the trembling plane of Win's stomach, past the waistband of his trousers. He palmed Win's erection through the fabric, and Win's moan was a loud, broken thing, devoid of any coherence.
The sounds that poured from Win then were sinful—raw, unrestrained, and louder than before. They were cries of pleasure so profound they bordered on agony. And in the back of his mind, a part of Bright, the part that was still capable of a coherent thought, sent a silent prayer of thanks that his apartment was soundproof. These sounds, this beautiful, wrecked symphony of surrender, were for his ears only. They were his to elicit, his to hear, his to treasure. He was unmaking the beautiful boy beneath him, only to put him back together as his, completely and forever.
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