Chapter 140: Chapter 140- Min Jung’s Anger

She was — her body was the body she’d used as a tool for years. Deliberately maintained. Understood. She knew exactly what she was, physically, had understood it since she was eighteen and had started using the understanding to navigate rooms. She held no particular modesty about it.

But the way he was looking at her was not the way Alexander had looked at her. Was not the way the clients at the pool had looked at her. Was not the look of men categorizing and acquiring.

It was the look of someone seeing something he’s already decided about.

“’Come,’” he said.

The bathroom was marble and glass, the kind of bathroom that cost more than some apartments.

A bathtub sunk into the floor, already filled — she hadn’t seen him fill it, hadn’t heard water running, but it was there, warm, steam rising from the surface.

The water was the clear, deep warm of something that had been prepared rather than simply run.

He walked in.

She followed.

The tile was warm under her feet.

The steam touched her skin and opened it, the transition from the cold evening air through to this warmth immediate and total.

Her nipples, which had hardened in the room, softened slightly in the heat.

He was already in the water.

The tub was wide enough that he sat at one end with his back against the ledge and there was space, and she stepped down into the water and felt it rise to her thighs, her hips, the specific luxury of hot water closing around the body after a cold, wet evening.

She settled.

His hands found her before she’d finished settling.

Both hands. One at her waist, pulling her backward, repositioning her in the water until her back was against his chest, his legs outside hers, his cock already present against the curve of her ass with the warmth of it cutting through the water.

“’Raven—’”

PAH.

“’IAAAANGHH~~~!!’”

No preamble. No building. No establishing pace.

He simply pressed up into her from below — his cock finding her entrance in the water, the resistance of her giving way under the combined pressure of his grip pulling her down and his cock driving up, the full depth of him in one committed motion.

“’HNGGHHH~!!’”

Her back arched against his chest. Her hands flew backward, found his thighs, gripped.

PAH. PAH.

“’AAAHH~!! AAAHH~!!’”

The water moved around them. The sound of it — the slap of the surface with each thrust, the wet sound of his cock moving in her in the water, the steam rising around their bodies. Her breasts moved above the surface, swaying with each impact, the nipples dark and hard, water running from the tips.

PAH. PAH. PAAH.

“’HNGH~!!♡ AAHH~!! AHH~!!’”

Her head fell back against his shoulder.

His mouth found her neck.

Beyond the bathroom door, the city was still running its headlines. Somewhere on the bed, two women slept the sleep of the thoroughly used. In three hours Marga would have a full dossier on Avriana Menhante’s schedule, her staff structure, the specific casino where she’d be present in six days for an invitation-only wine acquisition event.

In the bathtub, none of that was the present concern.

PAH. PAH.

“’OUUNGHHH~~~!!♡♡’”

Water sloshed over the edge of the tub and ran across the marble floor in a thin, warm sheet.

Marga’s voice, somewhere between a scream and a name, echoed off the tile walls of the hotel bathroom and did not go further as she was banged harder than she was ever within that room like a whore she have become.

“SL-SLOW DOWN—HIEEEK~~~tooo…IAAANGH….bii…ggg~~♡~~!!!”

Well, in the hotel room, from the night to the next day, there was the deep pounding of a woman in the bathroom goong on and then a threesome that will follow it.

A Hotel room where the three women together were going to be destroyed and remade again and again, molded to the cock that was going in and out of their pussies and their anal all night and even into the next day, who knows?

Their bodies needed awakening and he was going to give them that; time seemed to pass as quickly as the speed at which his hips blurred and their moans vanished.

The next day, no, more like night finally fell.

Within a webtoon, an artist’s bedroom is located far away within an apartment.

The pillow smelled like her shampoo.

That was the only normal thing about the situation and she was pressing her face into it hard enough to leave a temporary impression in the memory foam, her hands fisted in the fabric on either side of her head, her knees pulled up beneath her on the bed.

“Damn you.”

The words came out muffled. Swallowed by the pillow.

She lifted her face.

“DID HE JUST—” She pressed her face back down. “—TAKE MY VIRGINITY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MALL.”

The pillow received this information without comment.

She rolled onto her back.

The ceiling of her apartment was ordinary. Water stain near the light fixture she’d been meaning to tell the landlord about for six months. The same ceiling she’d looked at a thousand times. It offered nothing new.

Her thighs pressed together.

The ache was still there. Not sharp — that part had faded. But the interior awareness of something that had happened there, the specific consciousness of a body that has been used in a way it hadn’t been used before, was persistent. Every time she shifted her weight on the mattress she was reminded. Every time she breathed too deeply.

She’d showered twice.

It hadn’t helped. Not because she felt unclean — not that. Because the water had run over her skin and her body had simply… remembered. The heat of him. The impossible pressure of something that couldn’t fit fitting. The specific wrongness-that-wasn’t-wrong of being pinned against the fitting room wall with people shopping four feet away and completely unable to make the sound she needed to make.

No one had seen.

No one. She’d checked. She’d walked the mall for twenty minutes afterward on legs that didn’t entirely work, looking at every face for recognition, for the knowing look of someone who knew. Nothing. The universe had granted her that much.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

Behind the darkness, his face came anyway.

Those purple eyes. Not looking at her with desire — desire was too simple a word for it. Looking at her with the specific, unhurried attention of someone taking stock. Like she was something he’d already decided about and was simply confirming.

I’m claiming what’s mine.

She’d heard that from someone else recently.

It had landed differently.

She exhaled hard.

Her hand moved.

The way it always moved lately — the way it had been moving since the first time she’d seen him in the mall, since the pheromones or whatever science-fiction biology he operated with had gotten into her system and taken up residence. Down her stomach. Over the waistband of her jeans. Pressing against the denim at her crotch.

She felt the warmth of her own body through the fabric.

Felt the throb of it.

Her lip found itself between her teeth.

His cock, her brain offered helpfully, was nine inches and it stretched your—

“NO.”

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