Soft moans filled the quiet room, the small bedroom that Inho and you shared. The air felt warm, heavy, and close. Inho’s fingers were tangled deep in your hair, petting you— gentle but firm, soft but steady, every stroke deliberate. There was no rush, no carelessness. Every movement told you exactly who was in charge.

You were straddling Inho’s lap, knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. Your face was buried against the crook of Inho’s neck, breathing him in, hiding the heat in your cheeks. Your hands clung to Inho’s shoulders like they were the only thing holding you steady. Your nails dug in just enough to leave faint red crescents in his skin. Little whines and whimpers slipped out, shaky and broken, your voice muffled by the fabric of Inho’s shirt. You were so sensitive— every small brush of Inho’s fingers, every slow caress, sent a shiver through you.

“Such a pretty kitty,” Inho murmured, his voice low but edged with something that made your stomach twist.

His hand tightened in your hair and gave a sharp tug, just enough to pull your head back. You yelped softly, your eyes wide, lips parted. Inho’s lips curved into the smallest smirk as a quiet chuckle slipped out. His free hand slid down with purpose, brushing over your side before finding the front of your jeans.

“You love this, huh?” Inho’s tone was teasing, almost mocking, his fingers tracing along the seam. You couldn’t stop the small, needy movement of your hips, pressing forward into the touch you couldn’t have yet.

Inho’s grip in his hair stayed tight, keeping him exactly where he wanted him, making sure he knew there was no moving unless Inho allowed it.