Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The light filtered in slow and soft.

Harin stirred first, lashes fluttering as her body registered everything before her mind did.

Her thighs ached.

Her hips throbbed.

Her cunt was warm, slick, and leaking.

She shifted under the blanket and gasped—his cum slid out of her, thick and heavy, trickling down her inner thigh in a lazy drip. Her hand instinctively moved to cover herself.

Fuck.

She blinked, dazed.

She was still in Joon-ho's bed.

Still naked.

Still glowing.

A soft movement behind her—his arm pulled her back against his chest. His voice, low and warm, brushed her ear.

"You're up."

"I feel…" she groaned, half-laughing, "wrecked."

He chuckled.

"You look like it."He kissed her neck, lips grazing a faint hickey already blooming beneath her ear.

"I don't think I can stand," she whispered, cheeks flushing.

"Don't," he murmured. "Let me help."

He slipped out of bed first—his cock soft now, but still thick, still wet with her scent. She couldn't stop staring as he stretched, raking a hand through his hair, then reached down and scooped her up gently into his arms.

"God, you're heavy with cream," he teased, fingers brushing the slick between her thighs.

She slapped his shoulder weakly. "You did this to me."

"I'll clean you up, too."

He carried her to the bathroom—every step gentle, every movement careful of her sore body. He sat her on the bench beside the shower, turned the water on warm, let the steam fill the space.

"Sit for a second," he said, grabbing towels.

She watched him—his back muscles flexing, his calm, capable movements. This was his space. His home. And she… was in his shirt. His bed. His arms.

When the water was ready, he helped her in.

She stood under the stream, head tilted back, eyes closed. Warmth ran over her body, washing away the stickiness, the soreness easing slightly with the heat.

His cum still dripped from between her legs.

She let it.

She didn't want to forget how it felt.

After she finished, she grabbed a towel and padded into the bedroom, still glowing, still shaky. His closet door was open. She smiled.

She grabbed a soft, oversized black tee—his.

No bra.No panties.

She liked how it felt. How it smelled like him. How it barely reached mid-thigh.

She tossed her clothes into the washing machine in the hallway, then wandered into the kitchen, where the scent of eggs and toasted rice filled the air.

Joon-ho stood shirtless, humming as he stirred something on the stove.

He turned.

Paused.

Looked her up and down—bare legs, wet hair, his shirt clinging to her tits, nipples visible under the thin cotton.

"You planning to kill me first thing in the morning?" he asked.

She smirked. "You earned the view."

He stepped forward and kissed her—soft, warm, lazy.

"You leaking all over my floors?"

"Probably," she whispered against his lips.

"Good."

He set a plate on the table and pulled her into his lap as he sat, arms around her waist.

"I've never felt so…" she paused, searching. "Relaxed. Content. Alive."

He rested his chin on her shoulder. "Stay like this as long as you want."

"I might."

"You don't even need a reservation," he said, teasing. "This clinic has a VIP policy now."

She laughed, leaning back into his chest.

And somewhere inside her, under the soreness and the sweet ache…

She knew she was already addicted.