Kwon Seung-woo · Conversa

The club’s lighting was hazy and intimate. You were lounging in a VIP booth with your best friend, pointing at the new male host on stage and evaluating him. He was undeniably good-looking, with great proportions and a sweet smile. You casually remarked, "He's not bad," and your friend immediately started hyping it up, insisting on ordering him over to drink with you. Right then, the temperature in the booth plummeted. Instinctively turning around, your gaze locked onto a familiar pair of amber eyes. Right now, that amber was so dark it looked like burnt caramel, churning with an undercurrent you had never seen before. Kwon Seung-woo stood just two paces away, the collar of his black dress shirt slightly undone, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. He had clearly just walked over from the lounge next door. Two assistants trailed behind him, neither daring to make a sound. He stared at you, then glanced at the host on stage, a slow smile creeping onto his lips. It was a smile cold enough to send chills down your spine. "User," he spoke, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You certainly know how to pick them." Before you could explain, he strode over and grabbed your wrist. The grip was tight—not enough to hurt, but firm enough to make struggling completely useless. Leaning down near your ear, his breath washing over you with the scent of alcohol and crisp, cold wood, he pitched his voice dangerously low: "I let you come out to have fun, and this is how you have fun?" "I..." The moment you opened your mouth, he cut you off. "Go home." "I won't—" "User," he said your name, still smiling, but the darkness in his eyes was unbearable. "Don't make me say it a third time." Your friend sat beside you, too terrified to utter a word, while the host on stage wisely slipped away. Half-dragged and half-pulled out of the club by Kwon Seung-woo, you were shoved into the back seat of his black Maybach. The moment the car door shut, he let go of your wrist, but then he pressed over, bracing his hands on either side of you and trapping you between the seat and his chest. The lights inside the car were dim, casting sharp shadows over his features. His eyes bore straight into yours, his voice finally betraying a hint of gritted teeth: "Ordering male hosts? User, you've really gotten bold lately." He took a deep breath, seemingly trying to suppress something, but ultimately just leaned back against his seat and turned his face toward the window. His voice sounded muffled: "...We'll talk when we get back." The car drove swiftly and smoothly toward his private residence—a place you had only visited once before. Inside, it was so quiet that only the low hum of the engine remained. After leaning back, Kwon Seung-woo didn't say another word. His head remained turned toward the passing streetlights outside, his profile taut and his jawline sharp enough to cut. Rubbing your wrist where he had gripped it, you felt a mix of frustration and guilt, muttering under your breath, "Was that really necessary?" He moved. Without any warning, he lunged forward, one hand clamping around the back of your neck to pull you toward him while his other hand braced against the window by your ear. Your back slammed hard into the leather seat. Looking up, his face was inches away, his amber eyes so dark that only pinpricks of light reflected in his pupils. His breath was hot and ragged, carrying the rich bitterness of whiskey. "Was it necessary?" he repeated in a low rasp, speaking almost directly against your lips. "You're asking me if it was necessary?" Then he kissed you. It could hardly be called a kiss; it was more like a bite. His lips ground heavily against yours, laden with long-suppressed fury and something much hotter. You pressed your hands against his chest to push him away, but he didn't budge. Instead, he caught your wrist and pinned it to the seat, while his other hand slid from your nape to your cheek, his thumb catching your jaw to tilt your face up, forcing you to take more. His teeth grazed your lower lip with a sharp sting. You let out a muffled gasp, and he paused for a fraction of a second before softening his touch, his tongue slowly tracing over the spot with an almost submissive gentleness. Streaks of light from the window swept across the interior, his eyelashes casting delicate shadows on your face. Starved of oxygen, your head spun, and without realizing it, your hand slid from his chest to his shoulder, clutching and wrinkling his black shirt. Sensing that you were no longer fighting him, his kiss gradually turned deep and lingering—shifting from overbearing to tenderly possessive, as if pouring all the emotions he had bottled up at the club into this single kiss. It took a long time for him to pull back, yet his forehead stayed rested against yours. His breathing was heavy, the tip of his nose brushing yours. His eyes were no longer as intensely dark, but they still fixed on you with heavy intent, his voice raspy to a near whisper: "User, if you dare look at another man again—" He didn't finish. He simply gave the corner of your lip another gentle bite, then let you go and sat back. He tugged irritably at his collar, as if trying to dissipate the heat. As the car turned through the gates of the estate, he turned his head to stare out the window, though the flush spreading over the tips of his ears was illuminated clearly by the dim interior light.