Later, wrapped in plush towels, Tae counted out crisp bills into an envelope—slow, deliberate, watching Kook’s Adam’s apple bob as he buttoned his jeans. “Check your account later,” she purred, tucking the envelope into his pocket with a lingering stroke against his thigh. “Bonus for exceptional service.” Her mouth crashed onto his, tasting of mint and sin, fingers twisting in his damp hair. “I’ll text you.”

Kook nodded, pulse jumping at her throat when she bit his lip on release. The suite door clicked shut behind him like a guillotine.

Tae arched her back, admiring the bite marks in her bedroom mirror, before slipping into a scandalously tight dress. The penthouse elevator dinged—home just in time for Hana’s screech.

“He ignored me all night!” Hana hurled a velvet throw pillow at the marble floor. “*Eight* calls!”

Tae poured herself a martini, stirring lazily. “Men are dogs, sweetheart.” She clinked the glass against her daughter’s untouched wine. “Maybe he’s busy.”

Across town, Kook peeled the envelope open under his dim apartment light. The stack was thicker than promised. He typed Sorry, Hana-I fell asleep studying before tossing his phone onto the mattress. His shower ran cold. He scrubbed until his skin burned.

Still smelled like her.

——

Jungkook stared at the sleek black box on his doorstep—third one this week, same discreet courier, same suffocatingly expensive packaging. Inside: a pair of Berluti loafers in oxblood leather, retail price enough to cover his rent for six months. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Wear them when you fuck me next. Attached: Tae’s thighs spread wide on what looked like a private jet seat, lace panties shoved aside, fingers glistening. Or don’t wear them at all.

His thumbs hovered. You’re gonna bankrupt yourself, Tae. He hit send, then immediately added: Keep the pics coming.

Her reply was instant—a video this time. Close-up of her tongue swirling around a champagne flute’s rim, slow-motion droplets clinging to her glossy lower lip before she whispered, "Bankrupt?" The camera panned down to diamond-studded heels hooked over the jet’s armrest, straps dangling. "Baby boy, my trust fund bleeds for fun."

Kook’s grip tightened on the shoebox. Three days later, a Patek Philippe arrived—Tae’s idea of a "study incentive." He nearly swallowed his tongue when he Googled the price. His phone lit up with her follow-up text: Count the seconds till I peel it off your wrist with my teeth. Beneath, a photo of her straddling a leather desk chair in nothing but the watch, its face glinting between her thighs.

Their texts became a minefield. Tae sent Polaroids of her in backless gowns at galas ("Bored. Wish you were under this table."), close-ups of ice cubes dripping down her cleavage ("Think of your tongue.").

Kook broke three phone screens from gripping too hard.

Hana’s calls went to voicemail more often. "You’re ghosting me," she accused during their rare lunches.

"Exams," Kook lied, adjusting the Cartier cufflinks Tae had delivered inside a chocolate cake. He’d found them when licking frosting off his fingers—her idea of subtlety.

Tae’s next gift was delivered mid-lecture: a Montblanc pen with a note curled inside the nib. Write dirty things about me in your notebook while I ride this dick. The attached video showed her grinding on a ridiculously lifelike dildo molded in—Christ—*his* exact shade, veins and all.

Kook fled the classroom, erection straining against his Brunello Cucinelli trousers (Tae’s favorite, shipped with the memo For ripping off you). The pen’s platinum nib clicked under his shaking fingers as he scrawled in the margins of his econ textbook: Bend you over this desk. Split you open on my tongue. He hit send just as his phone vibrated—Tae’s reply was a photo of her bare ass pressed against a boardroom’s glass wall, the words MEETING IN PROGRESS reflected upside-down between her cheeks.

That evening, a Bottega Veneta clutch arrived via motorcycle courier. Inside: silk-lined handcuffs and a note smelling of her Fucking Fabulous perfume. Chain me to your headboard. Key’s in my garter. Kook’s laugh died when he lifted the clutch’s false bottom—nestled in satin was a platinum cock ring engraved TAE’S COCK WARMER.

“Fuck, she is gonna be the death of me,” Kook murmured.