Dinner was a tense affair. Tae’s fork screeched against gold-rimmed china each time Jungkook’s knee brushed hers under the table. He smirked when she choked on her Bordeaux—same vintage he’d lapped off her nipples last Tuesday.
"*Oppa*," Hana whined, feeding him truffle pasta off her fork, "stay over! Mom’s guest suite is huge." Tae’s knife stabbed through her filet mignon, juices bleeding pink.




















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