Her phone buzzed before the elevator even dinged. [*Miss me yet, mommy?*] Tae threw it onto the chaise—only for it to buzz again, skittering against silk. [*Bet your cunt’s still dripping from me.*] She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. Hana flopped onto the couch, giggling over a rom-com Tae couldn’t hear through the pulse in her ears.

Sixteen texts. Tae counted each vibration through dinner—each one searing through her like Jungkook’s teeth on her inner thigh. [*Remember how you screamed when I fucked this pussy raw?*] A photo followed—*her* pink lace thong, stretched between his fingers, stained. Tae’s fork clattered. "*Mom?*" Hana frowned. "*You’re* sweating."