The Shadow of Karina

The charcoal pre-dawn had softened to a pale, liquid gold by the time Julian’s knuckles met the sleek black lacquer of the dormitory door. Two soft, firm raps echoed in the hushed hallway.

The door was pulled inward almost immediately—as if she had been waiting on the other side, her hand hovering over the handle.

Karina stood in the doorway.

But this was not the Karina of morning workouts and composed leadership. She was freshly showered, her dark hair pushed back from her face in soft, damp waves, clinging to her temples. A robe of pale ivory silk, tied loosely with a simple sash, was her only covering. The lapels had slipped open, revealing the elegant, sharp architecture of her collarbones and the deep, shadowed valley between her breasts. The robe ended at mid-thigh, and the long, bare expanse of her legs—still glistening faintly with traces of moisturizer—was entirely exposed. Beneath the thin silk, it was unmistakably, tantalizingly clear, she wore nothing at all.

Her dark eyes, when they found his, blazed with a hunger restrained for three long days. No calm. No mask. Only raw, undiluted need.

She did not speak. She simply reached out, her hand closing around his wrist, her grip cool and insistent. She pulled him inside with a firm, wordless tug.

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the silent, dove-grey living room.

She dragged him across the polished floor, past the pristine sectional, her bare feet silent, the silk of her robe whispering against her skin with each urgent stride.

“Hello to you too,” Julian murmured, low amusement laced with surprise. “No kiss? No ‘good morning, Doctor’? I’m beginning to feel like a piece of luggage being hauled through an airport.”

Karina did not slow. Her voice, thrown over her bare shoulder, was a hushed, breathless command. “Less talking. More following.”

Her bedroom door—the imposing one at the hall’s end—was pushed open. She pulled him inside.

The lock engaged with a definitive, echoing click that seemed to reverberate in the quiet, perfumed air of her sanctuary. The room spoke of elegant authority: a large bed with a dark, tufted velvet headboard, a walk-in closet revealing a meticulous army of designer garments, a sleek vanity. The scent was jasmine and something warmer, muskier—her signature, mingled with clean, soapy freshness.

The moment the lock slid home, Karina spun.

Her hands flattened against his chest and she shoved him back against the cool, solid wall beside the door. The force knocked a surprised breath from his lungs.

Before he could recover, she was on him.

Her mouth found his in a kiss that was not soft, not tender, but ravenous—a consuming, desperate, starving assault of lips and tongue and teeth. It was the kiss of a woman who had denied herself a feast and could finally devour. Her body pressed against his, the thin ivory silk the only barrier. He felt the scorching, feverish heat of her skin radiating through it. Her bare thighs brushed his trousers. Her breasts flattened against his chest, her nipples hard and insistent peaks through the silk.

Between sloppy, breathless, open-mouthed kisses, a ragged, confessional stream of words emerged. “You have no idea… how hard I’ve been trying… to be good… to let them have their time… to not just drag you into my room every single morning and keep you there all day…”

She broke the kiss just long enough to grab his hand. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, guiding it downward, slipping his palm beneath the loose lapel of her robe, pressing it directly against the scorching, slick heat of her bare sex.

The sensation was electric. She was utterly bare, freshly shaven, and absolutely drenched. His fingers were instantly coated in her arousal, the evidence of her three-day torment slick and warm against his skin.

Her voice was a ragged, trembling whisper against his lips. “Feel that. Feel how wet I am. That’s what you do to me. That’s what three days of waiting has done.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her dark eyes wild, lips swollen and glistening. Her breath came in hot, uneven pants. “But yesterday morning… when I saw Winter… on her knees… your cock in her mouth… and her hand between her own legs…” A violent, full-body shudder ran through her. “I was dripping. Exactly like this. All day. I couldn’t wear underwear. Every pair would have been ruined. So I went commando. Through the meetings. Through rehearsals. Every time I sat down, every time I had to give an order and pretend I wasn’t thinking about this—about you—about finally having my turn.”

Her hands fisted in his shirt, knuckles white. “I can’t wait anymore, Oppa. I need you. Now.”

She pushed off the wall, dragging him backward toward the bed. The back of his calves hit the mattress and she shoved him down onto the dark duvet, sending him sprawling.

Before he could prop himself up, she was climbing onto the bed, straddling his thighs, her bare legs bracketing his hips. The ivory robe, already loose, slipped from her shoulders, the sash coming undone. The lapels fell open, revealing the full, breathtaking expanse of her body—her heavy, glorious breasts with their dark, peaked nipples; the narrow taper of her waist; the smooth plane of her stomach; and lower, the newly waxed skin of her sex, glistening.

She shrugged the robe off completely, letting it pool behind her like a shed skin. Utterly bare. Utterly magnificent. Utterly in command.

Her hands flew to his buttons, working them with frantic, expert efficiency. Each pop of a button parted fabric, revealing his chest. Her palms slid over his pectorals, down his abdomen, nails leaving faint, possessive red trails. His belt rasped open. His button popped. His zipper hissed down. Her hand reached into his boxer briefs, withdrawing his cock—already achingly, fully hard, skin flushed a deep, urgent red, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

A low, hungry, almost feral sound escaped her throat. “I’ve been dreaming about this. Every night. Every morning. Every minute I had to sit next to you at breakfast and pretend I wasn’t thinking about exactly this.”

She slid down his body, settling between his thighs with fluid, predatory grace. Her dark eyes looked up at him through her lashes with pure, predatory ownership. No submission. Only hunger.

Without preamble, she lowered her mouth and took him inside.

Her technique was devastating. Her lips created a perfect, tight seal. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive corona, tracing the frenulum with a feather-light touch before pressing hard. She bobbed her head with a deep, hypnotic rhythm, taking him deeper with each descent, her throat relaxing with practiced, eager ease.

The wet, obscene sounds filled the room—the schlick of her lips, the soft, rhythmic gagging as she took him to the root, the satisfied, vibrating hums that traveled from her throat straight to his core. One hand cradled his balls, applying gentle, kneading pressure. The other wrapped around his shaft, moving in tandem with her mouth.

Julian’s head fell back. His hands tangled in her damp hair, fingers tightening. A guttural, broken groan was torn from his chest. She was devastating him, and she knew it.

“Karina… wait…” His voice was ragged, strained, a desperate thread. “Karina…”

She stilled, her mouth still full of him. Her eyes flickered up, curious, impatient. The head of his cock rested on her tongue as she sucked it gently, absently, her cheeks hollowing with each slow, rhythmic pull.

His hand tightened in her hair, a gentle but insistent grip. “I want to taste you too.”

She released him with a soft, wet pop, a glistening strand of saliva connecting her lip to his tip. She shook her head, brow furrowing slightly. “You don’t need to. Making you come is enough for me. It’s always enough. This—” she gestured at his cock, “—is what I need.”

“I do.” His voice was quiet, but absolute. A statement of intent. “I want to taste you. I’ve been thinking about it. All week. Every time you walked away to let someone else have their turn.” He paused, his dark eyes holding hers. “I have an idea. Trust me.”

Before she could protest, he moved. His hands found her hips, grip firm and decisive. In one smooth, strategic maneuver, he shifted their positions, rolling them until he lay flat on his back and she was positioned above him—her thighs straddling his face, her glistening, swollen sex descending toward his waiting mouth.

She now faced his cock, still rigid and glistening.

His hands gripped her thighs, fingers dimpling the smooth, toned flesh. He pulled her down, bringing her pussy to his face. The scent of her arousal—musky, sweet, profoundly intimate—filled his senses. She was completely bare, folds flushed a deep, needy pink and absolutely drenched. A thin, glistening strand of her wetness trailed slowly down her inner thigh.

“Julian… you really don’t have to—”

He didn’t let her finish. His tongue extended, delivering a long, flat, devastating lick from the very base of her entrance to the swollen peak of her clit. The taste of her—salt and sweet and pure, unmistakable Karina—exploded across his senses. A low, approving groan vibrated from his chest directly into her flesh.

An involuntary, raw, shattered moan was torn from her throat. The volume of it alarmed her. Remembering her members sleeping just down the hall, to stifle herself, she lowered her mouth back to his cock, taking him deep in one desperate, plunging motion, her nose pressing against him, her throat constricting around him in a spasm of swallowed sound.

What followed was not tender, mutual lovemaking. It was a competition. A race.

Julian’s tongue worked her with relentless, focused intensity. He lapped at her entrance, drinking her in, before zeroing in on her swollen, hypersensitive clit. He sucked the aching bud into his mouth, his tongue flicking rapidly, alternating between deep, pulsing suction and rapid, fluttering licks. His fingers joined—two thick digits sliding inside her clutching, velvet heat, curling upward to press against that rough, spongy spot deep within.

Karina countered with every weapon in her arsenal. She deep-throated him with a brutal, punishing rhythm, her throat constricting around his shaft. Her hand pumped his base in a tight, twisting motion. Her other hand cradled his balls, her thumb pressing against his perineum with firm, circular pressure.

The room filled with the lewd, wet, desperate sounds of their mutual devotion. They were both hurtling toward the edge, each trying to push the other over first.

In the end, it was simultaneous. A devastating, perfectly synchronized detonation.