Chapter Text
By daylight, Professor Yoo Yeon-seok was everything a top-tier literature scholar should be—sharp-eyed, impeccably dressed in his muted charcoal suits, voice precise with every citation of Milton and Shakespeare, and utterly merciless with late submissions. His students both feared and revered him. With a jaw that clenched when met with mediocrity and eyes that narrowed at lazy metaphors, he was known for giving scathing critiques wrapped in eloquence that could cut deeper than a blade. Seoul University whispered stories about his intelligence, his aloof charm, his rumored indifference to relationships. To most, he was untouchable. Cold. Composed. The epitome of professionalism.
Except to one.
Chae Soo-bin, the quiet, radiant librarian with ink-stained fingers and a soft spot for banned books, was the only one who knew what he looked like with his tie hanging loose, shirt half-unbuttoned, voice thick with want. The only one who had seen him crawl between her thighs and whisper Shakespeare not from textbooks, but from memory—“Give me my sin again.” The only one who had earned the privilege of calling him hers.
They had met at the university’s annual literature gala. He was a guest speaker, she a background presence tucked between shelves of forgotten poetry. He had spoken about the erotic undertones in the Sonnets with a glint in his eye, and she, bold and burning, had asked him about Ovid’s Art of Love. His eyebrow had lifted. Her challenge had begun.
It began with tension—the kind that brewed over weeks of stolen glances and flirtatious debates over rare first editions and forbidden prose. Yeon-seok had fought it, hard. She was younger, his junior in both age and rank at the university, and the way she smiled up at him like she knew—like she saw through the stoicism and discipline—unraveled him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Soo-bin had always been the quiet storm. Measured, bookish, composed on the outside but so clearly teeming with mischief behind those librarian eyes.
The night it finally happened, it wasn’t even supposed to. He had offered to walk her home after an evening lecture ran late. A thunderstorm chased their heels, and her apartment was warm, quiet, filled with the faint scent of old pages and lavender. She handed him a towel. He asked for tea. Neither of them could remember what the topic of conversation had been—only that she had leaned in to grab a book, and he had watched the curve of her body like a man starved. She noticed.
“You always look at me like I’m unreadable,” she whispered.
His jaw tensed. “That’s because I’m trying not to read you.”
That’s when she kissed him—soft at first, curious, then deeper, demanding, her hands tangled in his soaked collar. And whatever control he had left burned into smoke. He pushed her back against the nearest wall, the porcelain mug clattering to the floor. His mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, his voice rasping hot against her skin.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for, Soo-bin.”
Her lips grazed his ear. “Then teach me, Professor.”
That broke him.
He carried her to her bed like a man possessed, and there was nothing polite about what followed. Her clothes were stripped with urgency, each button undone like a rule broken. His hands were everywhere—gripping, kneading her breast , pinning her wrists above her head as he stared down at her trembling body, eyes dark with promise. “You think you’re ready for me?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous.
“Please…” she breathed, chest heaving, eyes wild with lust and trust.
That night, he didn’t just make love to her. He claimed her.
He started with her thighs, kissing his way up slowly, tasting the salt of her anticipation, his tongue wicked, deliberate. She cried out when he spread her open and devoured her pussy, his groan vibrating against the most sensitive parts of her. “So sweet,” he murmured between strokes, “You were made for this.”
When she tried to pull away from the overwhelming pleasure, he gripped her hips and growled, “Don’t you dare run from me.” And then, more wickedly, “Sit on my face.”
Her gasp was half-shock, half-need. But she obeyed.
Trembling, breathless, she straddled him. His hands guided her down, and the moment she lowered herself onto his mouth, she shattered—loudly, shamefully, deliciously. He held her there, greedily devouring everything she gave, murmuring filth against her while her legs shook around his head.
Afterward, he flipped her onto her stomach, one palm dragging slowly down her spine. Then came the first slap—sharp, echoing through the room as her hips jolted upward.
“You like tempting your professor?” Smack.
She moaned.
“You like playing the good girl in library and being my filthy little secret after hours?” Smack.
She was a mess by the third. Hair tangled, cheeks flushed, voice a broken cry of his name. He then rolls her on her back and gets up from the bed. Chae Soo-bin lay there—completely bare, skin warm and flushed from the kisses he had left trailing down her ribs. Her thighs still trembled from the wave of pleasure, but none of that compared to what surged through her now, watching him… finally undress.
His fingers moved slowly, as though this was a sacred ritual. First, the cufflinks, undone with delicate precision. Then the buttons, one by one, revealing the taut expanse of his chest beneath the cotton. His breath was steady, but his eyes were wild—never leaving hers as he slid the shirt from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor in silence.
She swallowed hard.
There he stood, framed by the window and soft rain, like poetry sculpted into man. Broad shoulders, smooth muscle, that subtle trail below his navel—he was all restraint and raw power, unwrapped slowly for her and only her.
Soo-bin whimpered softly, her thighs pressing together, a hand ghosting across her own skin. She didn’t mean to—didn’t even realize she’d started touching herself —until his voice darkened.
“Touching yourself already?” he murmured, eyes glinting like stormlight. She bit her lip, embarrassed but too far gone to stop. “I can’t help it,” she whispered. “You’re beautiful.”
That made him pause. His face softened—not with modesty, but with something feral in its intensity. He closed the space between them in two steps, hands framing her face as he kissed her like he needed her to breathe.
“Let me make it worse,” he growled against her lips. “Let me show you what you do to me.”
And then he peeled off the last of his clothing.
The air changed. It was reverent now—like she was witnessing something sacred, something no syllabus had ever prepared her for. Her eyes raked down his form, every inch of him carved in tension and control, but in that moment, it was all hers. Every muscle, every scar, every sigh.
She moaned softly, hands gripping the sheets, legs restless beneath the weight of her desire.
Yeon-seok climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her parted thighs. His fingers slid up her calves, slow and claiming.
“No more touching yourself,” he whispered, brushing his mouth against hers. “From now on, you don’t need your hands.”
His breath ghosted down her neck.
“You have me.”
He finally took her—slow at first, then rough, claiming every corner of the bed, every sound she made. He kissed her as she cried out his name, whispered praise into her ear, held her so tightly their hearts beat in rhythm. The night blurred into hours. She lost count of how many times he made her fall apart.
And when it was over—when the moans had turned into slow, sleepy sighs and her body was sore in the most delicious ways—he kissed her softly, pressing his lips to her temple, the only part of her untouched by desire.
“I wasn’t supposed to fall for you, but now after having you I am greedy to let you go away from me Soobin-ah” he whispered.
She turned into his arms, smiling, ruined and radiant.
“I don’t want to go either. I want to challenge you every freaking day and night, if the punishment is this good”
_____
Now, three years into their marriage, that challenge was ongoing—nightly, relentless, delicious.
At home, Yeon-seok was no longer the cold professor. He was a man possessed. And tonight, with the rain tapping against their windows and her hair down in soft waves, he looked at her like she was his most forbidden text. She was curled on their bed in one of his white dress shirts, the hem skimming dangerously high on her thighs, her reading glasses perched on her nose, nose buried in Lady Chatterley’s Lover. He stepped into the room silently, eyes raking over the scene like a hungry animal. His voice, when it broke the silence, was low and velvety.
“Quoting D.H. Lawrence in my bed, Mrs. Yoo?” he drawled, sliding the book from her hands. “How bold of you to tempt your professor.”
Soo-bin smirked, a finger tracing the hem of her borrowed shirt. “I thought I’d try some practical learning tonight.”
He didn’t smile. He growled.
In a flash, he had her pinned beneath him, knees parted by his hips, her glasses removed with careful precision. “Lesson one,” he whispered against her neck, breath hot, “Good girls who provoke their professor get punished.”
She whimpered as his hands slid beneath the shirt, fingers rough against her bare skin, voice gravelly as he traced her ribcage. “Do you know how long I waited to get home and ruin you?”
Her reply was breathless, a teasing moan against his cheek. “Are you going to read me like one of your books again?”
He chuckled darkly. “No. Tonight, I’m going to annotate.”
What followed wasn’t lovemaking. It was poetry written in bruises and gasps. He took his time—slow, deliberate strokes of tongue and teeth, each touch like a line of verse etched into her skin. He pinned her wrists above her head, eyes burning into hers as he slid into her inch by torturous inch.
“Use your words, Soo-bin,” he ordered between gritted teeth, thrusts slow and devastating. “You’re a librarian. You know how to articulate. Tell me what you want.”
She moaned, back arching. “I want my professor to fuck me.”
He groaned at her audacity, biting down softly on her shoulder as she cried out, louder this time. “Good girl,” he breathed, voice thick with heat. “Lesson two: Always be explicit in your desires.”
His hands were everywhere—one gripping her thigh to keep her open for him, the other tangled in her hair, guiding her face to meet kiss after messy kiss. Her lips were swollen, her body trembling as he rocked into her, slow and punishing.
“Harder,” she gasped.
“Beg.” She looked up, eyes glassy. “Please, Professor… fuck me harder.”
He did. With a guttural groan, he snapped his hips, pace brutal, voice low and sinful. “Such a filthy mouth for such a studious wife.”
The bed creaked. The headboard slammed. Her moans became cries, body trembling with every thrust. She clung to him like she was falling, and maybe she was—falling deeper into the man who held her like a promise, like a possession, like a confession.
He flipped her over, pulling her hips up and pushing her face into the sheets. His palm slid up her spine. “Lesson three,” he growled into her ear, biting the shell of it, “Never interrupt your professor during office hours.”
And then he was inside her again, deeper, rougher, hips slamming against her with a rhythm that bordered on divine madness. Her screams were raw. She choked his name into the pillow, hands fisting the sheets. And he never stopped talking.
“Does that feel good?”
“Yes—fuck—so good—”
“Say who owns this perfect pussy.”
“You do, Yeon-seok—Professor—it’s yours—fuck— harder, ahh”
When she finally shattered, it was loud and wild. He followed moments after spilling inside her, collapsing with a groan that sounded like it came from his soul.
They lay there tangled, soaked in sweat and sin, breath ragged and limbs trembling. He kissed her temple gently, brushing hair from her damp forehead.
“Lesson four,” he whispered, voice soft now, lips feathering over her cheek. “Your professor is desperately, endlessly in love with you.”
She smiled sleepily, curling into his chest. “Then I’ll keep failing… just so you keep teaching.”
He laughed into her hair, holding her close. And somewhere, the rain kept falling, as though applauding a lesson well learned.