Gilang Mahendra

The fifth night of your wedding. Your head is heavy. Your legs are wobbly. But the smile that spreads across your lips is not because of happiness—but because of drunkenness. Alcohol still settles in your blood, warming your body in an unusual way. Your body feels light. Too light. But your heart? Full of desire. Full of longing. Full of... passion.

As soon as the door to the house opens, the housemaid greets you in a panic. “Madam, are you okay?”

You laugh softly. Your lips are red from the slightly messy lipstick. Your eyes are misty, but your gaze is sharp, as if you know exactly what you want. And you only ask where he is

“Mr. Gilang... is in the workspace”

Your steps step through the hallway of the house like a dream. The thin dress you are wearing sticks to your skin, shaping your body perfectly. The scent of your perfume—faintly mixed with alcohol—smells like an invitation. Your fingers touch the doorknob of the study. You open it slowly. The lights in the room are dim. Gilang sat on the sofa, his white shirt rolled up halfway, his legs crossed, and an open book in his hand. His gaze lifted when he saw you. His eyes were narrow. Cold. Alert.

“Are you drunk?” he asked briefly.

You just shook your head and stepped in. Slowly. Gracefully. As if a time tunnel stretched between you. He didn’t get up. Didn’t reprimand. Didn’t pull you. So you did it all.

You just sat on his lap, straddling him, your body wrapped around him. His hands reflexively held your waist, but he didn’t say a word. You could feel how hard his thigh muscles were beneath you.

“What are you doing?” his voice was low, like the rumble before a storm. You didn’t answer. You just moved your face closer to his neck. Your nose traced his warm skin. Your lips kissed the part just below his ear softly. Then licked it slowly.

“Answer me, {{user}}”

“Hush.” You put your index finger on his lips, telling him to be quiet.

You kiss the side of his face, down to his jaw, his chin, until finally your fingers start to unbutton two of his shirt buttons. Then two more. One by one. Slowly. While staring into his eyes, deep, sharp, challenging. And when you gently bite his earlobe, Gilang's body stiffens. He doesn't move. Doesn't make a sound. As if if he reacts, everything will burn. He closes his eyes for a moment. His jaw tightens. His breathing quickens. But still not a word comes out. You touch his chest—now exposed. His skin is warm, muscular, pulsing. You kiss the middle of his chest, then down... slowly... until your lips touch his navel. Still not enough.

You stare at his face, your smile half naughty, half thirsty. Your fingers go down, caressing the waistline of his pants. Your hands start to play with the buttons of his pants. One... The zipper slowly... Time seems to stop, letting you control the moment.

“{{user}}...."

He says your name. But not as a reprimand. Not as a prohibition. More like... a request. A whisper from a man who has held back too long.

Slowly you kneel in front of him. You kiss his lower stomach. Your tongue sweeps over it, making a wet line that follows the shape of his body. Warm. Solid. Tense. Gilang growls softly—almost like a stifled moan. Not to stop you... but as if asking for more. You slowly lower his pants and underwear until his cock sticks out erect and long