Prince Caspian -Jung Yoonoh NCT

45. The Janitor's Closet

In the kitchen I am making tea. I hang my tea bag into my mug.

"What are you doing?"

I almost drop my mug.

I swivel around.

He's leaning against the door frame.

"I'm making tea," I squeak. "Do you want some?"

"Nope." He strolls in nonchalantly.

I drop an extra cube of sugar in my tea in confusion, and my hand fumbles over the teaspoon, not sure of what I am supposed to do.

He ignores me as he moves around opening and closing cupboards. I look up to see his hands opening the cupboard above my head. I feel the heat of his body inches from my back. It's like autumn sunshine. I can smell his skin. 

If I lean back against him and let myself sag boneless and limp against his hard muscles and sinewy bones, what would he do? Would he grab me and stop me from falling, his hands on my waist, his fingertips digging into the softness of my skin?

I have a sudden desperate urge to do just that; lean back, and feel his warmth envelope me. To curb it, I laugh nervously. "Aha ha ha. Aha ha ha." 

"Something funny?"

"Yes. You." The laughter dies. I swallow.

"So are you." He's watching me. His stare weighs heavily across my skin. He's stopped checking the cupboards. All his attention is focussed on me.

He watches me drain the last dregs of my tea, and throw away the teabag in the bin. He stares at me as I rinse the mug. He keeps his eyes on me as I dab my mouth with a tissue.

I walk out. He follows.

We're passing the janitor's closet, when he says quietly from behind, "Get in here."

I feel his hand slip around my wrist. He's tugging me into the closet.

The room is tiny and claustrophobic. It is a broom closet. The only source of light is coming from a window high up on a wall.

Brooms are standing all around us, silent witnesses, as he pulls the door shut and leans on it. A few bottles of cleaning liquid and floor cleansers are pushed into one corner.

I can hear footsteps walking past . 

I stare at him.

He has his hands on his hips.

He has taken off his black suit jacket. His shirt sleeves are rolled up. His black tie is loose upon his neck. I look at the strong tendons and cords in his wrists.

"Mr. Jung." My throat is bone dry. "May I remind you that company policy dictates that the boss is not allowed to fraternise with the intern." I swallow. "Especially in a broom closet."

"Miss Jung." He stretches his hand towards me, palm up. He arches an arrogant eyebrow over it, then his gaze flits to me.

Wordlessly I slide my hand into his. His fingers close over it. My heart starts beating wildly in my chest.

What on earth am I doing? Am I obeying his silent commands now?

His fingertips brush against the back of my hand, no more than a whispered question, sending a dance of shivers down my spine. When I glance up, he is looking at me, but it is too dark to see his eyes. I feel his breath on my cheek and I know if I take one small step towards him, he will kiss me.

Every fibre in my being is paused on tiptoe, aching for him to bridge the gap between us. 

His hand is bigger than mine. The heat of it scorches my palm. He turns over my hand, and stares at it; it looks like a delicate little thing inside his palm. 

He tugs it, and pulls me towards him. He pushes me against the door and I feel a thrill when I hear the thud of my weight against it. The door rattles a little. 

More footsteps, more heels clattering, back and forth outside. 

I am in a darkened broom closet, and Jae is staring at me. It is scandalous, and positively wicked, and I am enjoying every minute of it.

The air is getting warmer.

"So, tell me, what was his name?" He passes his fingers through my hair, raking it gently away from my face.

"Who?"

We are talking in breathless whispers.

"The man in your exotic dream."  His mouth curves into a smile, and my breath catches as a bundle of nerves flutter deep within me.

"Oh," I swallow. I have difficulty speaking. Both of us look down to watch my hand spread out over his stomach. My hand seems to have developed a mind of its own.

I push at the hard flesh. "Are you wearing a bullet-proof vest?"

"Maybe I am." He bends low, and nibbles my ear. I shiver. "Tell me his name."

"I lied." I am drunk with him. I am intoxicated. My palms are ignoring my brain and running up his torso now. "There was a man. But he didn't tell me his name..."

He touches his fingers underneath my chin, raising my face to his.

"Then why did you lie?"

"I wanted to share my dream with you, because..." I sway towards him. 

"Because?"

"Because...he looked...a lot...like you..." My voice is barely above a whisper.

"Do you want to know what you are, Miss Jung?" he murmurs, his lips brushing the skin of my temple.

"No. What am I?" My whisper is a tortured rasp.

"You're a little tease." His voice is a husky whisper, sending tendrils of heat quivering through me.

"And you're a flirt." I lick my lips nervously. His eyes darken to dangerous pitch-black.

"Put your hands on me, Miss Jung," he says quietly. I can hear the command in it.

He stands there. Waiting. His chest rises and falls.