CHAPTER 213: CHAPTER 213: UNDER PRESSURE

The clinic was quieter than usual—a rare lull in LUNE’s building, the afternoon sun cutting sharp lines through frosted glass. In the private therapy suite, a hush lingered, broken only by the soft hum of an air purifier and the trickle of water from the wall fountain. Joon-ho finished arranging the warm towels, checking the position of the face cradle, then opened the door for his next client.

She entered without a word, confident, every inch the jet-setting fashion executive. Tall, mid-thirties, her hair swept into a tight twist, skin like cream and gold. Even now, dressed down for therapy, she wore that aura of money and control. They greeted each other with a hug that was just a little too familiar.

"It’s been too long," she murmured, slipping out of her silk robe, bare beneath. "I was starting to think you’d forgotten me."

He grinned, polite but warm. "You’re impossible to forget. Especially with how much you text me when you’re sore."

She smiled, eyes flashing with the promise of more. "I told you—nobody in Paris, Milan, or Tokyo can make my body feel like this."

She stretched out on the table, naked but for the towel he draped over her ass. The muscles of her back rippled under his hands as he started the massage, slow and careful, feeling for the tension buried under the surface.

He began with her neck and shoulders, thumbs working deep, coaxing out the knots built up from red-eye flights and endless meetings. She moaned, low and drawn-out, her accent thickening with pleasure.

"Harder, please. I need to forget my inbox for one fucking hour."

He obliged, palms kneading down her spine, then back up, warming her skin until she was pliant and humming under his touch. Her moans grew louder as he worked lower, fingers pressing into her glutes, working out weeks of stored stress. The towel slipped, exposing the curve of her ass. He covered her again, but not before her hips pressed up into his hands, not subtle at all.

Outside, at the front desk, Soo-jin tried to focus on her phone. Every sound from the therapy room carried—muted, but not enough to hide the rhythm of moans and the unmistakable gasps that only came from real, overwhelming release.

She scowled, cheeks flushing. She and her boyfriend had fought again last night—a stupid, bitter argument that had left her annoyed, frustrated, and achingly unsatisfied. He’d stormed off after accusing her of never having time, and she hadn’t bothered to chase him. They hadn’t had sex in weeks. Now every moan drifting through the clinic walls twisted a knife of envy and hunger in her chest.

She shifted in her chair, legs squeezing together, hand slipping up under her skirt. At first, she just squeezed her own thigh, but as the sounds grew louder, she slid her palm over her panties, fingers pressing against her swollen clit, aching to feel something besides stress and emptiness. Her other hand crept up to her breast, thumb rolling her nipple through the lace of her bra, breath coming fast.

Inside the therapy suite, the director’s moans pitched higher, every sound echoing off the walls like an invitation. Joon-ho moved with deliberate care, never losing rhythm—kneading her calves, his strong fingers squeezing, rolling the tension out of hard, elegant muscle. She parted her legs further, wanton now, every professional mask gone. He let his hands linger at her knees, thumbs tracing slow, teasing circles up the back of her thighs.

The towel had slipped even lower, baring the ripe swell of her ass, the glistening sheen of oil catching the low light. He worked her glutes, pushing deep, massaging in slow, relentless strokes that made her whimper, hips pressing up to meet his hands, greedy for more.

"Oh, god... deeper, don’t hold back," she begged, her accent thick and sloppy, breath fogging the air. "Don’t fucking tease me."

He didn’t. He pressed his thumbs along the crease of her thigh, right where muscle met heat, using every trick to pull her apart. Her moans got louder, more desperate—guttural, almost animal. Her thighs trembled, spreading wider, letting him see how wet she was, how easily his hands slid over her slick, slippery skin.

He leaned in, voice low in her ear. "You need it here?" His hands slid between her thighs, fingertips pressing hard into the sweet spot just beside her cunt, not quite touching, only adding to her frustration.

"Please—right there—fuck, please—" She bucked against his hand, desperate and shameless, the table creaking under her.

He worked deeper, kneading the tight bands of muscle, oil dripping down his wrists, palms gliding up to cup her ass, spreading her wider, watching the way her whole body shook. Her moans built, sharper and higher, hips rolling with every grind of his hands. "Yes, just like that—harder, I’m so fucking close, don’t stop—"

He moved to her inner thighs, using both hands now, squeezing, massaging, dragging the tip of his finger along the slick line of her folds—just enough to make her scream. She rocked against him, legs open, shameless, soaking the towel, her cunt glistening as she begged for more.

Joon-ho pressed his thumbs into the hollow of her hips, worked deep and slow, then faster, drawing circles that made her whole body tense and quake. She gasped, back arching off the table, face buried in her arms, eyes wild.

"God, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop—" Her voice was ragged, desperate, all the walls of her executive persona stripped away, nothing left but sweat, need, and pure, helpless pleasure.

He pressed deeper, working a pressure point high on her thigh, his other hand gliding up along her inner leg, so close to her dripping cunt it drove her mad. She groaned, body going rigid, shivering as her climax crashed through her—legs shaking, knuckles white where she clung to the edge of the table, slick pooling beneath her. He didn’t stop—kept massaging, working her through the aftershocks, hands slow, patient, teasing her until she was babbling, helpless and twitching, unable to do anything but whimper and rut against his hands.

She slumped, breathing hard, skin glowing and flushed, sweat streaking down her spine. "Fuck. You always know how to break me apart. I’m such a mess for you," she panted, shameless, spreading her legs again in invitation for whatever came next.

He didn’t answer, just turned her over, draping a towel over her chest before starting on her front. He massaged her arms, then her belly, then down to her thighs again. His hands were gentle but insistent, never crude, but there was no mistaking the electricity in the air. He spread her thighs wider, kneading the muscles there, watching as her breath caught, her nipples hard against the towel.

She didn’t bother hiding her hunger, arching into his hands, her hips rolling. "You always ruin me for anyone else, you know that?"

He worked his way up, one hand brushing the inside of her thigh, slow and relentless. She gasped, body going rigid again, and he pressed harder. This time, she came even harder, the orgasm crashing through her in a wave—her hips bucking, wetness slicking the towel, a cry torn from her lips as she squirted, soaking the linen.

She laughed, breathless and dazed. "Shit. I forgot what that felt like. You need to market this—maybe patent it."

He wiped her down with clean towels, gentle, almost tender. "I think you’d scare off half my regulars if I tried."

She grinned, stretching like a cat, her body boneless, skin gleaming with oil and satisfaction. "The other half would never leave."

Outside, Soo-jin pulled her hand away, mortified at herself, heart hammering. Her panties were damp, nipples stiff, a raw need pulsing between her thighs. She tried to steady her breathing, fixing her hair, then shuffled the appointment cards just to have something to do.

The director dressed quickly, slipping into her robe, businesslike again but her face flushed, eyes shining. She stopped in front of Joon-ho, buttoning her shirt. "I have a meeting with Harin about a possible collaboration—expect an email from my assistant. And next time, don’t make me wait so long."

She paused at the door, brushing her lips across his cheek, then glided out, heels clicking confidently on the floor.

Soo-jin managed a shaky "goodbye" as the woman sailed past, perfume hanging in the air like a challenge.

Before she could collect herself, Su-bin walked in, eyes already glued to her tablet. She dropped into a chair across from Joon-ho and set the screen down, lips pressed in a thin line.

"Got something for you. Security footage from last night." She tapped the screen, fast-forwarding through grainy black-and-white frames. "We’ve had more vandalism—spray paint by the loading dock, someone slashed a tire on Harin’s car. Same mark as last time."

She paused on a frame—Harin’s assistant, ponytail swinging, holding a trash bag and chatting with a security guard. She lingered near the keypad door, glancing around before slipping a hand into her jacket pocket, then moving quickly out of frame.

"She’s always helping, but... look at this," Su-bin murmured, zooming in. "She’s the only one who had time and access to the door, and the timeline matches the breach."

Joon-ho frowned, watching the loop. "That’s not enough to accuse her, but it’s getting close."

Soo-jin hovered in the doorway, trying not to seem as flustered as she was. "Should I... call Harin?"

Su-bin shook her head. "Not yet. But tell her to double-check every passcode tonight. And keep an eye out. Someone’s getting braver."

Joon-ho nodded, the bliss of the massage room replaced by a cold, creeping alertness. "We need to tighten security. I’ll talk to Mirae and Harin myself."

Su-bin gave him a grim look. "This isn’t over. If they’re pushing this hard, they want to shake us."

Soo-jin slunk back to the front desk, thighs pressed together, wishing her body would stop betraying her every time the clinic walls pulsed with pleasure. Her phone buzzed—another angry text from her boyfriend. She deleted it without replying.

In the hallway, the air felt charged, the boundary between release and threat razor-thin. In every moan, every glance, every shift in the building, something else was moving—just under the surface, waiting for the next crack to appear.