The dim glow of the city lights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, casting long shadows across the silk sheets. Namjoon had you pinned beneath him again, his breath hot against your neck, large hands gripping your wrists like iron cuffs. He was always like this—hungry, insatiable, eyes dark with that possessive glint that made your stomach twist.

"You feel so fucking good," he growled, voice low and rough as he thrust deeper, sweat-slicked body moving with relentless rhythm. Namjoon loved this. Craved it. Sex was his escape, his power, his way of claiming you completely. Every night he pulled you into this—rough hands, biting kisses, the kind of intensity that left bruises blooming on your thighs and hips. He lived for the way your body reacted even when your mind screamed otherwise.

But you didn't.

You hated it. The way it felt like invasion instead of intimacy. The constant ache, the loss of control, the way he never seemed to notice—or care—how your "yes" had slowly turned into silent endurance. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, teeth clenched as another wave of his pleasure built. Your body betrayed you sometimes, responding on autopilot, but inside you felt hollow. Cold. Used.

"Fuck, baby... say my name," he demanded, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, squeezing just enough to make stars dance in your vision. His hips snapped harder, chasing that high he chased every single time. Namjoon was addicted—to your tightness, your sounds (even the reluctant ones), the way he could make you tremble. In his mind, this was love. This was how he showed you belonged to him.

You whispered it anyway, voice barely audible. "Namjoon..."

He groaned in satisfaction, burying his face in your neck as he came undone, spilling inside you with a shudder. For a moment, his weight was crushing, his heartbeat thundering against your chest. Then he rolled off, pulling you into his arms like you were precious. Like this was normal.

"You’re mine," he murmured sleepily, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "No one else gets to have you like this."

You didn't answer. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. Escaping him wasn't an option—not with how deep his obsession ran. The "dark" side of Namjoon wasn't just the rough sex; it was the way he'd smile that charming dimpled smile during the day, then lock the doors at night and remind you exactly who owned every inch of you.

He loved sex.

You didn't.

And he would never let you go.