Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The soft click of the suite door echoed like a final note in a long day's song. Mirae stood frozen for half a second, watching the brass handle settle back into place. Kang Soo-yeon's presence had been like a buffer, a wall of professionalism that kept Mirae's impulses in check. But now, with her manager gone, the walls crumbled in an instant.

She didn't walk—she launched forward.

"Oppa!" Her voice cracked, sharp with relief and longing as she slammed into Joon-ho's chest. Arms wound tight around his torso, nails digging into the back of his shirt. Her face burrowed against him, nose and lips pressed to the warmth of his neck, drinking in the familiar scent she'd been starving for.

"I missed you. I missed you so much…" The words tumbled out in a whisper, trembling and raw. Gone was the polished idol smile, the chirpy tone she wore like armor for cameras and fans. This was Mirae unmasked, vulnerable, clinging like she'd drown if she let go.

Joon-ho's arms wrapped around her steadily, firm but soothing, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head. He bent and kissed the crown of her hair, murmuring against it.

"I know. I missed you too."

For a long breath, neither of them moved. They just stood locked together in the quiet suite, the city lights of Jeju glittering through the wide windows. Mirae's shoulders shuddered once, then steadied as his palm stroked slowly down her spine.

Only then did he ease her back slightly, tilting her chin up with a knuckle. His lips brushed her forehead—soft, reverent—before finally lowering to capture her mouth in a gentle kiss. Not rushed, not devouring, but deep enough that Mirae's knees weakened.

By the time they sank onto the sofa together, Mirae's face was still flushed. She curled against his side, legs folded beneath her, brushing lightly against his. He leaned back, relaxed, his arm draped over the backrest in quiet possession.

"It feels like forever," he said at last, studying her. "How have you been since we last met?" His tone carried more than curiosity—it carried memory. A callback to when she first lay on his table, trembling under his hands, her career in shambles and her body begging for release. It might have felt like a lifetime ago, but for both of them, it was burned in sharp relief.

Mirae let out a shaky laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Better. So much better. After that first therapy with you… everything changed. My body, my confidence, even the way I walk into a room."

Her eyes lit as she spoke, though the weariness lingered beneath. "The short film series—I told you about it, remember? It got picked up on the streaming platforms. People loved it. Said I felt 'real.'" She gave a self-conscious smile. "I even trended for a week. And commercials—oh God, Oppa. So many commercials. Beauty brands, lifestyle ads, even a skincare line. I can't go to a café without seeing my face on a poster."

Joon-ho listened, watching the spark in her expression. There was pride there, yes, but something else too—a bittersweet tug. He caught it instantly.

Her voice softened, almost guilty. "It's everything I wanted, everything I thought I lost. But…"

"But it came with a price," he finished for her.

She nodded, lips pressing together. "Yeah. A price."

For a moment silence stretched. Mirae fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, avoiding his gaze. That's when Joon-ho caught it—the subtle signs beneath the surface. The faint shadows under her eyes, the tension across her shoulders, the way her laughter carried a note of brittleness.

"You're smiling," he murmured, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone, "but your body's screaming exhaustion."

Mirae's throat bobbed. She tried to brush it off with a laugh, but the sound wavered. Finally she sighed, leaning into his touch. "The agency… they book me nonstop. Drama shoots, CFs, variety schedules. I barely get a day off. I can't even remember the last time I woke up without an alarm blaring."

Her fingers lifted, rubbing her temple with a grimace. "Headaches too. Always here," she said, pressing the spot. "Tension headaches, they call it. Stress, fatigue, lack of sleep—all rolled into one."

Joon-ho's jaw tightened slightly. He'd seen this before, too many times. Idols, actresses, athletes—they were machines to their agencies. Machines that broke down eventually. Mirae was pushing herself to the edge.

Enough.

He stood, the suddenness making Mirae blink. His hand extended toward her, palm open.

"Enough talking," he said, voice calm but carrying weight. "Tonight, you don't work. You rest."

Mirae tilted her head, blinking up at him. "Rest?"

"Yes." His eyes softened, but his tone brooked no argument. "Come. You'll have therapy tonight. My hands, just for you."

Her breath caught at the phrasing. Therapy. The word stirred heat low in her belly, a flood of memory rushing back—the way his touch had unraveled her before, how clinical skill melted seamlessly into intimacy until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

Color spread across her cheeks. "Oppa…"

But she didn't resist. She placed her hand in his, letting him draw her up.

Her heart pounded as he led her toward the bedroom. The suite opened into a king-sized bed dressed in crisp linens, city lights spilling across it in silver. Joon-ho dimmed the room lights, leaving only a warm glow. Mirae's pulse raced with every step.

She hesitated at the threshold, glancing down at her clothes, a shy smile curling her lips. "I should've worn cuter underwear if I knew this would happen…"

Joon-ho glanced back at her, smirk playing at his mouth as he closed the door behind them. "You won't be needing it long."

Her laugh was breathless, anticipation buzzing in every nerve as the night shifted from reunion into something deeper—something only he could give her.

The suite bedroom glowed with warm amber light. Outside, the Jeju skyline sparkled through the curtains, but inside it was quiet, sealed into intimacy.

Joon-ho adjusted the thermostat until the air was cool but not chilling, then dimmed the lights until shadows softened the edges of the room. On the bedside table, he placed a sleek bottle of massage oil, the golden liquid catching the lamplight.

When he turned back, Mirae was still lingering by the bed, her arms folded loosely across her stomach as if to hold herself together. She looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes, her lips parted in a nervous breath.

"Undress," he said simply, his tone firm yet calm, like a doctor delivering an order he expected to be followed.

Her lashes fluttered. Heat bloomed in her cheeks as she tried for a pout. "Only if you do too," she teased, though her voice trembled with nerves and want.

Joon-ho's smirk was slow, deliberate. He didn't hesitate. Piece by piece, he stripped down, folding his clothes without ceremony. His shirt slid off first, baring the lean lines of his torso, shadows accentuating every defined muscle. Pants and boxers followed until nothing separated him from her gaze. His cock was already half-hard, the sight making her breath catch audibly.

Her fingers fidgeted at her hem. A deep blush crept across her skin, but she obeyed. She peeled off her hoodie, then her jeans, left standing in modest matching underwear. She plucked at the waistband nervously. "If I knew…" she muttered, "…I would've worn something cuter."

Joon-ho crossed the space in two strides. His fingers brushed her straps, his voice low against her ear. "I don't care what you wear. I care what's underneath."

He unclasped her bra with an efficient flick. The straps slid down her arms, the cups falling away to reveal her breasts, nipples already peaked in the cool air. His hand ghosted along her waist before he hooked her panties down, letting them drop to the floor.

Her skin prickled, every nerve alight. She giggled softly, nervous and shy, but when he guided her onto the bed, she obeyed. She lay face down across the sheets, cheek to the pillow, the curve of her body glowing pale under the low light.

The sound of the oil cap twisting open filled the silence. Then his hands—warm, slick with oil—pressed onto her shoulders.

Mirae let out a sharp breath the instant his thumbs dug into her knots. "Ahhh—" The sound spilled from her lips before she could stifle it.

"You've been holding too much," Joon-ho murmured, his thumbs circling firmly into the tense muscles where her neck met her shoulders.

Her answer came in a broken sigh. "Always… here. Every schedule, every shoot… it builds until my head feels like it'll crack."

"Headaches?" he asked, his voice steady as his hands worked her.

"Mmm—" she moaned softly, nodding into the pillow. "Tension. Especially these past few weeks."

He pressed deeper, his thumbs pinning down a knot and rolling it out with practiced control. Mirae gasped, the sound high-pitched, but her body yielded under his strength. Her shoulders softened, her arms sinking boneless into the bed.

"Oppa…" she whispered, half-moan, half-gratitude.

He said nothing, only continued. His palms glided down her back, spreading the oil, the pressure strong and slow, dragging heat into every inch. Her spine arched subtly under his touch, goosebumps chasing his hands as he mapped her body.

Her lips parted, breath shaky. "Feels… so good… I think I could melt."

He leaned down, his mouth brushing her nape in a feathered kiss. Her body jolted at the contact, her moan caught between pleasure and need.

His hands widened across her lower back, palms firm as he molded the tension out of her. Then, with deliberate weight, he pressed into the round curves of her ass, kneading them as though sculpting.

"Ahhh—" Mirae gasped again, hips twitching instinctively under the pressure. "That—ahhh—"

Her thighs shifted, opening slightly, betraying how the massage was unraveling her restraint.

"Relax," he murmured, his voice a steady anchor.

"I can't—" she whimpered softly, trembling as his thumbs dug into the base of her ass cheeks. Her hips lifted faintly, her pussy brushing against the sheets, already damp.

His hands slid lower, spreading her legs more. He worked into the inner thighs, oil-slick fingers pressing and stroking into the tight muscles.

Every push sent a twitch through her legs. Mirae's voice broke into moans that grew needier with each pass. "Oppa—ahhh—don't—nghh—"

But her protests were hollow. Each press closer to her core made her hips jerk, her pussy glistening, wetness trickling down her inner thighs until it soaked faintly into the sheets.

Joon-ho's hands teased along the edge of her mound but never touched directly. He brushed close, the heat of his fingers making her clench around emptiness, but he refused to give her the contact she craved.

"Don't tease me," Mirae begged, muffled into the pillow. "Please… Oppa, don't tease me."

He ignored the plea, shifting back up to her shoulders, palms pressing down firmly, kneading until her entire body felt boneless.

She was caught between relief and frustration, her back arching subtly with every stroke. Her body had turned into a live wire, every nerve ending tingling.

And then—suddenly—she felt it.

The heavy heat of his cock, thick and hard, rubbing against the cleft of her ass as he leaned forward.

Her breath hitched, a broken whimper spilling from her lips. "Ahhh—"

Without thinking, she pushed back, grinding her hips against him, the oil-slick slide of his cock gliding along the curve of her ass.

"Please…" she whispered desperately. Her voice cracked with need. "I need you…"

Joon-ho's low growl vibrated hot against her ear. "Turn around."

Her whole body shivered at the command. Slowly, she rolled onto her back, hair spilling across the pillow in a dark, tangled halo. Her legs spread instinctively, thighs slick, wetness glistening between them.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him above her—cock thick, veined, standing hard, already rubbing against her swollen entrance.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling breaths. "Oppa…" she whispered, every syllable a plea.

He lowered, kissing her deeply, tongue claiming hers as his cockhead pressed against her pussy lips, sliding through her slick folds, coating itself with her arousal.

Each rub teased the inevitable, her hips jerking up to meet him, desperate for him to fill her.

The therapy was far from over—it was only beginning.