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Summary
The closest Jongho will ever get to heaven, he thinks, is buried between Wooyoung’s thighs, his name a prayer on those lips he’s never tasted.
Burning for eternity wouldn’t be so bad. Not really. Not if he could remember the press of Wooyoung’s lips against his throat, soft, plush, and warm. Not if he could carry the memory of Wooyoung saying his name like it’s something holy, something worthy of reverence, when he comes undone.
Jongho was told very clearly, three years ago, by a gruff deep voice over the phone who had introduced themselves as Mingi: Wooyoung does not kiss his clients. A universal boundary, non-negotiable.
Even after three years, a small fortune, and hundreds of nights together, Jongho still doesn’t know what those lips taste like.