CHAPTER NINE : DESIRE, BLOODLINE
944 Words
Tin carried Style into his car, all windows closed and tinted, sealing them away from the world. The silence inside was suffocating, thick with tension, desire, and unspoken words.
“What do you want from me?” Style’s voice trembled with anger and yearning. “You kissed me and left!”
Tin’s breathing was ragged, his voice low. He wanted to apologize, but the words tangled in his throat. What he wanted — what consumed him — was to hold Style, to mark him as his, to silence the scavengers who circled.
Style’s sidelong, drunken, begging look made him go insane.
“Why did you run away? Why did you kiss me and then vanish?”
A soft groan caught in Tin’s throat, the last remnants of his denial utterly shattered by a fierce, consuming longing. He surged forward, his lips crashing into Style’s with a desperate, bruising hunger. The kiss was a chaotic collision of jealousy and unadulterated need. Style tasted sharply of whiskey and scotch, a burning, intoxicating vice that Tin drank in greedily. Deepening the kiss until their breath was shared, Tin buried his fingers into Style’s jawline, anchoring him close as a violent tremor of desire rippled through his entire frame.
Style wanted to resist, but his heart betrayed him. He was already a fallen man, undone by Tin’s intensity.
The kiss spoke of possession, of jealousy, of awakening. Tin’s lips moved with urgency, his breath mingling with Style’s, his body pressed close. Every touch was a declaration, every movement a plea.
Style’s anger melted into yearning, his hands clutching Tin’s shirt, pulling him closer. He climbed onto Tin, straddling him, his body trembling with defiance and desire. Tin’s lips left Style’s mouth, trailing down to his neck, sucking with hunger, marking him with jealous possession.
"Tin" Style mourned in a voice that turned Tin on even more.
The fabric of their trousers offered scant barrier to the burgeoning tension between them; Tin's hardening length was starkly palpable through the cloth. Style began to sway his hips in a slow, rhythmic thrust, matching the desperate tempo of the kisses Tin showered along the crook of his neck.
Tension mounted as clothes began to slip away, the imminent promise of bare skin sending a jolt of anticipation through them both. But before the garments could be fully shed, an abrupt, unwelcome disruption cut the air, forcing them apart in a state of disheveled, breathless frustration.
The phone began to ring — once, twice, then continuously. Tin’s father’s name flashed across the screen, the sound cutting through the haze of passion. Tin froze, his chest heaving, his lips still pressed against Style’s neck.
He answered at last, his father’s voice thunderous. “Tin, Optiven is taking over our three clubs. Do you hear me? They are moving fast, and you sit here distracted.”
Tin’s voice was hoarse, his pride burning. “I am going right now.”
His father’s tone was cold. “Do not forget the bloodline. Do not forget your duty. Weakness is death.”
Tin ended the call, trembling, torn between duty and desire. Style, still on top of him, whispered, “You can’t keep running from this.”
Moments later, Victor appeared, knocking at the window. “Sir, I’ve been knocking for the last thirty hours. I wanted to call, but you hate disturbance.”
Tin cursed under his breath. “Disturbance? Now I’m in trouble with my father. Our clubs are going down. Mobilize the squad.”
“They’re already mobilized,” Victor replied.
Tin stepped out, apologizing briefly to Style, pressing his forehead against his in a fleeting gesture of intimacy. Then he left for the battlefield, leaving Style blushing, smiling, yet fearful.
Style stayed in the car, waiting for the driver. He checked his pockets only to realize he didn’t have his phone. His blush deepened, torn between fear for Tin and the lingering warmth of his kiss.
Style sobered up, his body trembling from the intensity of what had just happened. He put his shirt back on, ready to leave, when a driver arrived. “I’ve been sent by Tin,” the man said.
A smile spread across Style’s flushed face. The driver took him home, where Luca was waiting with his belongings. Luca had a spare key and was already inside.
Luca apologized, his voice hesitant. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” Style asked, confused.
That was when Style discovered the truth: Luca had been the one to inform Victor of their whereabouts. He also learned that Luca and Victor had once been close friends in the orphanage before Victor ran away and joined the mafia.
“So tell me, what did you do?” Luca asked.
Style’s smile was sufficient answer. His face glowed, his heart still consumed by Tin’s kiss.
Yearning and Intensity
Style sat alone later that night, his heart consumed by Tin’s kiss. He replayed every moment — the hunger in Tin’s eyes, the desperation in his touch, the way denial collapsed into passion. He feared for Tin, who had gone to battle, but he also feared for himself. He was falling, deeper and deeper, into a love forbidden by tradition and shadowed by jealousy.
Tin, meanwhile, marched into battle, his mind haunted by the taste of Style’s lips. Every strike, every command, was fueled by the memory of that kiss. He told himself he hated it, hated Style, hated the weakness it revealed. Yet beneath the fury was truth: he had never wanted anyone before, and now he could not let go.
The battlefield roared with violence, but Tin’s heart was elsewhere.
- Writer
