Joona & Grayson hook up

Joona’s penthouse didn’t whisper money - it murmured control.

The elevator opened directly into the living space, no key, no foyer. Just dark stone floors, high ceilings, and cold, considered minimalism. The kind of place where nothing had fingerprints and every surface dared you to try leaving one.

Grayson stepped inside behind her, momentarily disoriented. The view from the twenty-fifth floor wrapped around them in floor-to-ceiling glass. Downtown Manhattan twinkled like a lover showing off.

Joona kicked off her heels with a graceful flick, already halfway across the room.

“You live alone?” he asked, voice steady but softer now.

“Obviously,” she called over her shoulder.

He followed.

Her dress, backless and flowing, moved like oil in moonlight. Every step sent a subtle sway through her hips. The confidence wasn’t performative - it was elemental. He watched her as one might study fire: mesmerized, unsure how close to get before burning.

Joona poured wine at the bar. No offer - just poured. Red, full-bodied, no preamble. She handed him a glass like a deal sealed with her eyes, not her lips.

He sipped. It was bold. So was she.

“You always bring people home this quickly?” he asked, a note of teasing.

She took a sip, never breaking eye contact. “Only when I know how it ends.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And how’s that?”

Joona smirked. “However I want it to.”

Her fingers toyed with the neckline of her dress, pulling it down just a bit - not enough to expose, but more than enough to promise.

Grayson set his glass down, stepping closer. Their bodies brushed - heat met heat. His hand found her waist, thumbs circling over the bare dip of her lower back.

“You know,” he murmured, “you’ve got this reputation for being untouchable.”

“That’s because most people don’t get this close.”

His hand slid higher. She didn’t stop him. Their mouths met - slow at first, testing the tension, then faster, hungry. He pushed her back against the bar, lifting her easily, and Joona let her legs wrap around his hips, her dress hiked high as his hands roamed her thighs.

She kissed him hard, biting his lip just enough to draw a sound that wasn’t quite pain.

“You like being in charge,” he breathed.

Joona leaned close to his ear. “No. I am in charge.”

Grayson laughed softly, but there was a shift - an instinctive awareness that the dynamic had never been equal.

They moved to the bedroom - or rather, she led him there, walking backwards, pulling his hand, her voice a whisper against the darkened walls.

The bed was king-sized and low to the ground, black sheets rumpled from earlier naps or late-night music planning. Joona pushed him down onto it, straddling him effortlessly.

She peeled his shirt open, buttons flicking against his chest. Her hands mapped the landscape of him - broad chest, defined abs, a body sculpted more for show than for use. But she didn’t mind. He was just a stage.

He ran his hands up her thighs, over her hips, to the small of her back. “You’re incredible,” he whispered, and she believed it - because she made it true.

But then something faltered.

He rolled her to her back, suddenly eager, looming over her as if reclaiming some imagined dominance. His hand reached for the zipper on her dress.

And Joona froze.

Not visibly - she kept her smile - but in her mind, something growled. A part of her, long submerged, uncoiled.

Jon.

Jon Kekyll, in a voice both remembered and forgotten, stirred. "He thinks this is his story again." Joona’s breath hitched - barely. Her eyes flicked to her bag, half-unzipped on the armchair. Inside, nestled beneath her lip gloss and phone, was a black, rectangular god.

The RAC. The Reality Alteration Controller.

A pulse fluttered in her wrist. Heat licked between her thighs - but not from desire. From decision. Grayson kissed down her collarbone, mumbling something about how she tasted expensive. Joona let her fingers trail toward the chair. She gripped the RAC, its touchscreen blinking quietly to life with her touch.

In one hand: an ambitious man trying to conquer her.

In the other: the device that could turn him into something much, much better.

She didn’t even hesitate. As he fumbled with her bra strap, she opened the interface. And she started typing.