You knew exactly what you were doing when you left that notebook out on the dark mahogany surface of his study desk.
It wasn't an accident. It couldn't have been. For three months, that little leather-bound journal had lived under the velvet lining of your jewelry box, acting as a vault for the thoughts you couldn't even voice to your own reflection in the mirror. Every filthy, degrading, beautiful fantasy you had ever conjured up during those long hours when Jeon Jungkook was away at the corporate headquarters—fantasies born from the sheer, overwhelming weight of his presence—had been poured into those pages in careful, trembling black ink.
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