Chapter Text
You sit at the kitchen island, forcing down bites of the eggs and toast Sanemi slid in front of you earlier. The food is good, perfectly scrambled, toast buttered just right…but every swallow feels mechanical. Your body is still humming from the dream, skin too sensitive, your pulse feels too aggressive between your legs.
Tengen left ten minutes ago, waving cheerfully, promising to “keep the flashy energy alive” until Sanemi kicked him out with a grunt. Now it's just the two of you, the air quiet and charged. The kind of silence that presses in on all sides.
You finish the last bite, set the fork down carefully.
“I should get ready,” you say. Voice steadier than you feel.
Sanemi nods once. “Clothes are in the guest bathroom.”
You slide off the stool, legs shaky under you, and head down the hall. The guest bathroom door is ajar; inside, your usual work outfit is laid out on the counter like it was planned, your charcoal pencil skirt, cream blouse, underwear, bra, low heels. Everything is professional and nothing is out of place
You close the door softly behind you.
The mirror shows a woman who looks composed on the outside, but inside you're a mess. The dream replays in fragments, with his hand on your ass, fingers curling inside you, that low growl calling you needy little slut. Your clit throbs in response, insistent, refusing to be ignored.
You change quickly, zipping up the skirt and buttoning your blouse, clasps on your bra digging in like they always do, everything fits just like it did yesterday and you look like you are ready for another day at work in the tower. Almost like you are ready to pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened.
But when you smooth the skirt over your hips, the fabric brushes against sensitive skin and you have to bite your lip to keep quiet. You're still wet, still aching in a quiet way that you can’t fix right now. Still imagining what it would feel like if he pushed you against this counter right now, hiked the skirt up, and…
Stop.
You splash cold water on your face and breathe, you tell yourself it's just hormones. Just a stupid dream. Just proximity and stress and the fact that he's been orbiting you like a dark star for weeks.
It doesn't help.
And when you step back into the living room, Sanemi is already dressed for the day. A black button-down rolled to the elbows, dark jeans, boots. Keys in hand. Jacket slung over his shoulder. Looking exactly like the man who's about to drive you to work like nothing's changed.
He looks up. Eyes flick over you, professional, put-together, skirt hugging your hips and something dark flashes in his gaze before he masks it.
“Ready?” he asks.
You nod but its shallow. “Yeah.”
He heads for the elevator and you follow quietly behind.
The ride down is silent except for the soft ding of floors. You stand close, too close in the small space. His arm brushes yours once and you flinch like he just shocked you. He doesn’t comment of your jumpy movements, but you swear you can see the start of a smirk creeping onto his lips.
In the garage, he opens the passenger door of the black SUV like always and you slide in. He gets behind the wheel, the engine purrs to life.
The city starts sliding past the tinted windows and You're gripping your bag in your lap so hard your knuckles ache.
Every red light feels like torture. Every time he shifts gears, the flex of his scarred forearm makes your stomach flip. You keep picturing it, him reaching over, putting your hand on his thigh, sliding higher, watching his grip tighten on the wheel, hearing that low growl from the dream turn real.
It’s completely unprofessional and breaks every rule there is. It would most definitely get you fired, and into deeper trouble that you can handle…but god it's tempting.
So tempting your thighs press together again, trying to ease the ache.
He glances over at a stoplight, catching the slight movement and his jaw ticks.
“You okay?” Voice rough, quiet.
You force a smile. “Fine. Just… ready to get back to work.”
Lie.
But he doesn’t push, he only nods and accelerates when the light turns green. And all too quickly do you see the tower looming ahead.
He pulls up to the private drop-off lane, the same spot as every morning. Kills the engine, but doesn't move to get out. You unbuckle and let your hand find the door handle.
“Thank you,” you say. “For… last night. The ride. Everything.”
He looks at you, his pale eyes searching your face like he's trying to read something you haven't said.
“Call if you need me,” he says, the same line as always. But quieter this time, almost like he is wishing that you didn’t have to get out and go to work. But you ignore that and give him a soft nod and open the door and step out. The cold air hitting you like a slap, just enough to clear your head of the Sanemi laced fog that's been lingering in the forefront of your mind since before you woke up.
You close the door and walk towards the lobby without looking back, even though you want to. Your feet want to run, but your brain tells you that the danger is behind you now that you are out of the car. And you definitely don’t turn around and climb back in and beg him to take you somewhere private and finish what your subconscious started.
You simply go inside and swipe your badge and ride the elevator up to the twenty-eighth floor and sit at your desk. Open another redacted file and pretend that your body is still screaming for a man who hasn’t even touched you yet.
It’s the right decision, but you barely remember the day.
It passed in a haze of blacked-out PDFs, half-heard meetings, and the constant, humiliating throb between your legs that refused to quit. Every time you crossed your legs at your desk, the dream flashed with his palm cracking down, thick fingers curling deep, that low growl calling you a desperate little slut while you came apart on the leather couch. You’d squeezed your thighs together under the desk more times than you could count, face burning, pretending to study spreadsheets while your mind supplied every filthy detail in high definition.
By five-thirty you were a complete wreck. Professional looking to the wandering eyes, your blouse still tucked, skirt perfectly straight, heels clicking softly on the tile floors. But inside you were soaked, and still aching. Your mind just wouldn’t leave the dream alone, it replayed over and over again until you thought you were going to go insane. You wanted to take a shower and forget about all of this but then your mind drifted to the dream where he pinned you against the shower wall and fucked you senseless there.
You stepped out of the Tower’s revolving doors into the cooling evening air, your bag slung over your shoulder, already pulling out your phone to call him like always.
You didn’t need to.
The matte-black SUV was already idling at the curb, same spot, engine purring low. Sanemi leaned against the passenger door, arms crossed, silver hair catching the streetlights. He looked exactly like he had this morning, same black button-down, dark jeans, that same unreadable intensity in his pale eyes. but now there was a faint tension in his shoulders, like he’d been waiting longer than usual.
He straightened when he saw you and opened the door for you. You slid in and the familiar scent of leather and something more metallic hits you like a drug. Your thighs clenched again before you could stop them.
“Long day?” he asked, voice rough as he pulled into traffic.
“Blur,” you muttered. “Yours?”
“Same.” He didn’t elaborate and the silence that followed was heavier than usual, loaded with everything neither of you was saying.
He drove straight to your apartment building instead of the penthouse. You didn’t argue. You needed your own space, your own bed, your own head cleared of whatever the hell was wrong with you.
He parked illegally at the curb, killing the engine.
“I’ll walk you up,” he said. Not a question.
You almost told him no, but the dream flashed again with his body caging yours and the sting of him stitching you open so easily, and the words died in your throat.
“Ok.”
The lobby was empty in the same way it always was this time of day, and taking the stairs was a easy task since you only has a couple of floors to climb. But your keys jingled a little too loud in the hallway but maybe you were just on edge.
At your door he held out a hand. “Keys.”
You handed them over, He didn’t just unlock it.
He drew the gun from the holster under his jacket. A matte black, suppressor already threaded on like he’d been expecting trouble all day. The sight of it in his scarred hand sent a fresh, traitorous pulse straight to your core.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered quietly, voice calm but like he was ready to drop a body in your living room if he needed to.
He moved like a liquid shadow.
The door cracked and the gun up, two handed on the grip. The barrel sweeping the dark entryway. And room by room he cleared your small apartment like this was a covert operation. He checked behind the couch, and the kitchen alcove. Every motion precise and trained, his muscles shifting under the button up like a predator who had done this a hundred times and never missed a mark.
You followed, heart hammering for an entirely different reason now.
Bedroom next. He swept the closet, under the bed, and the bathroom. The gun never wavered. When he finally lowered it and clicked the safety back on, the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction.
“Clear,” he said. “Pack a bag.”
You blinked. “What?”
His phone buzzed before you could argue and he answered it on the first ring, and listened for ten seconds before he replied.
“Copy, all hands on deck. Lock it down, no one leaves the base until I say.” He pauses for a moment listening. “I'll handle it.”
He hung up and looked at you.
“A rival crew tried to breach the Tower perimeter an hour ago. Multiple vehicles, armed. Security repelled them, but we’re in full lockdown. No one in or out until we confirm it’s clean. Your apartment isn’t secure enough tonight, you’re coming back with me.”
Your stomach dropped. The dream fog burned away under cold reality.
“Breached? Like… actual danger? To me?”
His eyes met yours, dead serious, no smirk, no teasing. “They know you work there. They know you’re connected to me. I’m not leaving you here alone. Pack clothes, toiletries, whatever you need for a few days. Now.”
The gun was still in his hand. The way he’d cleared your apartment in that efficient, lethal, protective way made it impossible to doubt him. This wasn't a corporate drama, this was real. People with guns had tried to get into the building where you worked. And Sanemi was the one standing between you and whatever came next.
You moved fast.
Duffle bag from the closet. Jeans, tees, underwear, bra, toiletries, charger,your laptop. A jacket. Everything shoved in with shaking hands while he stood in the doorway, gun holstered but hand resting on it, eyes scanning the window, the hall, every shadow.
Three minutes later you zipped the bag.
“Ready.”
He took it from you without asking. Slung it over his shoulder. Guided you out with a hand at the small of your back, firm and steady, and lead you out the door. You took the stairs again, and stayed slightly behind him the entire time. He scanned the small lobby before he held the door open and let you out onto the street. He was quick in unlocking the SUV and making you climb inside before you scanned the area and hopped in, locking the doors before the engine had even turned over.
The drive back to the penthouse was silent except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of his earpiece feeding updates. You stared out the window, heart still racing, thighs still treacherously warm.
The danger was very real and the ache the dream had left behind had eased slightly at the threat to your safety. It was still lingering, but there was going to be no relief for you anytime soon. You had no choice right now but crawled back into the devil’s den and took his protection. It was for safety, but how long were you going to be able to live like this?
With the man who’d starred in the filthiest dream of your life standing right beside you, armed, protective, and looking at you like he’d burn the whole city down before he let anything touch you.
You swallowed hard, this was going to be a long lockdown.
The SUV merged smoothly into evening traffic, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows in long golden blurs. You stared straight ahead, duffel bag wedged between your feet, hands clenched in your lap. The adrenaline from the lockdown announcement still buzzed under your skin, but now it was mixing with something else: confusion, frustration maybe, a stubborn refusal to just accept this new escalation without pushing back.
Sanemi drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. His jaw was set, eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror every few seconds like he expected tails.
You broke the silence first.
“Why your place?” you asked, voice sharper than you intended. “I mean a lockdown, fine, it's dangerous, i get that. But there are other options, right? A hotel? My office building has security. Hell, even a friend’s couch. Why does it have to be your house again?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just signaled, changed lanes, waited until the next red light before speaking.
“Because it’s the easiest way to keep you safe.”
You turned in the seat to face him. “That’s not an answer, that’s a deflection.”
His fingers tightened on the wheel. “It’s the truth. My building has private access, biometric locks, cameras everywhere, armed security in the lobby twenty-four seven. No one gets in without me knowing. Hotel? Too many variables the front desk, housekeeping, shared walls. Your office? Half the staff already left when the alert went out. Friend’s place? You’d be dragging them into this mess too.”
You exhaled through your nose. “I’m not helpless. I can-”
“You’re not helpless,” he cut in, voice low but edged. “You’re my responsibility.”
The words landed like a slap.
You stared at him. “Excuse me?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “You heard me. The boss hand-picked you for the project. That makes you a target by association. I’m security, I’m the one who’s supposed to make sure nothing touches you. That means I don’t farm it out to some random hotel or a friend who doesn’t know how to spot a tail. It means I keep you where I can see you. Where I can control the perimeter. If someone comes for you, they have to go through me first.”
Your chest tightened. “So I’m… what? Your job?”
He glanced at you then—quick, sharp, eyes pale and unreadable in the dashboard glow.
“You’re more than that,” he said quietly. “But yeah. Right now? You’re my responsibility. And I don’t half-ass responsibility.”
The light turned green, he accelerated.
You stared out the windshield, heart pounding harder than it should. “This feels like you’re just… taking over. Like I don’t get a say.”
“You do,” he said. “You can say no. I’ll drop you at a safe house the family keeps downtown with armed guards outside the door, no contact with me. Or a hotel under a fake name with one of our guys in the lobby. But those options come with more people involved. More risk of leaks. My place? It’s just us. No middlemen. No extra variables, it’s the cleanest play.”
You swallowed. “Just us.”
He didn’t repeat it, he didn’t have to for you to understand. The city blurred past again, neon signs, brake lights, the low hum of the engine filling the silence.
You shifted in the seat, the skirt of your work outfit riding up slightly. You tugged it down, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, how the heat from his body seemed to leak across the console. The dream from this morning flickered at the edges of your mind again and you tried to shove it down and bury it because that was the last thing that needed to happen.
“This is temporary, right?” you asked. “The lockdown. A few days, max?”
“Hopefully.” He flexed his hand on the wheel. “We’ll know more when I get back to the Tower tomorrow. Until then… you stay put.”
You looked at him, his profile sharp in the passing streetlights, scar pulling at the corner of his mouth, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“And if I still say no?” you pressed. “If I tell you to drop me at a hotel and walk away?”
He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter.
“Then I’ll do it. But I won’t like it, and I won’t stop watching your back. It will just be from farther away.”
You stared at your hands in your lap. The duffel bag at your feet felt like surrender.
“Fine,” you said at last, voice small and reluctant. “Your place, for now.”
He exhaled once, the sound leaving him sounded more like a sigh than his usual gruff response. And from there the rest of the drive passed in silence. No radio or cursing under his breath as a car cuts him off in traffic. Just two people stuck in a vehicle with too much tension for very different reasons.
It felt like forever but once he pulled into the underground garage of his building and parked the car, he killed the engine and neither of you moved right away. There was so much that needed to be explained and you knew already that he wasn’t going to tell you anything.
After a moment of staring straight ahead he finally turned to you and looked at you for the first time in what felt like all day.
“You’re safe,” he said simply “I’ve got you.”
Your throat tightened and you nodded once just to reaffirm what you already knew. This man has proven to you that he isn’t going to let anything happen to you and you knew it. So you did the only thing left that there was for you to do. You grab your bag and slip out of the SUV and follow him to the elevator.
Even as the numbers climbed you realized between floor twelve and the penthouse that you didn’t put up much of a fight because deep down you know you didn’t want to. Even with every ounce of logic in your brain telling you to run, the idea of it being just the two of you wasn’t nearly as scary as you thought it would be.
Not anymore.
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse, the familiar city glow spilling across the dark wood floors. Sanemi stepped out first, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, gun holstered but hand still resting near it like habit. You followed the weight of the day and the lockdown settling heavier with every step.
He didn’t bother with a grand tour, you had already lived between these walls. Cooked here and slept in the bed just down the hall to your left. Slept in his stolen hoodie on the very couch that was already begging you to sit down and take a breath.
“Spare room’s yours again,” he said, voice low and matter-of-fact. He carried your bag down the short hall, set it just inside the door without stepping in. “Bathroom’s still stocked, put new towels in after you left. You know where the kitchen is.”
He didn’t bother to linger, or ask if you needed anything. He just gave you a quick once over checking you for any visible signs of panic and then headed straight for his own bedroom without another word.
The door clicked shut behind him.
You stood in the hallway for a long second, listening to the faint sound of water starting in the ensuite shower. Your pulse was still elevated from the drive, from the gun, from the way he’d said you’re my responsibility like it was both a fact and a vow.
The nerves that had been brewing all day felt sharp and restless, the very thing that demanded movement out of you. So you wandered into the kitchen instead of unpacking anything.
The fridge was still stocked the way it had been last night. You pulled out chicken breasts, bell peppers, onions, rice. Something simple was in order, and stir fry sounded like just the thing. And you find yourself falling into the familiar motions of the chore, aiming to keep your mind and hands busy instead of spiraling back to the dream, or this lockdown. The fact that you were officially staying here for who knew how long.
The knife hits the cutting board, and the peppers are sliced into the neat little strips, the onion is next. You season the chicken and sear it in a hot pan. All in the hopes that you could cook away whatever this feeling was, even as the sizzle of the meal fills the all too quiet penthouse. You focus on the rhythm, the stir and flip. Tasting and adjusting where you needed. Anything at this point to give yourself the false comfort of normal life.
You were halfway through, with the vegetables softening and the chicken was mostly cooked when you heard the bedroom door open. You didn’t turn to see him, because you could feel his eyes on you as he emerged. Turning slowly you are temporarily speechless for what you see.
Sanemi emerged from the hall shirtless, towel slung low around his hips, silver hair damp and sticking to his forehead in messy strands. Water droplets traced paths down the scarred map of his chest and abs, disappearing into the deep V that dipped below the towel. Every line of him looked like carved muscle and scar tissue. Like he’d been built for violence and was trying, very hard, not to use it right now.
He didn’t speak to you, but just passed right by the kitchen, his bare feet silent of the floor and slid the balcony door open. Allowing the cool night air to rush in, and stepped outside. He leans down to a low table and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, in a way that shouldn’t look as sexy as he makes it seem. The flame flared briefly with orange against the darkening sky, and he exhaled a long stream of smoke over the railing, his shoulders loosening for the first time all evening.
You stood frozen at the stove, spatula in hand, staring at his back through the glass.
The broad expanse of it. The way the muscles shifted when he took another drag. The fresh bruises blooming purple along his ribs, ones you hadn’t noticed earlier under the shirt. The towel clung dangerously low, barely hanging on. One wrong move and…
You swallowed hard and turned back to the pan. Stirred harder than necessary. The food smelled good, comforting and normal. But nothing about this felt normal at all. Before you could distract yourself anymore, you quickly plate two portions, and set them on the island with forks and some napkins. Pouring two glasses of water out of habit for yourself, and then you found yourself hesitating.
He was still out there.
Backlit by the city lights, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers, and staring out at the skyline. You walked to the sliding door. Opened it just enough to lean out.
“Dinner’s ready,” you said. Voice quieter than you meant.
He turned his head slightly, profile sharp in the low light. Took one last drag, crushed the cigarette on the railing, flicked it over the edge and stepped inside.
The water on his skin had dried, but the way his towel still hung low, forced you to look away quickly. The man was clearly not ashamed of his body with the way he didn’t bother to cover up. He just walked straight to the island and pulled out a stool and sat down, like this was the most normal thing in the world for him to do.
You slid onto the stool across from him and he looked at your plate and then directly at you.
“You didn’t have to cook.”
“I needed to do something,” you admitted. “Nerves.”
He simply nodded once and picked up the fork and took a bite. “It’s good.”
You exhaled finally, like his approval over your mediocre cooking skills needed praising and started eating too.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, it just felt thick. Like it was loaded with everything neither of you have said. The gun, the lockdown, the way he cleared your apartment like it was second nature. The fact that you found yourself sharing a space with him again, for an undetermined amount of time.
He ate slowly, like he did most of the nights that he took you out to eat. And just like then his eyes flick up to you after a few bites, like he is checking that you are enjoying the meal, his eyes lingering for a moment too long on your mouth and how you hold your fork.
You tried not to notice the small things, but like always you failed. When the plates were mostly empty, he leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his bare chest.
“Thanks,” he said again, softer this time.
You met his gaze. “You’re welcome.”
He stood then, his towel slipping a dangerous fraction lower before he caught it with one hand.
“Shower’s free if you want it,” he said. “I’ll clean up.”
“I’m gonna… unpack,” you said finally.
He nodded once. “Spare room’s yours. You know where everything is.”
You turned toward the hall.
But at the doorway you paused and looked back. He was already stacking the plates, his muscles shifting under that beautiful scarred skin. Your throat went dry as you let your eyes travel lower and notice the slight dimples he had in his lower back.
“Goodnight, Sanemi.”
He glanced up.
“Night.”
You disappeared down the hall before you could do something stupid.
Like asking him to stay shirtless a little longer. Or ask why the sight of him smoking on the balcony, half-naked and bruised, made your pulse race faster than any threat of danger ever could.
The spare room door clicked shut behind you.
You leaned against it and tried very hard not to think about how long this lockdown might last.
Because the longer it went…the harder it was going to be to pretend you didn’t want him to cross that line for real.
You closed the spare room door behind you and leaned against it for a second, breathing slow and deliberate. The penthouse was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside the windows. Your duffel bag sat untouched on the bed. Unpacking could wait. Everything could wait.
You needed a shower, just something to wash off the day. Between the fear of the lockdown and the lingering heat from the drive, hell even to the way Sanemi had looked shirtless on the balcony, with water still beading down his scarred chest and that towel that was more for show than function and cigarette smoke curling into the night like the owned the darkness himself.
The guest bathroom was familiar now and you stripped out of your work clothes and let the fall into a soft heap. Turning on the water and stepping under the rainfall showerhead. The hot water hit you immediately, pounding against your shoulders and back. The steam rising fast as you melt under the pressure.
You reached for the guest body wash, which you only had to guess was the same one that Sanemi kept in his bathroom. Because when you popped the top and smelled it the overwhelming fragrance of him hit your senses. Woodsy and strong in scent, just like him. You layered it over your arms and chest, letting the suds move with the cloth to your stomach. Your hands move on autopilot at first, then slower.
The dream from this morning crept back in without permission. His voice in your ear-“Greedy little cunt can’t get enough, huh?”-while he pinned you to the couch. The sting of his palm and the stretch of his fingers. The way he’d fucked you in this very shower, water cascading over both of you, his hips snapping forward until you were sobbing his name.
Your hand drifted lower without conscious thought. Fingers brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, then higher. You gasped softly when you grazed your clit that was already swollen and slick despite the hot water. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t.
But you did.
You leaned your forehead against the cool tile, eyes squeezed shut. One hand braced on the wall; the other circled slow, teasing, then faster. You pictured him behind you, his chest to your back, one scarred arm banded around your waist, the other guiding your hand exactly where he wanted it. His low growl in your ear: “Come for me again, sweetheart. Show me how bad you need it.”
Your breath hitched and your thighs trembled. The pressure built fast, coiling tight in your belly. You bit your lip to stay quiet, but a soft whimper escaped anyway. How his fingers slipped inside. Two, then three, curling the way he had in the dream. Your hips rocked forward into your own hand, chasing the rhythm, chasing the fantasy of him filling you, claiming you, ruining you.
It hit hard.
A choked sob tore out of you as you came. Your walls fluttering, thighs shaking, knees nearly buckling under the spray. You rode it out, panting, until the aftershocks left you boneless against the tile.
Then reality crashed back.
You had just gotten off to the thought of a man who was currently in the next room, shirtless and no doubt smoking again. Protecting you from actual real danger while you touched yourself like some desperate, guilt ridden teenager.
You shut the water off and dried yourself fast. Pulling on the soft pajama set from your bag, nothing more than some loose cotton shorts and a oversized tee. No bra because everything still felt too sensitive. Your hair still damp, your face flushed, and your pulse still racing.
You padded out into the living room barefoot, telling yourself you just needed water, or air, or anything that wasn’t being alone with your thoughts.
He was on the couch.
Shirtless still, but now in low-slung gray sweatpants that clung to his hips and thighs in a way that should be illegal. Hair dry and messy, silver strands falling into his eyes. Laptop balanced on one knee, screen glowing blue against his scarred chest. Brows furrowed, looking pissed off at whatever was on the screen. Reports, maybe, or messages from the others.
He glanced up when you entered, his eyes flicked over you in the pajamas, legs bare, hair damp and then back to the laptop. But not before you swore you caught the quick flare of heat in his gaze.
You hesitated in the doorway.
Then,. because standing there staring felt worse than talking, you walked over and sat down on the opposite end of the couch. Pulled your knees up, and hugged them to your chest like a shield. He didn’t close the laptop, he just kept typing something short and sharply hitting the keys.
You swallowed, because you needed to say something, anything. The silence was suffocating and your body was still humming. Sensitive and clearly unsatisfied despite the orgasam you just had in the shower.
“So… um.” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “What’s on the screen that’s making you look like you want to punch it?”
He exhaled through his nose and closed the laptop slowly. And set it on the coffee table.
“Security logs, Nothing new.” His voice was rough, tired. “Just confirming no one followed us back.”
He leaned back against the couch, arms stretched along the backrest, one hand close enough that if you shifted you’d brush it. He didn’t look at you right away, just stared at the dark windows, the city lights reflecting in his pale eyes.
“You okay?” he asked finally.
You laughed once, a short, shaky response. “Define okay.”
He turned his head and met your gaze. “You’re shaking.”
You hadn’t realized. Your knees were trembling slightly against your chest. You pressed them tighter.
“Just… adrenaline crash, I guess. The lockdown thing mostly.”
He studied you for a long second, something flickered in his expression. Maybe concern or suspicion you couldn’t tell which.
“Or something else,” he said. Not accusing. Just… knowing.
Your stomach flipped and you looked away towards the balcony doors. Taking in the night that laid just outside, anything but looking at his bare chest and the scars that told a story you didn’t want to know. And the way his sweatpants rode low enough to show you the deep cut of his hips.
“I’m fine,” you lied. “Really.”
He didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push.
Instead he shifted, stretching his legs out. One foot nudged the coffee table close, and the movement brought him just a fraction closer to you.
“Talk,” he said. Simple. “Whatever’s eating you. I’m here.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, the pent up ache between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, sitting this close and smelling the woody cedar and smoke lingering from him was making it worse. Your thighs press together under the pretense of hugging your knees, and it did nothing to help.
“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Everything feels… too much right now. The danger and you.”
He went still and you risked a glance at him.
His eyes were on you in that intense way he was so good at. Unblinking and waiting for you to explain more.
“Me?” he echoed. Low.
You nodded once and swallowed. “Yeah. You.”
The silence stretched thick and electric. But he didn’t move any closer, he just watched you. Like he was giving you space to decide what you wanted to do next. And God help you, every nerve in your body was screaming to close the distance between you so you could finally get some kind of relief.
All you had to do was crawl the shirt distance across the couch, and find out if the real thing could compare to the absolutely filthy dream you had.
But you didn’t, because you are a chicken. You just sat there, pent up and trembling. Talking about nothing and confessing everything while the ache built and built and refused to let you breathe easy.
And Sanemi Shinazugawa sat beside you, shirtless and silent, letting you unravel one quiet confession at a time.
Sanemi watched you for a long time after his question of why he was on your mind, and then stood. Slow and deliberate, his sweatpants riding so dangerously low that you could see the neat line of hair that pulled your eyes to where they disappeared into the band of his sweats. He walked to the small bar cart tucked against the wall.
He didn’t ask you what you wanted, he just poured.
Two fingers of bourbon into a lowball glass for himself. The amber liquid catching the low kitchen light. Then he reached for a bottle of red wine. Something dark and expensive-looking and poured a generous glass for you. Not too much, but enough that when he turned the red liquid spilled a little on his large hand.
He carried both back to the couch. Handed you the wine without comment. Sat down again, but this time closer. The space between you had shrunk from two cushions to barely half. His bare shoulder was resting against your, and you could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
You took the glass, and felt how to stem was cool to the touch. At the same time he lifted his bourbon in a small silent toast and took a slow sip. His eyes never leaving your face.
“Drink,” he said quietly. “It’ll take the edge off.”
You did as you were told. One sip and then another. The wine was smooth and rich. Warming you from the inside out. IT didn’t erase the ache between your legs or the way your pulse jumped every time he shifted, but it dulled the frantic edge of it. Made the room feel a little less overwhelming to be in.
He leaned back again, one arm draped along the couch back, fingers close enough that if you leaned even slightly, they’d brush your shoulder.
“You’re safe here,” he said after a moment. Voice low, rough from smoke and exhaustion. “I won’t let anything or anyone touch you without your permission.”
The word landed in that heavy and possessive way that he was so good at. Laced with that dark and teasing undercurrent that made you want to just throw caution to the wind and beg him to touch you. It was dangerous and you shouldn’t listen to it, so instead you tease him back just a little.
You swallowed another sip of wine. “That sounds like a threat and a promise at the same time.”
His lips twitched but you saw the smart of a smirk playing on his lips. “It’s both.”
You stared at the wine in your glass. Swirled it. “I have questions.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to answer them.”
“No.”
You exhaled through your nose. “Why?”
“Because you don’t need to know.” He took another sip of bourbon. “Knowing makes you a bigger target. Keeps you up at night. Makes you look over your shoulder in places you shouldn’t have to. I’m not doing that to you. Not when I can keep you safe without it.”
You looked at him then. This shirtless scarred and bruised man, sitting there like a wall between you and what was outside those windows. The bourbon glass rested on his thigh, his fingers flexing once or twice around it.
“You’re asking me to trust you,” you said softly. “Blindly.”
“Yeah.” There was no apology in his tone. “I am.”
Silence stretched again. The city lights flickered outside. The wine was already loosening the knot in your chest. After a moment he sat his glass on the coffee table and turned more fully toward you.
“Alright,” he said. “You want trust? Let’s build some. Right now.”
You blinked. “What?”
He held out his hand palm up, scarred and steady waiting for yo to take it.
“Trust fall. Stupid, I know. But it works.”
You stared at his hand like it might bite.
“You stand up,” he said quietly. “Turn your back to me. Cross your arms over your chest. Fall backward. I will catch you. That’s it.”
You laughed once short and nervous. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Probably.” His eyes didn’t waver. “But it’s simple. You either believe I’ll catch you or you don’t.”
Your heart was pounding again for a different reason now. You set the wine glass down and stood slowly. The pajama shorts ride up your thighs as you move and you couldn’t help but tug them down self-consciously.
He stayed seated, legs spread slightly, ready. You turned your back to him. Crossed your arms over your chest like he’d said. Stared at the dark windows, your reflection faint against the glass.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Fall anyway.”
You took a breath and then let yourself tip backward. For one terrifying second you were weightless, and committed. There was no turning back as your stomach dropped. But then as soon as you were sure that you were going to hit the ground a pair of strong arms shoot out to catch you.
One banded around your upper back, the other under your thighs. He pulled you against his bare chest in one smooth motion, cradling you like you weighed nothing. Your head tucked under his chin. His heartbeat thudded steady against your shoulder blade.
You exhaled shakily but he didn’t let you go right away. He held you there against his chest, so close and warm. Until your rapid breathing evened out.
“See?” he murmured against your hair. “Caught you.”
You swallowed. “You did.”
His arms loosened slowly and he helped you sit up, but didn’t rush to push you away. If anything he held onto you and adjusted you so that you ended up half in his lap, legs draped over his thighs, his hand still resting on your lower back. And neither of you moved to fix it.
You looked up at him finally, you were close enough that you could see the flecks of silver in his pale lilac eyes. Notice the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow and the way his pupils had dilated in the low light of the living room.
“Still don’t trust me?” he asked quietly.
You licked your lips. “I… I think I do.”
His thumb brushed a slow circle on your back barely there, but enough to make your breath hitch.
“Good,” he said, voice rougher now. “Because I’m not letting you fall again.”
From the wine and adrenaline and the proximity even the stupid trust fall. All of it crashed together and you found yourself leaning in just a fraction. And to your surprise he didn’t pull away. The space between your mouths shrank to next to nothing. And for the first time since you had slipped into this world you wondered what would happen if you closed it completely.
You were frozen in his lap, his hand resting warm on the small of your back. Both of you just staring into each other's eyes like there were answers waiting in them. It felt like an eternity as the moments slipped by. The silence wasn’t empty, but thick and electric. Every breath you took pulled more of his woodsy cedar scent into your lungs. His thumb resumed its slow absent circle against your spine, impossible to ignore. Each pass sent a fresh ripple of heat down your back and pooling low in your belly. Reminding you that the shower orgasm had barely taken the edge off and solved absolutely nothing.
You could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your side. Steady and unhurried and completely at odds with the frantic rhythm of your own. So finally when the quiet started to feels like pressure you finally spoke.
“So… trust fall. Check.” Your voice came out softer, huskier than you meant. “What’s next on the trust-building agenda? Blindfolded knife-throwing? Russian roulette with water guns?”
A low huff of laughter escaped him more exhale than sound. His chest vibrated against you.
“Thought about making you close your eyes and guess what I’m holding,” he murmured. “But that felt too easy.”
Your pulse jumped. “And this isn’t?”
He tilted his head so his mouth was closer to your ear. close enough that his breath ghosted over the shell of it.
“This,” he said quietly, “is me proving I’m not going anywhere. You can push if you want, you can run that pretty little mouth or freeze up and pretend you are fine. But I'm still here, willing to catch you.”
His fingers flexed once against your back, reminding you that they were there and you swallowed hard.
“And if I push right now?” The words slipped out before you could stop them. Barely a whisper. “What happens?”
He went still. And for one endless second you thought he might pull away. Stand up or change the subject. But instead he shifted slow and deliberate until his free hand came up to cup the side of your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, feather light.
“Then you push,” he said, voice gravel and smoke. “And I decide whether to let you win… or pin you down until you stop fighting yourself.”
Your breath caught audibly and his eyes darkened, pupils blown in the low light. His eyes lingering on the way your lips parted and the way your chest rose and fell too fast.
“But not tonight,” he added, quieter. Almost gentle. “You’re still shaking and wired from the day. I’m not taking advantage of that.”
You searched his face looking for the lie, any sign that he was just teasing you for being so on edge. Something that would make it easier to dismiss your own growing feelings and allow you to move on.
But you found none.
Just steady, pale eyes that held yours like they were memorizing every flicker of your expression.
“I’m not shaking because I’m scared,” you whispered.
His thumb stilled against your lip.
“No?” The word was rough and you could hear the hunger laced in the single word.
You shook your head once, barely any movement at all.
“I’m shaking because I keep thinking about what happens if I stop pretending.”
The admission hung between you raw and reckless, impossible to take back now. And his grip on your tightened in a possessive way that made you shiver with unspoken hope.
“Then stop pretending,” he said, voice so low it vibrated through you. “Right now. Tell me what you want.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Because you could lie, laugh it off. You could so easily slide off his lap and retreat to the spare room and pretend this conversation never happened. Instead you lifted one trembling hand and placed it flat against the center of his bare chest. RIght over the worst of the scars, feeling the heat of his skin and the steady thud of his heart beneath.
“I want…” You swallowed and tried again. “I want to know what it feels like when you’re not holding back.”
His eyes flared and For a heartbeat he didn’t move.
Then slowly he leaned in until his forehead rested against yours. Close enough that you could smell the bourbon and smoke on his breath. He smelled like danger and god help you, you wanted to know exactly what that danger tasted like.
“I’m not holding back because I don’t want you,” he said, each word careful and measured. “I’m holding back because once I start, I’m not gonna stop until you’re begging me to. And I need to know you’re ready for that. Really ready. Not just wound up from a bad day and too much wine.”
Your fingers curled against his chest, nails biting faintly into scar tissue.
“I’m ready,” you breathed.
He exhaled harsh and shaky, like the words punched the air out of him. Then he pulled back just a fraction of an inch so he could look at you properly.
“Prove it.”
Your brows drew together. “What?”
“Prove it,” he repeated, voice darker now. “Kiss me like you mean it. No pulling back the second it gets real. If you can do that—if you can let me taste how much you want this—then we’ll see what happens next.”
Your heart was in your throat as you stared at his mouth. So full and parted, tempting you as you can see the edge of his teeth. You lifted your hand to his jaw, feeling his rough stubble and the tension he carried in his jaw.
And you closed the distance
You kissed him like you’d been starving for it. Lips crashing, teeth clashing, tongue sliding against his in a desperate, hungry sweep. You poured every ounce of pent-up want into it. The dream flashes, the shower, the trust fall, the lockdown fear, the way he’d looked shirtless on the balcony with smoke curling from his lips.
He groaned low and guttural into your mouth. One hand fisted in your hair at the nape, tilting your head exactly how he wanted it. The other slid under your tee, palm flat and hot against your bare back, pulling you flush against his chest.
The kiss turned filthy fast. Wet, open-mouthed, douvering each other the only way you knew how. His tongue stroked yours in slow, deliberate drags that made your hips rock forward without permission. You felt him harden beneath you in an instant, thick, pressing insistently against your thigh through the sweatpants.
He broke away just long enough to rasp against your lips:
“That’s it.”
Then he took your mouth again deeper, harder, like he was trying to crawl inside you through the kiss alone. And you were trembling not from nerves, but from the sheer want. The terrifying certainty that you just crossed a line you could never uncross. And for once you didn’t care, not even a little.
Sanemi broke the kiss with a low, ragged sound that vibrated straight through your chest. His forehead rested against yours for half a second. Breaths mingled, hot and uneven before he decided.
In one fluid motion he stood, taking you with him. Your arms locked around his neck on instinct; your legs wrapped tight around his waist like they’d been waiting for permission. The movement pressed your core right against the hard line of his cock through the sweatpants. Thick, insistent, already straining. You gasped into his mouth as he started walking, every step grinding you against him in the most torturous rhythm.
He never stopped kissing you as you passed through the living room and down the short hallway. Not even when he shouldered open the door to his bedroom.
His tongue stroked deep, claiming, while one big hand palmed your ass to hold you up and the other fisted in your damp hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted it. You clung tighter, thighs squeezing his hips, whimpering every time he rolled against you slow, deliberate, letting you feel exactly what you’d done to him.
The back of your knees hit the edge of his bed.
He laid you down like you were something precious and breakable at the same time. Slow, controlled, never breaking the kiss until your back met the dark sheets. Only then did he pull back just enough to look at you.
You were sprawled beneath him, tee rucked up, shorts twisted, lips swollen, eyes glassy. He braced one knee on the mattress between your legs, caging you without fully pinning you yet.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “All flushed and shaking… still trying to pretend you’re not soaked for me.”
His hand slid up your thigh slowly and possessively and slipped under the loose hem of your shorts. Fingers brushed the edge of your panties and found them drenched.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’ve been like this all night, haven’t you? Thinking about me.”
Your face burned and you tried to turn away, but he caught your chin, forcing your eyes back to his.
“Answer me.”
“…yes,” you whispered.
His smirk was slow, dark, and satisfied. “Good girl. Honesty gets rewarded.”
He kissed you again hard and then pulled back to reach into the nightstand drawer. You heard the soft click of it opening and when his hand came back he was holding a sleek black vibrator. Small and curved, clearly expensive. The sight of it in his scarred fingers made your stomach flip.
“You’re gonna take this,” he said, voice low and commanding. “I want you desperate first. I want you to feel exactly how much control I have over this pretty little body before I fuck you properly.”
He clicked it on. The low, steady buzz filled the room and you whimpered. He pressed the tip against your inner thigh, teasing and nowhere near where you needed it watching, satisfied as your hips twitch.
“Arms above your head,” he ordered softly. “Keep them there. If you move them, I stop. Understand?”
You nodded frantically, raising your arms.
He rewarded you by sliding your shorts and panties down in one smooth tug, leaving you bare from the waist down. Then he pushed your tee up, exposing your breasts, and leaned down to drag his tongue over one nipple slow, while the vibrator finally, finally pressed against your clit.
The first buzz ripped a moan out of you. He held it there, watching your face with dark, hungry eyes.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your skin. “Let me hear how much you need this. How long you’ve been aching for me to take care of you.”
He circled the toy slowly, then pressed it firmer, changing the angle until your back arched off the bed.
“Sanemi-”
“Shh.” He nipped at your other nipple. “ You’re mine tonight. And I’m going to make you come so many times you forget every question you ever had about me.”
The vibrator hummed higher and your hips jerked. He pinned one thigh down with his free hand, holding you open, forcing you to take every sensation exactly how he gave it.
“Eyes on me,” he growled when your lashes fluttered. “I want to watch you fall apart knowing exactly who’s doing it to you.”
You obeyed. And the first orgasam built fast and overwhelming, inevitable you realized with a dizzy and helpless thrill. He wasn’t holding back anymore, and you didn’t want him to.
He kept the vibrator pressed firm against your clit steady and unrelenting, while his other hand pinned your hip to the mattress, keeping you from bucking away when the sensation edged too sharp. Your arms stayed obediently above your head, fingers curled into the dark sheets like they were the only thing tethering you to reality.
“Look at me,” he ordered again, voice low and dark. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
You forced them open, glassy and pleading, and locked onto him like he wanted. And he rewarded you by cranking the toy up one notch. Instantly your back arched hard and a broken moan tore out of your throat. Your hips jerked uselessly against his hold.
“That’s it,” he murmured, leaning down so his mouth hovered just above yours. “Show me how good you can be for me.”
The buzz was merciless now, circling and pulling wave after wave of heat through your core. You were dripping, slick coating your thighs and the sheets beneath you. Every muscle in your body pulled tight and trembling on the brink of release.
“Sanemi-please-”
“Please what?” He dragged the toy away for one cruel second, just long enough to make you whine. then pressed it back harder. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me exactly what this greedy little cunt needs.”
You were beyond shame, beyond anything that would ease the ache you wanted relief from.
“More,” you gasped. “Inside-need you inside-need to come on you.”
His eyes flared dark and triumphant.
“Not yet.”
He shifted the angle of the vibrator so the curved tip nudged right against your entrance teasing and dipping in just the barest inch before pulling back. Your walls clenched around nothing, desperate, fluttering.
“Look how fucking wet you are,” he growled, voice thick with hunger. “Making a mess all over my toy. All over my bed. You’ve been thinking about this since that first morning I picked you up, haven’t you? Sitting pretty in my passenger seat, thighs pressed together, pretending you weren’t already soaked for me.”
You couldn’t deny it. Couldn’t speak. Just nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the relentless build.
He finally pushed the toy deeper slowly, Letting you feel every inch as it stretched you open, curved perfectly against that spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
Your mouth fell open in a silent scream.
He worked it in and out. Shallow at first, then deeper, while his thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight, merciless circles.
“Come,” he commanded, leaving no room for argument. “Come right now, show me how hard you fall when I let you.”
And you shattered so beautifully for him. Harder than the shower and harder than anything you have ever felt before.
Your whole body locked up, back bowing off the bed, thighs clamping around his wrist. Your walls pulsing violently around the toy as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. You sobbed his name brown and raw, Your nails digging into your own palms because you refused to move your arms.
He didn’t stop.
He kept fucking you through it with the vibrator with slow, deep drags. Drawing the orgasm out until you were shaking, oversensitive, begging incoherently. Only when your hips started jerking away from the intensity did he finally ease the toy out. Clicked it off and tossed it aside.
Then he was on you.
Caging you beneath him, forearms braced on either side of your head, hips slotting between your thighs, cock heavy and leaking against your soaked entrance. He kissed you slow this time.Tasting the salt of your tears, the wine still on your tongue.
“You did so fucking good,” he murmured against your mouth. “Took it so pretty for me.”
You whimpered, still trembling and needy. He reached between your bodies. Fisted his cock. Dragged the head through your slick fold teasing your swollen clit and nudging at your entrance.
“Ready?” he rasped. “Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you can’t take anymore.”
You nodded frantic, desperate, your arms finally dropping so you could clutch his shoulders.
“Please-”
He pushed in. One long, relentless slide thick, hot, stretching you open until he was buried to the hilt. Your head fell back on a choked moan. He groaned deep and guttural. His forehead dropping to your shoulder like the feel of you was almost too much.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Made for this cock, weren’t you?”
He pulled back slowly, then snapped forward. Hard. Deep.
You cried out.
He set a brutal rhythm, pulling almost all the way out, and slamming back in, grinding against your clit with every thrust. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, louder than your moans, louder than the city outside.
He fucked you like he owned you….because tonight he did.
One hand wrapped around your throat, holding you without too much pressure. The other pinned your hip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
“Look at me,” he growled again. “Watch who’s ruining you.”
You did. Your eyes locked on his pale one that were wild and utterly focused on you
He leaned down, mouth against your ear.
“Come again,” he ordered. “Come all over my cock. Milk me. Show me you’re mine.”
That was all the permission your body needed to do exactly as he demanded. And you shattered for a third time that day. Harder and louder than you’ve ever been. Your walls clamping down so tight he cursed under his breath. And he fucked you through it, his pace relentless until his rhythm stuttered. His hips slamming deep one last time before he came with a broken groan. You feel the hot, thick pulses of his release filling you, marking you as his property from the inside.
He stayed buried in your neck, panting until the aftershocks faded. Only then did he ease out slow and careful. Watching the way his cum leaked out of you with a dark and possessive satisfaction on his face. He collapsed beside you, and pulled you against his chest. His arms banded around you like he wasn’t ever willing to let go again.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
He rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you ended up tucked against his chest, legs tangled, his heartbeat thudding steady under your ear. For a few quiet moments he just held you his big hand stroking slow circles over your back, the other resting possessively on your hip.
Then he shifted.
“Stay,” he said, kissing your forehead before sliding out of bed.
You watched him still dazed and floating as he disappeared into the bathroom. You could hear the water run, and a cabinet being opened and closed. He returned with a warm, damp washcloth and a small towel. He knelt on the edge of the mattress, and spoke to you gently.
“Open,” he said softly, nudging your thighs apart.
You did, cheeks burning despite everything that had just happened.
He cleaned you up with careful strokes, wiping away the mess of both of you, soothing the sensitive skin between your legs. Every pass was tender, like he was handling something fragile and priceless. When he was done he patted you dry, then tossed the cloth aside and climbed back in beside you.
He pulled the comforter over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders before gathering you close again chest to chest, your face tucked under his chin, one of his legs slotted between yours.
“You were so fucking perfect,” he whispered into your hair. Voice rough, but softer than you’d ever heard it. “Took everything I gave you. Let me have you.”
His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers lacing together.
“I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you walk into that meeting room,” he admitted quietly. “All buttoned-up and professional, trying to act like you weren’t nervous as hell. Couldn’t stop looking at you. Couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to get you out of that skirt, to hear you say my name like you just did. Every time I drove you after that… every time you looked at me like you were trying to figure me out… I had to hold back. Had to wait until you were ready to fall.”
He pressed a slow kiss to your forehead.
“You fell so beautifully tonight. No hesitation at the end.”
You felt tears prick your eyes but not sad ones. Ones that were overwhelmed but safe right here like he said you would be. And you couldn’t figure out why you had ever doubted him.
He must have felt you tremble because he tightened his hold, hand rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades.
“Hey,” he murmured. “No crying unless it’s the good kind.”
“It is,” you whispered. “It’s… really good.”
He huffed a soft laugh against your hair.
“Good girl,” he said again, this time pure praise. “My good girl.”
He reached over and clicked off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness softened only by the city glow through the blinds.
Then he pulled you even closer until there was no space left between you. His heartbeat under your cheek. His breath stirring your hair. His arm like an anchor around your waist.
“Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
You let out a long shaky breath, the last of the tension bleeding out of you and his lips brushed your temple one more time.
“Mine,” he said again, softly.
And as your eyes drifted closed, your body heavy and sated. Finally at peace, you believed him. You were safe, and you were wanted. He staked his claim that you were his, and for the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to give into the care that he was providing you without putting up a fight.
You fell into the arms of the man who waited so patiently, until you were ready to be caught.