I wrapped my hand around him, giving a slow, lazy stroke.
“Good morning to you too,” I whispered with a smirk.
His lips found the curve of my neck, warm and familiar, as his fingers trailed up and cupped a breast. His thumb brushed over my nipple, teasing it to a sharp point before his mouth followed. I gasped as his tongue circled, slow and deliberate, until I was squirming beneath him.
His hand slid between my thighs, and he found me already wet. I parted my legs without hesitation, welcoming him, wanting more. His fingers grazed me, then dipped in just enough to make me moan.
Then he was gone.
Only for a second before I felt him again, lower this time. His mouth on my stomach. His lips trailing heat as he kissed his way down. And then.
“Oh—fuck,” I breathed as his tongue swept over me.
He devoured me like he owned me. He knew exactly what I liked, what made me gasp and made my hips jerk.
And God, I was unraveling.
My fingers gripped the sheets, then his hair, holding on as his tongue moved in that slow, devastating rhythm. His arms locked around my thighs, keeping me in place even as I tried to squirm. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring. He always did.
The pressure built fast, sharp and tight.
“Jiro… don’t stop.”
As if he would.
He moved faster, more focused, his tongue stroking exactly where I needed him, until.
The orgasm slammed into me, white hot and blinding. I arched off the bed, a cry torn from my throat, my hands fisting in his hair. But he didn’t let up. He kept going, mouth relentless, tongue dragging me through every last wave until I was shaking and gasping and completely wrecked.
When I could finally breathe again, he crawled back up my body, leaving a trail of kisses across my skin—soft and worshipful. His mouth found my breast again, licking, sucking, until I was arching into him all over again.
I reached between us, finding him, still thick with need. I guided him to me, my legs already parted.
He thrust into me in one slow, smooth stroke, and I gasped. That first push always did me in. The stretch. The way he filled me like nothing else ever had. And then his weight settled on top of me.
We moved slowly at first, bodies flush, my legs wrapped tight around his hips. I dug my fingers into his back, urging him faster, deeper. He didn’t hesitate. His rhythm shifted, his hips snapping against mine, each thrust stealing another breath from my lips.
I was close again. Too fast.
“I’m nearly there,” I gasped. “Come with me.”
Jiro growled against my throat, his pace brutal and beautiful as an orgasm crashed over me again, stealing my breath and flooding my veins. I shook beneath him, legs locked around his waist as he thrust deep one final time, spilling into me with a groan and collapsing against my chest.
His weight pinned me down. Exactly how I liked it.
“I love you, Akiko,” he whispered against my skin.
I smiled, breathless. “I love you, too, Jiro.”
The taxi stopped outside what used to be the House of Sakamoto—Chef Sakamoto’s signature restaurant. Déjà vu hit the moment I stepped out. The neighborhood hadn’t changed: still industrial, still lined with nondescript buildings.
For a second, I was that same girl arriving under gray skies, convinced she was stepping into the opportunity of a lifetime. Too eager to notice the coldness in the air.
Now all I could feel was the weight of what this place had done to me.
Jiro paid the driver, and we stood there, facing the place we’d almost never walked away from.
“Thank you for coming,” I said quietly. “I know this is hard for you too.”
