His hand stilled for a moment. “So have you.”
I looked down at myself—at the body his hands were revealing with each piece of ruined clothing that fell away. My time with Sakurai and Hana had transformed me from a fisherman’s son into something else. The House of Petals had fed me well, and Sakurai’s training had done the rest. Muscles corded my arms and chest in ways they never had before. My stomach was flat and hard. Even my hands were different—still callused, though from very different work.
“You’re . . .” Yoshi’s voice trailed off as he took in the changes. His fingers traced a scar on my ribs I’d gotten during training. “What happened to you?”
“What happened to either of us?” I replied.
He met my eyes, and for a moment, I saw the boy I’d known—uncertain, searching, afraid the world might tear us apart again—but then something shifted in his expression.
Determination replaced doubt.
Need replaced fear.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said firmly. “None of it matters. You’re here.”
The cloth moved lower, washing away dirt and blood and years of separation with each careful stroke. His other hand rested on my hip, steadying me—or himself. I wasn’t sure which.
It should’ve felt strange, being touched by another. The only ones to do so for as long as I could remember were Hana and Sakurai. Hana only cleaned, and Sakurai’s caresses were those of a choreographed dancer rather than one who truly loved. Yoshi’s touch held so much more, so many thoughts and feelings beyond expression.
I felt them all. His eyes told me he felt them, too.
The chamber shrank with each passing moment, the air between us charged with something that had nothing to do with our wounds or exhaustion. When Yoshi’s fingers brushed the edge of another scar—this one from my time with thewako—I caught his wrist.
“Yoshi.”
He looked up, and the raw hunger in his eyes made my breath catch. This wasn’t the boy who’d kissed me inexpertly in the rain. This was a fully grown man who learned about wanting, about losing, about the precious rarity of second chances.
“I thought you were dead,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his eyes brimming once more. “For more than a year, I thought those pirates . . . they killed so many . . . I thought—”
I pulled him against me, cutting off his words. He was still fully clothed while I stood nearly bare, but I didn’t care. I needed him to feel that I really was there, that I was still his. His arms came around me, careful of my injuries but pulling desperately tight. We stood like that, pressed together in his tiny chamber, breathing each other in, relearning the shape of our embrace. When he pulled back to look at me, his eyes were dark with something that sent a flare of heat through my entire body.
“Kaneko,” he said, no longer a prayer but a claiming.
The washcloth fell to the floor.
He stared, and I lost myself in his gaze. How long had I dreamed of this moment, of standing before him, being held in his arms, gazing into his eyes and seeing a love that could transcend every tragedy or heartache or pain? Gods, I’d dreamed of this so many times, over so many restless nights.
I could no longer hold back.
With the slightest shift forward, my lips found his. Mine were chapped, where his felt soft and smooth. I had to remember to breathe.
Yoshi’s hands left my back, traveled up my arms to grip the sides of my head, fixing me in place, ensuring our kiss would not—could not—be torn apart.
He drew in air, my air. I gave it freely, wishing he could take all of me into him, that I could live inside him and never leave.
“Take me, Kaneko. I need you. I always need you.”
Gentle passion exploded into ravenous delight as we, freed from our fetters of caution, kissed with the wild abandon of lost lovers reunited. My tongue slipped past his teeth, finding his, touching and teasing until a moan slipped free. I felt him melt into my arms.
Careful not to pull us apart, I reached down and untied the sash around his waist, tossing it aside the moment it pulled free. Hiskimonoopened, revealing his lean, slender torso. I could wait no longer to feel the press of his skin against my own, so I gripped the edge of his robe and yanked it roughly over his shoulders. It fell to the floor, immediately forgotten.
Yoshi shivered but still didn’t pull away.
My hands were on him then, feeling the outline of his shoulders, tracing the muscles of his chest, fingertips prickling against the tiny hairs of his arms—all precious things I remembered, and yet, had somehow forgotten.
His hands found my chest, kneading and pawing into hardened muscle, testing and feeling, as though new and yet familiar.
Neither of us spared a moment for the awkwardness or innocence of youth. We’d traveled that path—together—and now, as men, we wanted none of it. We only wanted each other in every way one could possible desire another. His lips left mine and pressed to my jaw, then my neck, then down to my collarbone.
