I tried to stand, slipped on the slick bottom of the tub, and went under completely, coming up coughing, water streaming down my face, soap burning my eyes.
Hana’s laughter cut through my flailing. “Kaneko-san, you bathe like you are fighting the water, not cleansing yourself.”
I wiped my eyes and found her kneeling beside the tub, one eyebrow raised, a hand covering her mouth.
“I was just—”
“For the gods’ sake, sit and be still.” She retrieved the soap with practiced ease and began washing my shoulders. “You men, everything must be a battle.”
Despite my embarrassment, something in her tone made my lips quirk. It wasn’t quite a smile, but close.
She spread soap, then strong fingers dug into knotted muscles. I groaned at pain trailed by pleasure, the release of tension and months of fear. Her hands were a magic no monk or priest could ever know.
She was a goddess.
The whole thing should have been uncomfortable, humiliating even, but as sensual and caring as her touch felt, there was something almost clinical about it, too, as though she performed a task that required care but no particular emotion.
She worked her way down my arms and across my chest. I lay back against the metal basin, and her fingers traced the muscles there—lean and corded from years of hauling nets and working boats, my body hard in ways hers was soft.
Then her hand slipped beneath the water.
I froze. My eyes popped wide.
Still, I couldn’t move, could barely breathe.
Her fingers wrapped around my manhood, and for a moment, there was only shocked silence. Then her eyes widened, and she looked up at me, genuine surprise on her painted face.
“Are you not pleased with me?” Her head bowed.
I fumbled for words, my face burning. “I—that is—you—Hana—”
Understanding dawned in her eyes, and slowly, carefully, she withdrew her hand. She said nothing, did not explain or apologize or acknowledge what had just happened, simply continued the bath, washing my legs and feet, her expression professionally neutral once more.
But something had shifted. Some assessments had been made.
When she finished, she helped me from the tub and dried me with soft towels that smelled of lavender, then led me back to my chamber, where new clothes waited. Unlike the sheer silk from the night before, these were slightly less revealing—though not by much.
The outfit was akimonoof sorts, but cut in a way I had never seen. Deep blue silk hung open in the front, refusing to close properly no matter how I adjusted it. It left half my chest exposed, the fabric barely covering my shoulders before draping loosely down my sides. The pants were fitted, clinging to my legs and hindquarters in ways that felt almost obscene.
I tried to pull the front closed. It wouldn’t stay. I tried again, holding it with one hand while I adjusted the other side. The moment I released it to tie something, it fell open again.
“Perhaps if I just . . .” I grabbed a towel and attempted to use it as a makeshift belt.
“Kaneko-san,” Hana said, her voice carefully controlled. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to make this close!” I pressed one arm against my chest, attempting to walk while holding the fabric in place. Imust have looked like I was trying to hold my insides in after a particularly nasty flick of aSamurai’skatana.
Hana’s careful composure cracked, and a laugh escaped—bright and genuine—before she caught herself.
“It is meant to be worn that way. To show off your . . . assets.”
“This is . . . I can’t—”
“Youcan,” she said, still smiling. “And youwill. Kaneko-san, you are not unpleasant to look at, and our customers enjoy looking. Now come. We have much to cover today.”
She paused, her eyes still dancing. “And please stop trying to strangle yourself with your own clothing.”
Chapter 9
