My whole body pulls taut, every bound limb straining against the ropes, and I come hard, untouched, spurting across my stomach, trembling so violently I think something might snap. But he doesn’t let me go. He holds me there—inside, deep, his palm steady on my thigh as I shake apart under him.
The orgasm crashes over me in waves, brutal, exhausting. And when it’s over, I’m not breathing right. I’m twitching, drenched in sweat, brain short-circuited like a dying thing. My cock’s a mess, twitching and drooling onto my stomach, the air thick with sex. My thighs are fucking numb. I’m floating, barely aware of the ropes cutting into my skin, only that I’m limp and ruined and completely spent.
Naoya withdraws his fingers slowly and stands, and when he’s back, he kneels beside me with a warm, damp cloth.
He wipes me down, dragging the cloth over my stomach first, soaked with come. The heat of it is weirdly nice. Calming, even. I’m basically dead weight, all slack muscles and half-lidded eyes, letting him do whatever.
My head’s still fogged when I catch the tent in his pants—he’s hard.Real fucking hard.The fabric of his dark sweatpants’s pulled tight over it. It makes my lips twitch.
“You’re hard,” I say, voice hoarse as hell.
He doesn’t look up, just keeps cleaning the mess around my dick like it’s nothing new.
“Of course I am. You’re an attractive man.”
“Knew you were into all this shit.”
“I never said I wasn’t.”
“You can stick it in if you want.”
“There’s no need.”
“Fine. Use my mouth then.”
He lifts his gaze just for a second, one eyebrow raised like he’s bored and amused all at once.
“There’s no need,” he repeats. “Tonight was about you.”
I stare at the ceiling, heart still punching slow and heavy.
“Will there be a next time that’s about you?”
He folds the cloth, sets it aside, and then starts undoing the knots, one by one. Each one looser than I remembered.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come back.”
“Why the fuck not?”
He pulls the knot free with a firm tug.
“Because I’m attracted to you,” he says simply. “And I won’t be able to stay professional.”
I scoff, even though my throat’s tight.
“Good. I don’t want you to stay professional.”
He looks at me, and for the first time tonight, he smiles. It curls at the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to let it happen.
Then, quieter, he says, “I have to stay professional. For this.”
“What the fuck isthissupposed to mean?”
“This,” he repeats, gesturing vaguely to the room. “The kinbaku sessions. What youpayfor.”
“So I’ll stop paying, then. Easy.”
That earns me a quiet snort, the smile still hanging off the edge of his mouth, a little crooked now.
