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It had started out innocently enough. At first, in fact, you hadn’t even realized that you’d forgotten The Art of War at home as you were returning your other books at the library’s drop-off counter.
Sure enough, mere moments later Mitsunari’s voice followed from across the counter, curt and clipped, his expression drawn tight as he glared in your general direction. As though you weren’t even deemed worthy enough to deserve eye contact.
As usual, then.
“No Art of War, I see.”
“Oh, shoot!” Spinning around on the balls of your feet from where you’d been walking away, you cringed, offering him an apologetic wince that you already knew he’d be sure to ignore. “I forgot.”
“Evidently.”
He still had yet to look up from the rest of the books you’d returned, sorting through them as though lifting his head for long enough to look at you would be far too great an energy expenditure for him to so much as consider.
The idea, however, didn’t take root until later. Until that moment, you’d entirely intended on returning the book— really.
But then, when it came time to return a new batch, your hand hesitated as it lingered over The Art of War before picking it up to flip through it.
“Engage people with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate.”
Maybe it wasn’t time to return this one to the library just yet after all.
&
“No Art of War again, I see.”
His response had been exactly what you expected it to be, cold and disapproving, the corners of your mouth quirking up as you regarded him from across the counter, almost inordinately pleased with yourself.
“Yes, I seem to have forgotten it again.”
“Are you sure you haven’t lost it?” A deadpan drawl, his gaze still avoiding yours, colored his speech, even as you did you very best to contain your rather thorough enjoyment of the moment.
“I’m sure. I was reading it just last night, after all.”
Finally, his head snapped up, his eyes — azure and sapphire — coming to meet yours with some surprise before cold doubt slowly settled in, returning him to his usual, detached demeanor.
At the time, he’d clearly thought you had been lying.
Fool that he was to underestimate you.
&
Following another five times of the same thing, he didn’t seem so sure anymore.
You could see it in his eyes, of course. Where, before, he had regarded you as nothing more than an unsophisticated, insufferable, unintelligent, foolish dullard — he had declared you to be as much the fourth time you had mysteriously forgotten to return the same exact book — now, it seemed, he’d begun to catch onto the fact that you were, quite possibly, doing something this utterly inane and ridiculous on purpose just to get to him.
“Why,” he simply stated — it most decidedly was not a question — as he put a book back in place beside where you’d been standing, not even bothering to look at you while he did so.
“Why?”
“Yes. Why.”
“You want to know why I’m tormenting you like this?”
“I would hardly consider myself to be to the point of feeling tormented, thank you.”
“Oh, good, then you won’t mind if I keep going.”
He didn’t even react, and you were left to wonder how much pent-up emotion — if any — was really lingering beneath the surface, under that perfect veneer you wish you could claw your way under.
“You must think you’re so clever,” he mused, long, lithe fingers placing another book back on the shelf, middle- and forefinger stilling on the spine, not quite yet content to draw his hand back as his gaze remained ahead of himself and most decidedly not on you. “Though I couldn’t even remotely begin to theorize as to what your purpose could be in doing something so utterly… risible.”
He wasn’t laughing, even in spite of his words. Rather, they did little other than drip with the utmost disdain.
“What could you possibly hope to accomplish in quite so flagrantly breaking the law?”
His hand finally fell from the book with an annoying amount of grace as he turned to look at you, his gaze meeting yours as you blinked, the motion almost owlish in its affect.
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit overly dramatic now?”
“Not at all, no. I take the safe return of library books exceedingly seriously.”
“Obviously.”
“Fine.” For once, his voice practically bristled alongside his expression, and you wondered why you didn’t feel more gratification in finally having captured his full attention, that being a capital-t Task in and of itself. “Mock me, for all I care. I will see The Art of War safely returned to these shelves. Mark my words.”
He didn’t bother waiting for you to respond before turning on his heel and stalking off.
&
You were starting to feel concerned when nothing happened after another eight times of you showing up to the library, countless books in tow, no Art of War in sight.
Why wasn’t he grabbing the bait? He wasn’t even flinching anymore, and you were starting to hate him for that, even if just a little bit.
Stepping up to the checkout counter — the same one he was almost always found sitting behind, leaned back in his chair, book casually splayed open on his thigh, one leg neatly crossed over the other, his every sinew giving off the impression that he was simultaneously bored and yet deeply absorbed in the material before him at the same time — you leaned across the countertop.
Anything at all to try and shrink the cavernous distance that seemed to stretch on between the two of you.
Librarian.
Patron.
The two didn’t feel so fundamentally different. Why, then, did it feel so much like you were entire worlds apart?
“You,” you said, your eyes narrowing at him even as he hardly even bothered to lift his gaze in order to meet yours, the predominant emotion in his eyes still bored. “I really do hate you.”
You didn’t mean it. What was worse, perhaps, was that you knew fully well that you didn’t mean it. Were you just so damn desperate to get his attention somehow that you were stooping to trying to rile him up?
Except— no. That wasn’t entirely true either, and you knew at least that much. After all, a part of you did really quite hate him.
Hated him for the astonishing grace with which he traversed these aisles. Hated him for that snooty look on his face — only ever fixed in its place whenever he caught sight of you for whatever reason. Hated him for how stupidly pretty he was, and how intelligent.
How he had you absolutely, pathetically enraptured by his very existence. How you lived for every conversation with him, however brief and punctuated by insult after casual insult, eagerly lacerating your hopes and dreams that maybe, someday, you could know this indomitable, vexing man.
“You’re disturbing me,” he said, not even bothering to lift his gaze up from the page of his book.
“I’m a patron of this library. Where you work. So, unfortunately for you, I’m your problem.”
You watched as his lips thinned, Mitsunari glaring ahead of himself as he snapped his book shut, his glare turning its attention unto you, finally.
“Why do you insist on making me hate you?”
“I—” Your very existence seemed to stagger at that, eyes widening as you stare at him. “What? You got that wrong, because it’s really the other way around–”
“You seem to have made it your personal mission to be on the receiving end of my ire,” he continued, interrupting you without a second thought. “You’re the only one of my patrons that consistently seeks to annoy me, that steals library property, who heckles me solely for what appears to be your own personal amusement—”
It was your turn to interrupt him, throwing your arms up in defeat, eyes rolling so far up into your skull that you weren’t entirely sure that they’d safely return. “You are literally the thickest, blindest person alive!” You had half the mind to just be upfront with him about the plan that — months ago — had seemed like such a genius scheme at the time. Not anymore, however. “Maybe I just… won’t come back anymore! Huh? How about that? Then you’ll never have to see my ugly mug in your precious library ever again!” About to turn on your heel, you instead leaned into him one last time across the counter, eyes narrowed, your words leaving you in a hushed whisper. “And then you can pry The Art of War from my cold, dead hands.”
It took you every last bit of your willpower not to turn back around to catch a glimpse of the look on his face.
&
“Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting.”
Your fingers were running over the lettering as your thoughts inevitably drifted back to Mitsunari and his annoyingly, frustratingly beautiful face when there was a knock at the door of your apartment, and, while you rose with some confusion, it didn’t stop you from going up to the door to look through the peephole.
Except that there was no one there, leaving you to ultimately open the door after theorizing that it was, perhaps, possible that a package had been left on your doorstep.
Instead, Mitsunari stepped into your field of view just as soon as the door swung open, not allowing you even a moment of shock as he forced his way into your apartment, striding in with a truly extraordinary amount of self-confidence.
“Exceedingly trusting, aren’t you? Just opening your door to any random stranger that comes knocking. Absolute idiot. It’s a miracle that I—” He shook his head, picking up The Art of War from where it had been sitting, propped open on the end of your armchair.
“How— what are you— no, no,” you shook your head, still staring at him in shock, the door to your apartment still open as you tried to process the fact that the very man you were just thinking about was currently — and rather smugly — holding the very book you had been trying to use to get to him. “You know where I live?!” you finally managed to demand of him.
“Public records. You have a library card,” he offered, voice bored at best, flipping through the pages of The Art of War before seeming to arrive where he’d intended. “’He will win, who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared.’” Snapping it shut, he granted you naught but a cold gaze — but a gaze nonetheless. “I do believe I told you I would see to this book’s safe return, did I not?”
“By breaking and entering?!”
“You opened your door to me. And you happened to be in the possession of stolen property. Which I am now rightfully repatriating back to the library.”
Your gaze darkened almost as if on instinct, but you didn’t flinch, and you certainly did your damnedest not to let it show. Instead, you tried to look as defeated as humanly possible, a long sigh leaving you as you nodded to the open door with a shrug.
“Well, then. You have what you came for. I don’t see what’s keeping you.”
“Indeed,” he said, making straight for the door right in time for you to shut it in front of his face before promptly grabbing the book out of his grasp in a brief moment of surprise as it flitted across his features.
“‘All warfare is based on deception.’” The quote, as it left you, had taken on an almost lilting quality as you looked back at him from across the room before darting into the next one, Mitsunari, suddenly all fire and rage, hot on your heels.
It was inevitable, of course, that you’d find yourself at a disadvantage. After all, he was a good deal taller than you, and, try as you might, you wouldn’t be able to hold the book out of his reach.
So you pressed it behind your back instead, your hands wrapped firmly around either side of it as you leaned against the wall behind you.
“Insufferable, deceptive witch—”
His hands moved around you to try and maneuver the book out of your grasp, squirming as you fought to evade him. Unfortunately for him, all that had really served to accomplish was to leave him pressed up against you, something Mitsunari realized a moment too late before promptly jumping back from you as though burned, his face rapidly reddening, anger etched into his disgustingly lovely features.
“Ah—! You— you did that—” The last words refused to leave him as he stared at you.
On purpose.
His face is flushed with what seemed to be either anger, exertion, or shame — though it could very well have been a mixture of all three from where you were standing, determined to hold your ground.
“You know,” you slowly started, feeling more determined the longer you stared at that delightful blush coloring his cheekbones, “I’ve come to that damn library every single day after work for weeks.”
“—a dullard like you could benefit from a decent, self-imposed literary education—”
“And not once did you ever so much as bother look at me until I deigned to break the rules.”
“What are you—” The blush only seemed to grow angrier by the second, his eyes widening slowly.
“So come and get your precious Art of War. I’m not moving.”
The silence seemed to stretch on forever between the two of you, cavernous and threatening, a treacherous no-man’s-land he wasn’t entirely certain he could safely cross and remain unharmed, ultimately unaltered.
This time when he approached you, it was slow, methodical, almost scared. No longer did you feel like he was stalking you like a hunter would his prey, watching as Mitsunari took one calculated step after the other, each one second-guessing itself before continuing.
Another step.
Another.
Only once close enough that your bodies were almost touching did his hands come up to rest on either side of you, leaving you to wonder if he was trying very intently and deliberately to keep from actually touching you with his body, after all… or if he was trying to keep you from leaving.
But you seemed to find your answer easily enough, catching sight of the fact that his thumb was trembling almost imperceptibly out of the corner of your eyes… that was, before he had a chance to force it against the wall more solidly, and you realized in that moment that neither of those options might actually be all that close to the truth, after all.
“Succubus,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you, let alone anyone else, to hear. “Damned seductress.”
He hovered just millimeters away from your lips, his gaze flitting back and forth between them and your eyes, as though continually asking the same question he already knew the answer to all too well, if you were really sure about this, if you really did want this—
Deciding not to give him any more time to second-guess his own desire, you leaned forward and closed the distance between the two of you instead.
It was like adding the thinnest of hairline splinters to the Hoover Dam before watching the whole installation burst with barely-restrained force, Mitsunari pressing you back against the wall with the permission your kiss seemed to have provided him, his tongue running against the barely-parted seam of your lips before slipping into your mouth to tease your own.
Pressing your body forward and against his — your hands still carefully cradling that exceedingly precious copy of Sun Tzu's magnum opus — you could hear him groan against your lips before picking you up with surprising ease to push your body into the wall, your legs wrapping about his waist as though they’d simply always known that it was precisely where they belonged.
“Mitsunari,” you breathed out when his mouth actually managed to leave yours to trail a path down to your jaw, lingering at the crook of your neck to bite the skin…
“Don’t,” he warned, pulling back, his eyes darkening further as he looked at you — they’d always looked stormy to you, but this storm looked rather like one you weren’t sure you’d ever actually come back from, not that you were complaining, really — and you couldn’t help it when you let out a soft whine at the loss of contact, your hips grinding forward in a desperate plea for more friction—
“Nn,” he grunted, his hands moving to force your hips to still, however temporarily. “I’m not bedding you against a wall.”
You reckoned, judging from your current position and the personality of the man in front of you, that it was a miracle that he was bedding you at all, so you really had no right to complain in the least, and so, instead… you smiled.
“Don’t let go of that book,” he told you, eyes narrowing as he regarded your smile with near-suspicion, leaving you to wonder if the venom in his gaze was meant for you or himself even as he pulled you away from the wall to carry you over to your bed.
He was stronger than you expected, not that you were complaining, your hands still clasped tightly around either side of The Art of War as he lowered you down and kissed you again.
This time when he pulled away you couldn’t help but whine in rather obvious protest at the loss of his lips against yours, Mitsunari looking down at you somewhat curiously.
“You really are unobservant.”
“… what?”
“Do you really think that I’d be so utterly dreadful at sneaking glances that you’d notice? That I’d stare at you when it would be most gratifying for you?”
“You’ve… been looking at me…”
“Of course I have. Or do you really think I would kiss just any stranger on what was, essentially, a dare? Especially such an absolute dullard such as yourself—”
It was your turn to cut him off with a kiss, leaning into him as you moaned into his mouth, your legs wrapping about his waist anew only for Mitsunari’s hips to involuntarily jerk forward against you, the evidence of his arousal all too pronounced for you to miss, even through his pants.
“Mitsunari—”
This time, when his name escaped you, it was as reflexive as the slight buck of his hips against you, more moan than name, your lips parting as you let your eyes close with the realization of what it would be like to feel him between your folds…
“This,” he suddenly stammered out, his body stilling as he glanced between your bodies as though he were genuinely frightened of his own arousal, “we don’t have to—”
It occurred to you in that moment that it was quite possibly likely that he was downright unfamiliar with his own sexuality, let alone comfortable, that the thought that he could be forcing you would be at the forefront of his mind at a time like this, when he was already reducing you to utter putty in his hands, your own still clutching desperately onto The Art of War.
“You think I don’t want this?” you asked, Mitsunari left to hesitate, still just staring down to the intersection of your bodies, only a handful of layers keeping you from each other by now.
(A few too many, you thought to yourself, and decided to take matters into your own, er, hands. Even if yours were currently somewhat occupied.)
“Mitsunari,” you started, sitting up somewhat, one of your hands relinquishing its hold — if somewhat reluctantly — on the book to gently cup his cheek in your palm, finally drawing his gaze. “I want this. I’ve wanted this badly enough to… hold a library book hostage just so that you’d notice me. But…” and here it was your turn to hesitate, “just because I want this doesn’t mean that you have to.”
“I’ve…” His cheeks colored once more, almost aggressively so, his brows drawn tight even as the look in his eyes seemed surprisingly far away, buried in a vast collection of memories and shame. “I’ve wanted to. On… several… nights. But— I’ve also never—”
The rest of the words seemed lodged in his throat, refusing to budge even remotely as he kept staring at the same loose thread on your sheets.
“’If it is advantageous, move; if it is not advantageous, stop.’”
It was the quote — whispered, barely — that finally seemed to draw his gaze back to meet yours, Mitsunari blinking as a realization finally seemed to strike him with what appeared to be enough force for it to be downright blinding.
“That’s why I— why I… nnh—” If you thought his cheeks were flushed scarlet before, it was nothing compared to the sight before you now, your own eyes widening considerably as your heart jumped leaps and bounds ahead of the two of you in its hope.
Mitsunari cleared his throat, his gaze inevitably falling from yours once more to reattach itself to the loose thread by your thumb. “You… keep surprising me. And…” He stalled again, his blush slowly traveling all the way up to the tips of his ears. “… it’s possible that… you’re… not… entirely… idiotic.”
“I think you’re fascinating,” you whispered, leaning into his ear as an incredible warmth seemed to bloom in your chest, your hand finding his to entwine your fingers. You knew fully well that there was a lot going unsaid between the two of you, but the feeling of his lips daring yours to part once again was more than enough to likewise convince you that all of that could wait, that the only thing that mattered in this moment, right here, right now, was getting to finally, finally feel him, in whatever way he was willing to let you, your whole body relaxing at the sensation of his hand at your waist, slowly gathering up the fabric of your dress to expose more and more of your thigh to his eager and inexplicably curious fingertips.
Feeling them dance up your thigh had you squirming beneath him, all too ready to allow him to explore every last inch of your body as he wished, however he wished, his mouth traveling back down to just under the line of your jaw, suckling at the pulse point there only until he realizes that the threat of his leaving a mark — and one of ownership, no less! — was all too real, Mitsunari promptly moving on down to the crook of your neck to lave attention upon it, instead. His fingers seemed to discover the edge of your panties at the exact same time, and — while you certainly never expected to ever think of fingers as cheeky — you certainly did now.
Mitsunari, as it turned out, was a tease.
He let his fingers run along every damn edge of the front of your panties, even trailing down over the fabric— but only on either side of your entrance, a soft, tortuously sweet tickle that made you wonder if he wasn’t far more knowledgeable about all of this than he had let on at first.
And then it hit you.
“M-Mitsunari, have you been reading—?!”
He pulled back to look down at you, his expression nothing if not affronted.
“Obviously.”
“No, I mean— about… you know—”
“Yes,” he continued, looking more annoyed by your doubting of him by the second. “Obviously I’d take the time out of my day to educate myself with the process of recreational intimacy.”
“I just— didn’t think—”
“Of course you didn’t,” he muttered, and the joy you felt bloom in your chest at the fact that he hadn’t said wouldn't was more than enough for you to know that whatever this feeling in your chest really, truly was, you had it bad for this irritating, smug, know-it-all pedant.
This time, when he leaned in to kiss you, it felt rather like a part of him was trying to — gently — punish you for your insolence in doubting him, his teeth capturing your bottom lip between them as his fingers kept skirting around the very place you wanted them most, running his fingernails over the fabric still covering your core.
“Mm—” you started, before finally pulling back and away from his lips to look at him, eyes wide and desperate. “Please, Mitsunari.”
“And just what exactly are we pleading for?” He didn’t smile, but the smug look still somehow remained, and you marveled, faintly, at his astonishing ability to look perpetually satisfied with himself at every turn.
“You.” You’d long thrown your pride to the wind by now, you reckoned. There was no further need to continue holding out for what he clearly wanted — namely, you begging — if only because something told you, judging by the look on his face and his general personality alone, that he was far more patient than you had ever once in your life managed to be.
That he’d literally tease and torture you with no end in sight on account of the maddening, disgusting amount of self-control that he simply possessed innately.
That he’d rather deprive himself of everything you could hope to offer him before he ever allowed you to get away with not feeling as vulnerable as he likely already felt.
“I want you,” you heard yourself say, your voice only growing in conviction as you looked at him, desperation written on every last one of your features, your muscles long drawn taut at the relentless teasing from his fingertips as they languidly — almost bored — ran over the fabric of your panties, over and over and over again. “I want you so much that I think I might die if you keep this up for much longer.”
And then, for good measure— “Please. I’m begging you.”
His eyes widened for a split second before he returned to his usual demeanor, and you swallow hard, feeling rather like you were at an audition, facing the harshest panel of judges possible.
In a way, it was oddly thrilling, the way he was presently appraising you.
“Have you, by any chance… fantasized about me?”
It was a question that threw you off balance for a moment, until you realized that he was trying to restore balance to the universe for his own sake, your heart seeming to grow three sizes as you squeezed his hand… and smiled.
“Almost every day.”
“Tell me.” And, just like that, his mouth was back on your neck, savoring the sensitive skin there, nipping and kissing as you felt your own cheeks redden at the thought of the many, many times this very man invaded your fantasies. He pulled back only long enough to squint at your reticence, his gaze narrowed as he threw out the accusation, “I can’t hear you.”
You could feel yourself color further as he returned to the task at hand, his mouth moving down to your collarbone even as his free hand momentarily abandoned its quest to turn you into a quivering, pleading mess, instead running up your body, along the front of your dress, only to settle on your breast with a contented sigh.
“I—” you did your best to suppress the feeling of utter embarrassment, swallowing hard as you looked at anything but the man slowly starting to unbutton the front of your dress, his lips forging a slow path over the newly exposed skin. “I used to think… about… you bending me over the returns desk. And… having your way with me.”
He looked up from his work only briefly to meet your gaze. “Did you used to finger yourself?”
How he managed to say that with a straight face was completely beyond you.
“Yes,” you whispered, the blush on your cheeks threatening to somehow overflow, “but— I have… things. To help me along.”
“We won’t be needing those tonight,” he said, and you couldn’t help but wonder where on earth a likely virgin — because that was what he’d implied earlier, wasn’t it? — got off on being so damn cocky.
“Isn’t that a bit presump— ah—!”
His teeth captured one stiff peak between them before Mitsunari allowed himself to suckle on the achingly hard bud, the fabric of your dress pulled aside haphazardly, the lace of your bra bunched up beneath your breast to better grant him access.
“No,“ he simply responded after pulling away, his eyes still studying your nipple as though he’d never seen anything quite so utterly fascinating in his life.
Your shuddered exhale gave away all too well how the sight of him alone seemed to be unraveling you plenty already, but he didn’t appear to take particular notice — or, if he did, then he clearly wasn’t intending on letting you see his acknowledgment of the effect he had on you.
Instead, he worked to undo the buttons keeping the rest of your body still shielded from his eyes, his expression almost lazy as he let it roam, slow and languidly, over your already-exposed skin. You wished, more than anything else in the world, that he’d do as much — but with his tongue, letting his lips continue to blaze a trail down, down…
Watching him casually flick his wrist to open the front of your dress to his eager eyes, you gasped before you could stop yourself, your own gaze locked on his features as he allowed himself to look at you– properly, this time.
It took some time before he opened his mouth again, finally concluding his appraisal of the feminine form — you assumed, at any rate. “You’re overdressed.”
“I—“ You faltered. Was he joking? Surely not– this was Mitsunari you were talking about, after all. “You’re still wearing every last item of clothing you came in here with!”
“Mind your prepositions,“ he muttered, throwing a glare in your general direction, as though your grammar was really and truly worth noting at all in the first place at a time like this, when you both would seemed to have much, much better things to worry about.
Like the fact that he was only just now letting go of your hand long enough to start dragging your panties down and off of you before promptly pausing. Again. Then again, if he was that intent on studying the female body once more — and he certainly seemed to be — then, you reasoned, you could serve to make things a little more interesting for him. After all, you weren’t even sure if there was anything that actually unraveled this impenetrable fortress of a man before you.
And you did want to.
Oh, how you wanted to.
So you drew your knees up slightly before letting them splay open before him, his eyes widening considerably — a small victory — as he took in the sight of the space between your legs. And, as if led by instinct more than reason for once, he let his hand reach out to softly caress the inside of your thigh — up, up, all the way until he hesitated, his fingers hovering over your entrance, gaze flitting up to meet yours with what looked to be no small amount of uncertainty — and undoubtedly more than you’d ever seen color his features before now.
He looked up at you, as if asking for final confirmation, and you found that you almost couldn’t nod quickly enough in your anticipation of his fingers— and, oh, his fingers—
Two of Mitsunari’s fingers were pressed inside of you, even as his gaze refused to leave your face, seemingly fascinated by your every reaction to his touch — the way your lips parted at first, the way your lashes fluttered as you looked right back at him until the rhythmic thrusting of his hand became too much to bear and your head fell back, the way you moaned as you did so—
And, oh, when his thumb found your clit.
You felt yourself crumble, months of pent-up tension seeming to fall to pieces in the wake of his deft fingers, long and dexterous, fingers you knew to be perfectly practiced on at least two instruments (violin and piano), fingers that you’d wished to feel skittering over the soft expanse of your skin for far too long.
“Mitsunari,” you heard yourself whimper for what felt like the dozenth time tonight already, the way his name escaped your throat entirely involuntary as your hips bucked up, desperate for more friction from his fingers, for him to fuck you deeper, harder.
“You make it sound like you’re satisfied with just my fingers,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. There was a certain delight to be found in his tone — just bordering on a hint of annoyance with that fact before he tacked on the question, “are you?”
“No,” you pleaded, practically tripping over the word in your eagerness — no, desperation — to feel more of him, your eyes wide as though your whole body were begging him to take mercy on your presently rather limited patience.
“You’re completely insufferable,” he sighed, haggardness edging its way into his voice as his gaze seemed to flit between your eyes and the movements of his hand, in and out of you at speeds variable enough to drive you to the brink of insanity. Somewhere, far away, you seemed to realize that your fingers had dug into your sheets hard enough by now that letting go seemed a silly afterthought to their true purpose at present — evidently giving away the white knuckle-inducing properties of his thumb on your clit. Almost as if on cue, you could feel yourself start to come, a sharp gasp escaping you as your cunt clenched around his fingers, your eyes widening at the unexpected force with which the sensation struck you.
For a few moments, Mitsunari was quiet, gradually slowing his ministrations as he withdrew his fingers from inside you, just watching you come down from the high he’d managed to aid you in achieving, his voice surprisingly jarring when he ultimately decided to speak again.
“But… all the same…”
Your surprise had you completely entranced when he swallowed, hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly above you before his tongue darted out to wet his lips, seemingly nervous all of a sudden.
“You’re… interesting.” You knew, fully well, that there had to be roughly a million things going through his head in that moment, each one going unspoken, each one more dangerous for him to voice, by his estimation, than the last. And even you had to admit that you were astonished when he decided to actually speak up again instead of leaving it at that, his gaze almost as heated as the red coloring his cheeks. “I wish you weren’t. You’re irritating and ceaselessly annoying. It’s as if you’ve decided to dedicate all of your free time — which you have far too much of, frankly, for a working woman — to being a perpetual thorn in my side. You’re droll at best. And yet, without fail, I’m always… pleased. When I see you.”
You were fairly certain that this was the closest he was going to come — at least for now — to admitting that he liked you, silly boy that he was, your eyes glinting mischievously as your smile widened, his own expression taking on a far more irritated edge in response to your self-evident glee at his words.
“Don’t look so satisfied with yourself; that sort of self-importance doesn’t suit you in the least.”
“I like you, too,” you told him, grinning even in spite of how increasingly incensed — and embarrassed– your words seemed to make him. “Don’t look so scandalized — I know you better than you seem to think I do. That’s why I like you.”
“Well, then.” He cleared his throat, averting his gaze for good measure. “Maybe next time… I can try to satisfy you with… more than just my fingers.”
Finally relinquishing the poor, abused sheets beneath you, your fingers reached forward to grab hold of the front of his shirt, pulling Mitsunari into a kiss.
“Yes,” you whispered against his lips, unable to help the wide smile coloring your features at the thought.