Page 12 of Kotori
"Matsumoto-sama."
"Good." His voice is closer now, almost at my ear. "Respect begins with language, but it doesn't end there."
His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and firm through my blouse, and I bite back a gasp. He's barely touching me, just correcting my posture, but every point of contact burns. The scent of him surrounds me—subtle cologne mixed with something uniquely male that makes my head swim.
"Your posture needs correction," he says quietly. "Spine straight, hands folded properly. Like this."
His fingers guide my shoulders into alignment, press between my shoulder blades to straighten my spine. The adjustment brings his chest closer to my back, close enough that I feel his body heat through our clothes. I'm acutely aware of how much larger he is, how easily his hands span my shoulders, how completely he could overpower me if he wanted.
"Breathe," he murmurs when I tense under his touch. "Resistance defeats the purpose."
Breathe. Right. Except his proximity is making that nearly impossible. When he adjusts my hand position, his fingers brush against my palm, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from making a sound. His touch is precise, professional, yet somehow intensely intimate. Every small contact feels like foreplay.
"Proper posture reflects internal discipline," he continues, his voice just above my ear. His breath stirs the fine hairs at mynape, sending shivers down my spine. "Something everyone in this household must demonstrate."
I nod, not trusting my voice. His hands are still on me, still guiding my position, and every second of contact is making it harder to remember why this is supposed to be professional. All I can focus on is the heat of his hands, the strength in his fingers, the way his presence seems to fill the entire room.
"Better," he says, but doesn't step away. "Though you're still fighting the position. Submission should feel natural, not forced."
The word "submission" makes my core clench with want. But the way he says it, the way his breath ghosts across my neck, makes it clear we're not just discussing cultural etiquette.
"I'm trying," I whisper.
"Are you?" His hand moves to the back of my neck, fingers resting against skin that's suddenly hot. "Because trying implies struggle. Natural submission requires acceptance."
My breath hitches. The touch is innocent enough, just his fingers against my nape, but it feels possessive in a way that makes my entire body respond.
"Now bowing," he says, stepping back just enough that I can think clearly again. "Traditional greeting shows respect for hierarchy."
He demonstrates with perfect form, and I try to copy his movement from my kneeling position. Immediately, I recognize how awkward I must look.
"Again," he says when I straighten. "Lower this time."
I try to follow his instruction, but the deeper bow puts me off balance. My hands slip on the smooth floor, and I have to catch myself before I topple over completely.
"Your form needs significant work." He kneels in front of me. His face is even more devastating up close—perfectly symmetrical features, a mouth that manages to look both crueland sensual, skin that makes me want to reach out and touch. "Watch carefully."
He demonstrates again, this time near enough that I can study every detail—the controlled power in his movement, the way his muscles shift beneath his suit, the absolute confidence of someone who's never questioned his place in the world. Even in such a simple motion, there's something mesmerizing about how he moves—fluid, precise, with the grace of a predator.
"Now you. And Paige-san?" He reaches out to cup my chin, tilting my face up to his. His thumb rests at the corner of my mouth, close enough that I can almost taste his skin. "This time, mean it."
The touch is electric. His thumb traces along my jawline with deliberate pressure, and I have to fight not to lean into the contact like a cat seeking more petting.
"I don't understand."
"Bowing isn't just physical movement. It's acknowledgment of authority, acceptance of your place in the structure." His fingers tighten slightly on my chin. "Do you accept your place here?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. He's asking if I'll submit to his authority, follow his rules, let him shape me into whatever he wants me to become.
I should say no. Should maintain professional boundaries, remind him that I'm his employee, not his property.
Instead, I hear myself whisper, "Yes, Matsumoto-sama."
Something dark and satisfied flickers in his eyes. "Then show me."
I bow again, this time putting my whole body into the gesture. Lower than before, holding the position until my muscles shake, letting him see my submission even if I don't fully understand what I'm submitting to.
"Perfect." His voice holds approval that makes warmth bloom through my chest. "Practice will make it natural."
