Page 51 of Kotori
"Really?" His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs tracing along the silk-covered line of my collarbones. "Show me how you would position the collar of a juban for optimal fit."
I reach up to touch the neckline, but my hands are shaking and I have no idea what I'm supposed to be adjusting. The garment feels fine to me—modest, covering everything it should cover.
"I don't know what you mean," I admit quietly.
"Exactly." His voice holds satisfaction. "This is why you need instruction. Japanese dress has rules, proportions, specific ways of wearing that enhance beauty." His hands move tothe ties at my shoulders, fingers working at the simple knots with precision. "Trust me, kotori. Let me show you how these garments are meant to be worn."
"Matsumoto-sama."
"Do you trust me?" The question stops me cold. His hands pause in their movement, waiting for my answer.
Do I trust him? This man who's systematically isolated me, replaced my clothes, invaded my privacy, made me dependent on his approval for the smallest things? This man who calls me "little bird" like I'm something he owns?
"I..." I start, then stop. Because the terrifying truth is that part of me does trust him. I trust that he won't hurt me, that he'll take care of me, that following his guidance leads to safety and approval and the kind of security I've never had. "Yes," I whisper, hating myself for the admission.
"Ii ko." The praise sends warmth flooding through me. "Then let me help you."
The ties come undone under his skilled fingers, and the silk juban begins to slide down my shoulders. I grab for it instinctively, trying to hold the fabric in place, but his hands cover mine with gentle firmness.
"Let go, Paige." My name on his lips sounds both like an order and a plea. "Let me see what belongs to me."
Belongs to him. The words make something deep in my core clench with want that terrifies me.
My hands fall away from the silk, and the juban slides down my body. I stand before him wearing nothing but plain cotton underwear, my bare breasts flushed and my breath coming in short gasps.
"Perfect," he breathes, and the raw hunger in his voice makes my nipples tighten in the cool air. "Absolutely perfect."
He circles around me again, but this time his attention feels different—predatory, possessive. When he stops in front of me,his dark eyes burn as they travel slowly down my exposed body before meeting mine with intensity that makes my knees weak.
"Now you understand," he says, his voice rougher than before. "Japanese dress is about revealing beauty, not hiding it. About enhancing what's naturally yours, not forcing you into someone else's vision."
His hand rises to cup my face, thumb tracing along my cheekbone before trailing down to trace the line of my throat. "You're learning to trust me with your body, your comfort, your needs. Soon you'll learn to trust me with everything else."
Everything else.The promise in his voice makes me want things I don't understand and shouldn't crave.
"Kaito," I whisper, not even realizing I've dropped the formal address until his eyes flash with something dark and dangerous.
His hand tightens on my neck, not painful but unmistakably corrective. "What did you call me?"
The sudden shift in his tone makes my stomach drop. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Kaito-sama," he says quietly, each syllable deliberate. "You will address me properly, kotori. Always."
"Kaito-sama," I repeat, and the correction seems to satisfy something primal in him.
"Better." His grip loosens, becomes possessive rather than punishing. "Say it again."
"Kaito-sama," I breathe, and suddenly he's moving, backing me against the silk-covered wall with controlled power that makes my pulse race.
"Do you know what you do to me, kotori?" His body cages me against the wall, close enough that I can feel his heat but not quite touching. "Standing there, trusting me, saying my name like you are worthy enough to be on a first name basis with me?"
I can't breathe. Can't think. His proximity, his scent, the way he's looking at me like I'm something he wants to devour—it's overwhelming every rational thought I have left.
"I—" I start, but the words die when his thumb traces across my lower lip.
"You what?" His voice is barely above a whisper, but it carries absolute command. "Tell me what you want, Paige."
What I want. The question hangs between us like a challenge. What do I want? To run? To stay? To let him continue this beautiful destruction of everything I thought I knew about myself?
