Page 71 of Kotori
"I can't sleep like this," she protests weakly. My come is still on her face and chest.
"Perhaps not. But you'll think of me with every waking moment." I pause at the door, drinking in the sight of her—bound in traditional Japanese rope art, lips swollen from pleasuring me, need still evident in every line of her body. "And tomorrow at the festival, that memory will ensure your complete surrender."
I close the door behind me, listening to her frustrated exhale with satisfaction. The lesson has been reinforced perfectly. Tomorrow at the festival, she'll be primed for complete surrender, her body conditioned to respond to my touch, my voice, my control.
Tomorrow, under the Tanabata stars that celebrate lovers destined to meet despite cosmic forces keeping them apart, she'll acknowledge not just with reluctant words forced from desperate need, but with complete physical surrender, exactly who she belongs to.
And unlike tonight, I won't be walking away until I've claimed every inch of what's mine.
19
Paige
Julyheathangsheavyeven as evening falls, the sticky warmth making my yukata cling to damp skin as we exit the Mercedes. Lanterns illuminate the festival grounds, casting everything in a warm glow that should be romantic but just makes me more aware of how much I'm sweating.
The blue yukata is beautiful silk patterned with silver stars that shimmer when I move, elegant without being ostentatious. Of course he would choose something perfect. Of course he would know exactly how to make me look like I belong at his side. More importantly, the long sleeves hide the rope marks still visible on my wrists and arms, the silk high enough at the neck to conceal the diamond patterns that had been pressed into my skin all night.
My body aches from hours spent in that intricate shibari harness, muscles stiff from being bound in one position until dawn when Hayashi had finally appeared to release me. I still can't meet her eyes after that humiliating moment—her perfectlyneutral expression as she worked the knots free, her careful avoidance of my gaze as she helped me to the bathroom, the way she pretended not to notice the wetness between my thighs or my tears of frustration. The ultimate professional, never acknowledging what we both knew her master had done.
I'd barely managed two hours of fitful sleep after that before being awakened for festival preparations. The exhaustion only heightens every sensation, making me hypersensitive to even the lightest touch.
Kaito steps out behind me, resplendent in a charcoal yukata that makes him look like some ancient warlord reborn in modern form. When our eyes meet, there's unmistakable satisfaction in his gaze—the look of a man who knows exactly what state he left me in last night, who can still picture me bound in his rope, who spent the morning imagining me struggling against the intricate shibari harness while he attended to business. When his hand settles at the small of my back, I have to fight not to lean into his touch despite my anger and exhaustion.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, close enough that his breath tickles my ear. "The festival suits you. Almost as much as the rope did last night."
The casual reference to how he'd left me—bound in that intricate harness until dawn, unable to move, unable to sleep, unable to do anything but think of him—makes heat flood my cheeks.
"It's hot," I mutter, trying to focus on physical discomfort instead of the residual ache between my thighs that hasn't faded since he left me desperate and unfulfilled in my room.
His chuckle is low, intimate. "You have no idea. Though I imagine you're quite... sensitive today, after such a long night of meditation."
The girls tumble from the car in a flurry of excited chatter and colorful yukatas. Aya is in bright bubblegum pink, Kohana in lavender, Mizuki in elegant emerald green that makes her look older than her eighteen years. In the lantern light, with their dark hair elegantly styled and their movements graceful in traditional clothes, they look like princesses from another era.
"Papa!" Aya grabs his free hand, bouncing with excitement. "Can we write our wishes first? Please?"
"Of course, hime."Princess.His other hand remains at my back, warm through the thin silk. "Lead the way."
The festival grounds bustle with families and couples, everyone dressed in yukata, the air filled with the scent of grilled food and the sound of traditional music. Bamboo branches festooned with colorful paper strips sway in the slight breeze, each tanzaku carrying someone's deepest desires to the star-crossed lovers in the heavens. We make our way to a stall where an elderly woman sells colored paper and offers brushes and ink. Kaito pays with a casual gesture that speaks of wealth without flaunting it, and soon we're all holding blank tanzaku and brushes, ready to commit our wishes to paper.
"What will you wish for, Papa?" Aya asks, already dipping her brush.
"That's private, Aya-chan," he replies, but his eyes find mine over her head. "Some wishes aren't meant to be shared."
The intensity of his gaze makes heat pool between my legs despite the crowds surrounding us. Three weeks apart has done nothing to diminish whatever this is between us—if anything, the separation followed by last night's torment has made it more potent, more dangerous.
I turn away from him, focusing on my own tanzaku. What do I wish for? Freedom from this obsession? Strength to resist him? Or something darker, more shameful. The courage to surrender completely? Last night had proven how easily my body betrayedme, how readily I'd begged for his touch after just one night bound in his rope. What would be left of my independence after another night like that?
My hands tremble slightly as I write, the muscles still fatigued from being bound behind my back for so many hours. In the end, I write something simple but meaningful, taking care that no one else can see my tanzaku as I carefully write in English. Some wishes are too personal to share, especially when they involve the very man who had left me tied up and desperate mere hours ago.
We hang our wishes on a bamboo branch, the colorful papers fluttering in the evening breeze like butterflies. Each tanzaku carries our private desires upward, hopes and dreams we keep to ourselves as tradition dictates. I notice Kaito watching me as I place my wish, his dark eyes curious but respecting the privacy of the moment.
As we move deeper into the festival, Kaito's hand never leaves my back, a constant reminder of possession. His security team follows at a discreet distance—three men in dark suits who blend seamlessly with the crowd while never losing sight of their master and his family. When Kaito's fingers occasionally slip lower, brushing the curve of my ass with a touch that could be accidental but never is. My nerves are already raw and oversensitive from a night spent in his rope.
"Shall we get something to eat?" he suggests as we pass food stalls with tantalizing aromas. "Aya-chan, what would you like?"
"Taiyaki!" she exclaims immediately. "And then kakigori for dessert!"
"So demanding," he teases, but his indulgent smile shows he'll give her anything she asks for. "Kohana? Mizuki?"
