Page 23 of Kotori
Or...
A third option forms, dangerous and thrilling. If he wants to watch me, why not give him a show?
The thought arrives fully formed, wickedly tempting. I've felt his eyes on me from the beginning, the heat in his gaze whenhe thinks I don't notice. The tension between us is undeniable—electric, forbidden, intoxicating.
He might control the cameras, but I control what they see.
I glance up at the hidden lens in the ceiling, a reckless plan taking shape. He thinks he has all the power? I'll show him who's really in control.
Iwaituntilevening,after dinner with the girls and their nightly routine. They're adorable, really—Mizuki with her serious questions about American customs, Kohana with her shy smiles when I praise her English, little Aya with her enthusiastic hugs. They're the only reason I haven't fled.
That, and the growing, undeniable attraction to their dangerous father.
Back in my room, I leave the lights on. No hiding in shadows tonight. I want him to see everything.
I move deliberately, knowing the cameras are capturing every gesture. I select a bottle of lotion from my toiletry bag, placing it prominently on the nightstand. Next, I choose tomorrow's outfit with painstaking care, laying each garment across the foot of the bed—skirt slightly shorter than my usual, blouse that hints at cleavage without being unprofessional.
Then I begin the show.
I turn my back to where I believe the main camera is positioned, reaching up to unbutton my blouse with deliberate slowness. One button, then another, letting the fabric part to reveal the curve of my spine, the clasp of my bra. I shrug the garment from my shoulders, letting it slide down my arms before carefully folding it.
My skirt follows, unzipped with theatrical languor, falling to pool at my feet. I step out of it gracefully, bending at the waist to retrieve it—giving him a perfect view of lace-trimmed underwear that suddenly feels like armor rather than vulnerability.
Power surges through me. He's watching. I know he's watching.
And I'm the one deciding what he sees.
I move to the bathroom. The shower turns on, steam billowing as I reach behind my back to unclasp my bra, letting the straps fall forward before pulling it away completely.
My reflection in the mirror shows flushed cheeks, bright eyes. I barely recognize myself.
I step into the shower. I take my time, turning beneath the spray, letting water cascade over curves. I wash my hair with sensual thoroughness, rinse with theatrical arches.
When I finally emerge, I wrap the towel loosely around my body, securing it just above my breasts. Another towel twists around my hair as I move back into the bedroom, deliberately dropping my shower caddy.
"Oops," I murmur.
I bend slowly to retrieve it, feeling the towel strain against my damp skin, knowing it reveals more than it conceals. The rush of power is dizzying, addictive. For once, I'm the one in control of this strange, charged dynamic between us.
I settle at the vanity, removing the towel from my hair, letting blonde waves tumble down my back. The brush moves through with deliberate strokes—ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one—my mother's ritual that I've continued into adulthood.
The lotion comes next. I pour a generous amount into my palm, warming it between my hands before applying it to my arms, my shoulders, my legs. I take my time, massaging it into my skin with circular motions, occasionally meeting my own gaze in the mirror with a secret smile.
Is he watching now? Is he glued to his monitor, breath coming faster, unable to look away?
Good.
Let him want. Let him burn.
I select a silk nightgown from my drawer—the nicest one I own, pale blue with thin straps and a hem that falls mid-thigh. I've never worn it here before, saving it for... what? This moment, apparently.
The towel drops. Just for a second, I stand naked before the cameras, vulnerable yet triumphant. Then the silk slides over my head, settling against my skin like water.
I turn off the main light, leaving only the bedside lamp glowing warmly. Sliding between the sheets, I pick up my book—but my mind is too alive with rebellion to focus on words.
Instead, I set it aside and turn off the final light, lying back against the pillows in darkness.
My hand moves to my neck, tracing the path his eyes had followed during our first meeting. Down my throat, across my collarbone. Lower.
