THE JAPANESE ARE passionate about one thing, and one thing only.
Drinking.
The singular bottle in your hand had multiplied to two. Then to three. Then into four bottles of well-aged wine that now sat on the marble counter like a lonely flock of dehydrated storks, completely empty of their sousing contents.
Nanami has always had a good handle over his emotions. A good handle over his vices, and the rare instances of desire that sprout inside him upon viewing what might be the laced undergarments of some woman. It is the smallest thing women can ask of him, and he has always intended to follow through with it.
But when his brain feels as if it has been marinated in alcohol, as if his hands have been charged with the intoxication of the same libation, and you sit so close to him he can smell your perfume and look into your eyes more closely than he has ever seen them, he has no idea how it is he is supposed to maintain his control.
He could see it in the rogue pink of your cheeks after those first two glasses. In the quiet way you'd asked for his hand and traced lovely invisible circles into his palm. In the way you'd smiled at him with the mouth of the girl he has always loved but never told.
Loving you would be dangerous, but he does it now. No restrictions, no boundaries, nothing standing in his way. Though so many things stand in yours.
He'd kissed you then. He could taste the deep flavor of purple fruit on your tongue. He thought that would be enough to satiate both you and him.
But then you'd let your fingers fall over the back of his neck. Let the digits twine into his hair like winding spools of spiderweb string. And you'd kissed him deeper, your tongue in his mouth.
He'd pushed all of it away. All his inhibitions, all the lies he has told himself.
I do not love her. I do not need her.
You'd moaned his name into his starving mouth, and he'd felt his appetite burgeon like a monstrous lifeform popping out of an alien egg. All his truths had spilled so freely from your pretty mouth.
"My bed," he'd groaned desperately then. "Let me have you there..."
Blue eyes flash across his vision as he pushes you down onto the bed, and he blocks them out. He cannot think of the shame now. Not when he can finally have you. Not when you finally lie in his arms and not that of another man's.
Please. Just this once.
"Kento," you whisper as he leaves your mouth. He has always dreamed of waking up to you sleeping next to him. You lie on his bed now, your hair fanned across his wrinkled pillow. Face a blushing mess.
"Shh, my love," he reassures with one last kiss to your swollen mouth. He'd ravaged you too much. "Let me take care of you."
You shiver at the words. He sees and feels his cock pulse.
Nanami spreads your legs with gentle hands. He hooks one finger into your panties and slides them off your wonderful legs. Tosses it aside without a second thought. All he wants is you.
He leaves the whisper of a kiss on the inside of your thigh. Looks up at the obvious anticipation on your face. Then gets his first real look of your weeping folds as he opens your legs further.
He sighs a breath of awe into your core. It is warmth that drips cold down your arching spine. He lets his tongue slide from his mouth and onto you.
I can love you better than he can.
You cry out softly, both your hands moving to quiet your sounds of pleasure. Nanami tells you to let go, because he knows that this will be the first and only time he can love you like this.
He slips his tongue into your convulsing hole with a satisfied hum oscillating in his chest. You taste sweet as candy.
He savors your warmth. Let it be a dream he will only be able to live through once. He will cherish it forever.
His hands hold your thighs open in a clutching vise. He cannot let you go. Nanami suckles on your clit with his nose inhaling the delightful musk of your swelling pussy. Your folds bloom and taste like fresh fruit.
There are three words lying locked in his throat. When he rises from between your legs with his mouth and the fingers of one hand shining with your slick, he thinks of saying them.
But he has already had what he thinks is enough of his fill. If he told you... he would never be able to let you go. Never be able to watch you go back to him.
So he lets it translate into his kisses instead. In the thrusts he pushes into your body while you make drunken love. A love that he knows must remain temporary. A love that he has to let go.
