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"Come on, let's get you cleaned up, baby."
"No, don't wanna," you whine.
With Nanami in the seat in front of you, you try to reinforce your intentions by making angry splashes in the water like a kid no older than your son.
There it is—
—the inner brat that always seems to emerge from you while intoxicated, complaining and throwing a tantrum in an effort to get exactly what you wanted.
Except Nanami doesn't bend to your will that easily.
"You'll get sick if you keep wet clothes on for too long," he cautions, the warmth of his palms a stark contrast to the cold dampened shirt at your skin.
His fingers carefully work to pop off the buttons of your jeans before pulling the zipper down.
Despite his composure, you notice the subtle manner he swallows back his impulses.
Because Nanami, past his thin layer of self-control, is truly a beast underneath.
When he starts tugging at your pants, your hands grip his thick wrists.
"I'm shy."
Even if—in your previous occupation—exhibiting every slope and arch to of your body to hundreds a night was commonplace...
...there's something different with Nanami as your only audience.
"Shy? With this body?"
Nanami's eyes leisurely meander from your collarbone to your knees.
Even without looking, you swear that you can feel his gaze brushing over your skin.
"You," he continues, "are perfect just the way you are."
It's hard to not let his words sway you when your heart literally fluttered.
But before you could even think to reply, Nanami drags the jeans past your legs and drops the damp fabric outside the tub.
Leaving you in only panties and tank top, he tilts his head slightly.
"Did you even see how people dropped their jaws while staring at your ass at the bar?" he asks.
