Chapter 3: Love love love
The rain whispered secrets against the windowpane, a steady, soothing rhythm that blurred the neon city into a watercolor of silver and gold. Inside, the kitchen was a capsule of warmth, smelling of fresh coffee and the faint, clean scent of Makoto’s aftershave. He stood before the small hall mirror, his back to her, the lines of his shoulders tense as he wrestled with his tie. A faint hum resonated in his chest, tuneless and familiar, harmonizing with the radio’s soft jazz.
Aigis watched, a dish towel clutched loosely in her hands, her apron strings swaying with the slight shift of her hips. She adored this ritual. The quiet concentration on his face, the way his blue hair, still damp from his shower, fell across his eye as he leaned toward the glass. He was her anchor, this man who fought gods and now fought silk knots with the same calm determination.
“Damn thing,” he muttered, the words affectionate, not angry. The tie slipped again.
“Here,” she said, her voice soft. She stepped close, her front brushing his back. She took the ends of the tie from his fingers, her movements efficient. She could tie a perfect half-Windsor in three seconds flat. It was one of the thousand small things she’d learned for him.
He dropped his hands, letting her work. He tilted his head back, his eyes closing as her knuckles grazed his throat. “Savior,” he breathed.
She fastened the knot, smoothed it down over his crisp white shirt. Her hands lingered on his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart. This. This was her reality. Not cold steel and tactical directives, but the warmth of cotton and the rhythm of a life they built, heartbeat by heartbeat.
He turned in the circle of her arms, his hands coming to rest on her waist. He looked down at her, his blue eyes clear and focused solely on her face. The rain painted moving shadows across his features. “Rain’s supposed to get heavier,” he said. “You sure you don’t want me to pick up groceries on the way home?”
She shook her head. “I have everything. The plan is sukiyaki. The beef is marinating.”
A grin touched his lips. “You and your plans.” He said it with reverence. He leaned down and kissed her, a slow, tasting kiss that spoke of time and familiarity and a love so deep it had worn comfortable grooves into their souls. His hands slid from her waist to the curves of her backside, not groping, but holding, his palms wide and warm through the fabric of her apron and dress. He cupped her, a full, possessive cradle that lifted her slightly onto her toes, aligning their bodies.
The kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. She melted against him, the dish towel falling forgotten to the floor. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal beginning to press against her belly, but his embrace remained tender, a sanctuary. This was what she loved, what she marveled at every single day. In the fever of their lovemaking, in the frantic, clawing need they often succumbed to, there was never a moment of intentional hurt. No sharp slap, no biting grip meant to cause a sting. His control was absolute, a deliberate channeling of his passion into worship, not violence.
She remembered the first time she had been nervous, bending over the arm of the couch, expecting… she didn’t know what. A harsh hand. A dominant, painful strike. Her old databases were full of such tangled, brutal data. Instead, he had knelt behind her, his breath warm on the inside of her thigh, his hands smoothing over her skin in a slow, reassuring stroke. “You’re trembling,” he’d murmured. “We don’t have to.” And when she’d whispered that she wanted to, he had entered her with such aching slowness it had brought tears to her eyes, his hands never leaving her hips, his touch a constant, gentle reassurance.
Even last week, when she’d bent over the kitchen counter, breathless and dripping with want, he hadn’t spanked her. He had covered her body with his, his chest to her back, his mouth on her neck, and asked, “Is this okay? Tell me how.” His hands had cupped her breasts, weighed them, his thumbs circling her nipples until she cried out. Then they had slid down her belly, through the slick heat between her legs, opening her, preparing her with fingers that were patient and clever. When he finally pushed inside, it was with a groan that shook them both, his grip on her hips firm, grounding, but never brutal. He fucked her with deep, rolling thrusts that stole her breath and her reason, his praise a filthy, beautiful litany in her ear, but his touch, even at its most desperate, was never cruel.
It was in these moments she felt most human. Not in the mimicry of emotion, but in the receiving of such profound respect. He knew her strength, knew the titanium alloy that still lay beneath her softness, and he chose to treat her as something precious, not because she was fragile, but because she was his. His reverence was a language she had learned to speak with her body, a dialogue of gasps and shudders where pain had no vocabulary.
Now, with the rain as their chorus, he broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers. His thumbs traced the line of her hip bones through her dress. “I’m gonna be late,” he whispered, but made no move to pull away.
“I know,” she whispered back.
He kissed her once more, quickly, then released her, the loss of his warmth immediate. He grabbed his briefcase, threw her a wink that made her stomach flip, and was gone, the sound of the door clicking shut followed by the fading echo of his footsteps in the hall.
The apartment felt larger, quieter, filled only with the rain’s symphony. She finished cleaning the kitchen, her movements slower now, her mind replaying the feel of his hands. The sukiyaki plan held firm in her mind, a structure for the afternoon. She had just begun to slice the negi when a low rumble of thunder shook the windowpanes, and the sky opened. The gentle rain became a torrent, sheeting down the glass in a solid, roaring curtain.
The world outside disappeared. It was just her, and the rhythmic thwack of the knife on the cutting board, and the memory of Makoto’s mouth.
The memory intensified, fueled by the storm’s primal energy. It wasn’t a thought; it was a physical pull, a low, heavy ache settling deep in her core. She put the knife down, her hands steady but humming with a different intent. She walked to the living room window, the one that looked out over their narrow balcony and the chaotic blur of the city below.
She pressed her palms flat against the cool glass. It shuddered under the assault of the rain. Her breath fogged a small circle. In the ghostly reflection, she saw herself: a blonde woman in a simple dress, her eyes wide and dark with need.
She didn’t hear him come in. The storm masked all. But she felt him. A change in the air, a presence as solid and real as the thunder.
His briefcase thumped softly on the floor by the door. She didn’t turn. She heard the rustle of his wet jacket, the quiet step of his shoes being toed off. Then, silence, save for the rain.
His heat approached, a beacon in the cool room. He stopped behind her, not touching. She could see his blurred outline in the glass, taller, broader, his hair dark with rain or sweat. His hands came up and slowly, so slowly, pushed her damp hair aside, exposing the line of her neck. He leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear. A shiver, violent and delicious, racked her frame.
“The office flooded,” he murmured, his voice rough from the weather, from want. “Sent everyone home.” His hands settled on her hips, his fingers splaying wide, possessive and warm. “Got halfway to the station and all I could think about was you. Here. Like this.”
She leaned back into him, her body yielding, an answer in itself. “Makoto.”
He kissed her neck, a soft, open-mouthed kiss that made her knees weak. One hand left her hip and traveled slowly down her thigh, gathering the hem of her dress. He pushed it up, bunching the fabric around her waist. The cool air brushed her bare skin. His fingers traced the line of her stocking top, the delicate clasp of the garter she’d put on this morning, a foolish, hopeful gesture. He made a sound, a growl of pure appreciation.
“You are unbelievable,” he breathed. His fingers dipped lower, through the soaked silk of her panties. She was drenched, wetness slicking her thighs. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her back. “Fuck. Already? For me?”
“Always for you,” she gasped as his fingers found her clit, circling with a precise, maddening pressure.
He worked her like that, with his clever fingers, as the storm raged outside. He didn’t rush. He didn’t yank her panties aside; he simply moved the silk aside with a tender, almost reverent push. He explored her, learning her anew, his other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her upright as her legs began to tremble. “That’s it,” he whispered, his tongue tracing the rim of her ear. “Let go. Come for me. I want to feel you.”
And she did. A sharp, bright climax tore through her, silent but for her ragged gasp, her body convulsing around his fingers. He held her through it, his embrace a fortress.
Before the last tremor had faded, she heard the rasp of his zipper. He fumbled for a moment, and then the thick, hot slide of him, the broad head of his cock, pressed against her soaked entrance. He paused, his body trembling with the effort of his control. “Aigis,” he said, a question and a prayer.
“Please,” she begged, pushing back against him. “Now, Makoto. I need you inside me.”
He entered her in one slow, devastating stroke. There was no violence in it, only an immense, filling pressure that stole the air from her lungs. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, his pelvis flush against her ass. He groaned, a long, low sound of absolute completion. “Oh, god. You’re so tight. So perfect.”
He began to move. And it was as she loved it. Not a frantic, punishing pace, but a deep, rhythmic rocking, each withdrawal almost complete, each thrust a return to a home he alone knew. His grip on her hips was firm, anchoring, his fingers pressing into her soft flesh, but it was a hold meant to connect, not to dominate. He wasn’t using her; he was joining her.
His lips found her shoulder, kissing, nipping gently. “I love you,” he chanted into her skin, a counterpoint to the driving rhythm of his hips. “I love you, I love you, I love this, fuck, you feel so good, taking me so deep, my wife, my beautiful wife…”
The words unspooled her. The tenderness in his thrusts, the filthy adoration in his voice—it was the most potent aphrodisiac in the world. The glass before her fogged completely with her panting breaths. The city vanished. There was only the push and pull of him inside her, the slap of skin, the creak of the floorboards under their feet, the symphony of the rain.
She felt another orgasm building, a slower, deeper wave this time, coiling from the very spot where he filled her. “Makoto… I’m… I’m going to…”
“Come with me,” he grunted, his rhythm faltering, becoming hastier, his control fraying at the edges. “Come with me, now.”
He drove into her one last, perfect time, hilt-deep, and held there as he pulsed, hot floods of his release filling her. The sensation, the absolute intimacy of it, triggered her own climax, a rolling, endless wave that milked him, drawing every last drop from him. She cried out, her forehead pressing against the cold, fogged glass, her body shaking violently in his unwavering embrace.
They stood locked together for long minutes, his weight slumped against her, his breath hot on her neck. The rain began to ease, softening to a gentle patter.
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew, his hands immediately coming up to steady her as she wobbled. He turned her, pulling her against his chest, his arms wrapping her in a closeness that felt like safety incarnate. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, her swollen lips.
She looked up at him, her golden eyes soft and sated, reflecting the grey storm light. In his blue gaze, she saw no conquest, only shared wonder. He brushed a thumb over her cheekbone, his touch lighter than a sigh.
“The beef is over-marinating,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He laughed, the sound rich and full. “Let it.”
“Let it.” The words were a warm murmur against her temple, a promise that the world outside their steamed window held no consequence. They stood there until their breathing settled, until the rain softened to a whisper. He finally stirred, pressing a last kiss to her shoulder before gently tugging her dress back into place. “I should actually check my email,” he said, his voice ragged with spent passion. “Make sure the flood didn’t drown any servers.”
He moved to the small desk in the corner of the living room, a modern intrusion into their soft space. He opened his laptop, the blue glow illuminating the determined set of his jaw as the device whirred to life. Aigis watched him, the dull throb between her legs a pleasant, lingering echo. She cleaned the kitchen quietly, the sukiyaki ingredients forgotten. The memory of him moving inside her, of his whispered love against her neck, played on a loop in her mind.
A soft ping echoed from the computer. Makoto sighed, a familiar, weary sound. “Morooka’s calling an emergency video check-in,” he said, clicking a button. The stern, pixelated face of a middle-aged man filled the screen, his voice tinny through the speakers. “Right. Okay. Yes, I’m here.”
Aigis dried her hands. A new, different warmth began to spread through her, a mischievous current beneath her skin. It was the same feeling that had made her buy the black lace slip, that made her wear the garter belts on ordinary Tuesdays. A shy, playful boldness that existed only for him. She watched his broad back, the way his shoulders were already squaring with the professional mask he wore for the world. The contrast was intoxicating.
She moved silently, on bare feet, her heart a quick, light drum in her chest. He was engrossed, nodding at the screen, giving short, concise answers. “The Q2 figures are on the shared drive. I’ll highlight the anomalies.” He was the picture of focused competence.
She sank to her knees, the carpet soft and dense. The space under the desk was a dim cave, smelling of wood and the faint ozone of electronics. She could see the crisp line of his trousers, the polished leather of his shoes. Her fingers, so steady when tying his tie, trembled slightly as they found his belt buckle. The metal was cool. The click of the release was deafening to her, but Morooka’s droning voice didn’t falter.
Makoto’s hand suddenly dropped from the keyboard, disappearing beneath the desk. His fingers brushed hers, a brief, questioning touch. She looked up, meeting his gaze for a fractured second. His blue eyes, glancing down from the screen, were wide with shock, then darkening with a sudden, profound heat. He gave the smallest, almost imperceptible nod. His hand retreated, returning to the mouse with forced calm.
She undid the button of his trousers. She slowly tugged the zipper down. The sound was a raw, tearing whisper in the intimate dark. She eased the fabric open. The thick, hard line of his erection strained against the confines of his black cotton boxer-briefs. A damp patch of pre-cum darkened the fabric. The musky, clean scent of him, uniquely Makoto, filled her little hiding place.
Her mouth watered. She hooked her fingers into the waistband and pulled, freeing him.
“Oh, god,” she breathed soundlessly.
He was fully, achingly hard. His cock sprang out, thick and heavy, a flushed column of rigid flesh. The head was a smooth, dark plum, beading with moisture. Veins traced a map of urgency along its length. It was a testament to the man above her, to the desire that lived in him quietly, constantly, for her. This wasn’t just arousal; it was a physical manifestation of his love, his wanting, a part of him that had grown hard and needy simply because she was near.
She was overwhelmed by a wave of pure devotion. She leaned forward, nuzzling the hot skin of his inner thigh. Then, with a reverence that tightened her throat, she lifted her face and gently rested the heavy, veined shaft against her cheek. The heat was incredible. It seared her skin. The weight of it, the silken-skin-over-steel reality of his need, was a profound intimacy.
She turned her head, brushing her lips along its length. She kissed the throbbing vein on the underside. She let the broad, leaking tip nudge against her closed eyelid, leaving a wet, salty streak. She rubbed his cock against her face, a slow, adoring caress, coating her cheek in his scent. She heard his breath catch above her, a sharp, stifled intake. On the screen, Morooka asked a question.
“The projections,” Makoto said, his voice strained but level. “They account for the logistical delay.”
She opened her mouth. She took the head inside, just the swollen crest, her tongue swirling around the frenulum. The taste was sharp, clean, deeply him. He jerked in her mouth, a violent, involuntary spasm. His thigh muscles tensed like steel cables against her side.
“Could you repeat that, Morooka-san?” Makoto asked, his tone cracking slightly. She sucked harder, taking another inch, her hand wrapping around the base he couldn’t fit. She began to move, a slow, deliberate, up-and-down rhythm of her head, her tongue working the sensitive ridge with each pass.
His fingers tangled roughly in her hair, not guiding, just clutching, grounding himself. He was trying to breathe normally. “I… concur with that assessment.” His voice was tight, a thin wire of control about to snap. Every time she sank deep, taking him to the back of her throat, his hips gave a tiny, aborted thrust. Pre-cum flooded her mouth in bitter pulses.
She lost herself in the act. The gritty, physical reality of it. The obscene, wet sounds hidden by the desk and the distant rain. The way his body was trembling above her, fighting a war on two fronts. She loved it. She loved reducing him to this, to a man clinging to professionalism by a thread while his wife worshipped his cock under the table.
She quickened her pace, hollowing her cheeks, sucking with a filthy, relentless pressure. One of her hands crept up, fondling his heavy balls, rolling them gently in their tight sac. He made a sound, a choked-off groan that the microphone surely picked up.
“Yuki? Is everything alright?” Morooka’s voice filtered down.
“Fine,” Makoto gritted out, the word clipped. “A… temporary connection issue.”
She felt the moment he began to unravel. The tension in his body coiled to a breaking point. His grip on her hair became urgent. His whispers, raw and ragged, fell down to her like a secret benediction. “Aigis… fuck… I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come so hard. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
She didn’t. She drove him on, sucking him deep, milking him with her throat. His warning was a guttural rumble she felt through his skin. “I’m—ah, god—yes!”
His climax erupted. Hot, thick jets of cum shot down her throat, spurting with the force of his stifled release. She swallowed convulsively, taking every drop, her nose pressed into the wiry hair at his base. His body shook violently, his thighs clamping around her head in a vice of pleasure. He pulsed in her mouth, long after the audio from the laptop indicated the meeting was ending, his hand still clenched in her hair, holding her to him as he rode out the last shudders.
Silence descended, save for the frantic beat of her own heart in her ears. Slowly, tenderly, he pulled her up from beneath the desk. She emerged, her lips swollen, her cheek flushed. He was staring at her, his expression utterly shattered, full of awe and satiation. The laptop was closed.
He pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her, his face burying in the crook of her neck. He smelled of sex and sweat and her. “You are,” he whispered against her skin, his voice wrecked, “the most terrifying and wonderful thing in my life.”