Chapter 13: Morning Feast
The first thing Akira registered was a weight on his chest, warm and solid. Then, the scent of her, musky and sweet, filled his nostrils. He blinked awake to a canopy of tan skin and the shadowed V of her hips hovering over his face. Hishiama was straddling him, her knees pinning his shoulders to the pillow, her body blotting out the dawn light filtering through the blinds.
Her fingers were already busy between her own legs, parting herself, and the slick, gleaming evidence of her arousal was inches from his mouth. Her eyes, dark and heavy with sleep and intent, locked with his.
“Breakfast is served, Trainer,” she moaned, her voice husky with sleep.
She didn’t wait for a response. She rocked her hips forward, grinding her wet, heated flesh against his lips. The taste of her, potent and familiar, exploded on his tongue. He groaned, a muffled sound of protest and instant, shameful arousal. His hands came up to grip her thighs, but he didn’t push her away. The memory of the previous night—the torn silks, her submission, his own brutal possession—was too fresh, too potent.
“That’s it,” she breathed, her head falling back as she continued to move against his face. “Eat it. Clean your plate.”
He opened his mouth, letting her in, his tongue finding the hard nub of her clit. She cried out, her back arching, her fingers tangling in his hair to hold him in place. She was relentless, riding his face with a primal rhythm, smearing her juices across his cheeks, his chin. The wet, slapping sounds of their connection were obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“Fuck, yes. Right there. Don’t you stop,” she chanted, her hips bucking faster. He could feel her tightening, her whole body tensing like a drawn bowstring. He drove his tongue deeper inside her, lapping at her essence, and that was all it took.
Her orgasm hit her with a silent, shuddering force before it broke into a sharp, ragged scream. Her thighs clamped viselike around his head, her body convulsing above him as she came against his mouth, a hot, pulsing flood that he swallowed greedily.
She collapsed forward, her weight crushing him, her chest heaving against his. She was panting, her sweat-slicked skin sticking to his. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing.
Slowly, she pushed herself up, looking down at him with a sated, triumphant smile. His face was a glistening, debauched mess. She leaned down and licked a slow, deliberate stripe from his chin to his forehead.
“Good morning,” she whispered.
He just stared up at her, his mind a void of sensation and confusion.
The shower was a cathedral of steam. They stood under the torrent of near-scalding water, washing the night and the morning from their skin. The scent of her expensive jasmine soap couldn’t quite mask the lingering smell of sex. He soaped her back, his hands moving over the powerful muscles of her shoulders, the elegant line of her spine. She leaned into his touch, her head resting against his chest.
“It’s going to be strange,” she said, her voice almost lost in the rush of water. “Going back.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his hands stilling for a moment. His mind was already there, in the sterile, familiar environment of the training facility. The thought of her there, now, after this, felt like a violation of some unspoken law.
She turned within the circle of his arms, her brown eyes searching his. “It doesn’t have to change anything.”
He knew she was lying, or at least hoping against hope. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the water from her skin. “It changes everything, Hishiama.”
She didn’t argue. Instead, she reached down, her soapy hand closing around his hardening cock. “Then let’s make the most of the hot water.”
She turned her back to him, bracing her hands against the tiled wall, and looked at him over her shoulder. An invitation. A command. He stepped forward, his body aligning with hers, the water cascading over them. He guided himself into her from behind, a smooth, wet slide into her incredible heat. She was still loose and sensitive from her earlier climax, and she gasped as he filled her.
He set a steady, deep rhythm, his hands gripping her hips, his thumbs digging into the firm muscle of her ass. The water plastered her hair to her scalp and ran in rivulets down the valley of her back. He watched himself disappear into her, again and again, the sight almost as arousing as the feeling.
“Fuck me, Akira,” she grunted, pushing back against him. “Just like that. God, you feel so deep.”
He picked up the pace, the slapping of their wet skin echoing in the enclosed space. He was losing himself in the pure, animalistic act of it, in the way her body welcomed his so perfectly. He bent over her, his mouth finding the juncture of her neck and shoulder, biting down gently. She moaned, a low, guttural sound that was swallowed by the shower.
“I’m gonna come,” he grunted, his control fraying.
“Do it,” she panted. “Come inside me. Fill me up.”
Her words, so crude and so wanted, shattered the last of his restraint. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his release a hot jet deep inside her, mingling with the stream of the shower. He held her there, pinned against the wall, as he pulsed within her, his own groans muffled against her skin.
Packing was a silent, mechanical affair. He folded clothes with a precision that felt alien. She moved around the suite, gathering her things, the vibrant energy that usually animated her subdued. The opulent room, which had felt like a private universe, now just looked like a hotel room again. The grand piano was just furniture. The view of the city was just a view.
She zipped her suitcase closed with a definitive rasp. The sound seemed to hang in the air between them.
“Ready?” she asked, not looking at him.
Akira looked at the rumpled bed, the last evidence of their time here. He nodded, picking up his own bag. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
The words felt like a death sentence.