Dinner & Dessert

Arriving at the dinner table, Karasu took a slow sip of his beer, his blue eyes fixed on her over the neck of the bottle. The Spider was back, calculating, probing for weaknesses. “The security detail Takumi assigned you”, he began, his tone deceptively casual, “This Cillian. What’s his chrome like? Standard corporate issue, or something more… specialized?”

The silence that followed was a battle of wills, broken only by the distant hum of the city. The air in the apartment became thick enough to chew. They sat across from each other at the small table, a spread of perfectly prepared food between them, a clear soup, an elevated stir-fry, several delicate side dishes, all growing cold.

Rei set her chopsticks down with a quiet, definitive click. The sound echoed in the tense silence. “No,” she said, her voice soft but absolute. She met his gaze, unblinking. “The debrief is over. You can ask me how my day was. You can ask me if I like the food. Or you can sit in silence. But we are not working right now.” She held his stare, a new, unshakeable boundary drawn in the space between them, “So. Choose. Do you want to know something personal? Or do you want me to leave for the night and send you a written report tomorrow?”

The challenge hung in the air, a gauntlet thrown down. Karasu’s eyes flashed with instant, cold fury. She saw the instinct to dominate, to crush her defiance, to remind her exactly who was in charge. The muscles in his arm holding the bottle flexed. “Are you giving me orders right now?” he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I’m maintaining our agreement”, Rei countered, her pulse rising precariously, “You didn’t want the written reports. This is the alternative. Work is outside the apartment and your jealousy stays at the door. Or I walk out of it.”

She saw the calculation in his eyes, the furious weighing of options. Let her leave and stew in his own possessive frustration or leash the tiger for a few hours and keep her here. The prospect of her retreating to her new apartment, to the world Takumi caved out for her, was clearly the greater torture. He took a slow, controlled breath, then another. The visible rage receded, banked like a fire, but the heat of it still radiated from him. When their eyes met again, the master was still there, but he was forcing himself to stand down.

“Do you…”, he started, his voice gruff, the words seeming to fight their way out, “…do you truly like cooking?” A radiant, relieved smile spread across Rei’s face. It felt like the first real breath she’d taken all day, “I do. Especially when it works out. Today the chili oil is perfect.” They ate in a less tense silence for a few minutes. Then, emboldened by her small victory, Rei spoke again, her voice quieter, “You know… I think I like this.” Karasu glanced up from his bowl, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“This,” she said, gesturing between them with her chopsticks, “The separation. Work hours are for that. This”, her gesture took in the small kitchen, the shared meal, “this is for us. It makes it makes this feel real. Like I’m choosing to be here not because of a debt. Not because you’re my boss. But because I…”, She trailed off, the words love you sticking in her throat, too honest. She took a different tack. “You chose option one. You chose for me to come here and talk, instead of just getting my reports. Why?”, she leaned forward, her dark eyes searching his, “Was it just for the quality of the intel? Or… is it because you want me closer? Because you want someone to, I don’t know, to care for you? To be the one who…”, her voice warmed, “…who really sees you, and wants you anyway?”

The questions hung in the air, naked and terrifying. Karasu stared at her, his food forgotten. The defenses around his heart were a visible, impenetrable fortress. He looked away, out the window at the neon-soaked night, then back at her. The struggle was visible on his face. Finally, he gave a single, almost undetectable nod. It was no grand confession. It was a fleeting admission.

“You’ve changed,” he stated, but the tone wasn’t accusing; it was observational, almost impressed. “Your confidence has surged”, his gaze darkened, the banked fire flaring back to life, but this time it was a different kind of heat. A ravenous smile touched his lips, “I like it.” He leaned forward, his voice a low, possessive rumble, “So tonight, no work. But you are here to care for me, right?”

The air in the kitchen shifted. The tension of the negotiation, the fragility of their new truce, evaporated, replaced by something hotter, denser. Karasu’s words weren’t just an observation; they were a caress and a command, all wrapped in that low, gravelly tone that went straight to her core. Rei felt the heat flood her cheeks, a traitorous blush she had no hope of controlling. It was the one tell she could never master around him. His chuckle was a rich sound of pure satisfaction. He loved that he could do that to her, that even with her newfound steel, she was still soft for him.

“Yes,” she breathed out, the word barely a whisper. She couldn’t look away from the dangerous glint in his blue eyes. The tiger was awake and it was visibly starved, “Good, little fox,” he purred. He pushed his chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the floor. He didn’t stand up, just sat there, king of his cracked linoleum castle, “Then come here. Take care of me.” It wasn’t a request. It was a summoning. And every cell in her body was wired to obey.

Her movements were slightly unsteady, as she rose from her seat. She walked around the small table until she stood before him. He didn’t reach for her, didn’t pull her into his lap. He just watched her, that predatory smile still playing on his lips, letting the anticipation build until it was a tangible ache. Rei sank to her knees on the floor between his legs. The hard, cool linoleum was a shock against her knees.

She looked up at him, her breath already uneven. This was the separation she’d asked for: the business of the day was over. This was the intimacy of the night. It was on his terms, but they were her terms too. She reached for the buckle of his belt, her fingers trembling only vaguely. His hand came down, not to help, but to cover hers, stilling her movements. His skin was rough, warm.

“Slowly,” he instructed, his voice a deep whisper, “I’m not a client to be rushed. In this apartment you obey. Remember?” Her blush deepened. He was making her perform the very intimacy she craved, turning her own desire into his worship. And God help her, she loved it.

She nodded, her black eyes locked with his. “Words, Rei,” he commanded, “I want to hear you say it.” His thumb stroked her cheek, his grip on her chin hard, “Yes Karasu. I obey,” she whispered, the submission feeling like its own form of force in their private world. “Good girl”, he released her, giving her permission to continue.

With painstaking slowness, she unbuckled his belt, the metallic click loud in the silent kitchen. She zipped down his suit pants, the rough wool scratching her knuckles. He helped only slightly, lifting his hips. He watched her, his breathing deepening, his gaze burning into her. When she finally freed him, he was already hard, thick and heavy in her hand. A low groan escaped him as she wrapped her fingers around him.

“Let me see those eyes,” he growled. She did as she was told, her gaze never leaving his as she leaned forward and took him into her mouth. The familiar taste of him, filled her senses. He let out a sharp, hissing breath, his hands coming up to fist in her hair, not forcing her, but holding her, anchoring himself to her. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick with pleasure, “Just like that. My perfect, clever fox.”

He guided her rhythm with the gentle pressure of his hand, a slow, deep pace that was as much about his control as it was about her pleasure in pleasing him. She lost herself in the act, in the primal rightness of it. This was their language, stripped of all the games and negotiations. Here, there was only want and answer, command and obedience. Just as she felt his body begin to tense, his grip tightening in her hair, he pulled her away. She looked up at him, dazed, her lips swollen, a question in her eyes. “Not yet,” he said, his voice ragged. He stood up in one flowing motion, pulling her to her feet, “My turn to take care of what’s mine.”

He backed her against the kitchen counter, his hands deftly unbuttoning her jeans, yanking them down her hips along with her underwear, his touch rough with urgency. His mouth found hers in a searing kiss that was all charge and no gentleness. It was a reclaiming. His hands roamed her body, relearning every curve, every place that made her gasp. Then he turned her around, bending her over the surface of the counter. One hand splayed across her lower back, holding her in place, while the other guided himself into her from behind. He entered her with a single deep thrust that stole the air from her lungs. A cry tore from her throat, half shock, half sheer relief. He didn’t pause, setting a relentless, rhythm. This wasn’t tender lovemaking, this was a statement. Every thrust was a punctuation mark on his earlier words.

But within that dominance was a fierce, focused attention to her pleasure. His free hand slipped around her hip, his fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs. He knew her body, knew exactly how to touch her, how to make her unravel. He was orchestrating her pleasure with the same ruthless efficiency he ran his operations. Gradually he slowed his pace.

“Come for me,” he commanded against her ear, his breath hot, “Let me feel you come around me. Show me who you belong to.” The dual sensations; the drive of him inside her, slowing but now steadily building momentum, and the expert circles of his fingers, were too much. She shattered faster than she wanted too with a broken cry, her body convulsing around his, her knees buckling. He held her up, his arm like an iron band around her waist, driving into her through her climax until his own control broke. He pulled her up against him, the thrust harder than ever until he, with a guttural groan that was pure animalistic satisfaction, came inside her, his body shuddering against hers.

They stayed like that for a moment, slumped over the counter, breathing ragged, the only sound their harsh pants echoing in the quiet kitchen. Slowly, he pulled out, turning her around to face him. His blue eyes were sated, but still intense. He cupped her face, his thumb wiping a stray tear from her cheek, that she hadn’t even realized had fallen. “Mine,” he whispered, the word a vow. She leaned into his touch, utterly spent, utterly possessed, “Yes, yours.”