LA Love Song—Chapter Four: Someday, I’m Gonna Take You Breath Away
Pairings: nepobaby!Gojo x stripper!reader
Rating: Explicit (MDNI) 18+
Chapter Content Warnings: Explicit sexual content, angst, fingering
WC: 12.9k
Chapter Three // Masterlist // Chapter Five
Art credits to the lovely @/nsoda
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚Chapter Four: Someday, I’m Gonna Take Your Breath Away ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
(Your POV)
You get the call that night when you’re lying in bed watching TV in your apartment. You’re not really watching the show though, you’re completely zoned out as the show drones on in the background. To your irritation, you find yourself thinking of Satoru. He’s taking pieces of you, of your mind, without you even realizing it. That’s not a good sign. Letting out a sigh, you slump further in the bed and tilt your head back to stare up at the ceiling. You should cut him off, right? That would be the smart thing to do. So why does it feel so bad when you picture actually doing it?
The tinny jingle cuts through the quiet of your apartment, jolting you out of your thoughts. The club’s number flashes across your screen and you just know this has something to do with Satoru and his promises (threats) to take you out on a companionship outing. You stare at the device, the screen lit up as it screams obnoxiously in your hand. You should ignore it. You should pretend you never heard the phone ring, go in tomorrow as normal, and play dumb. Still, you can’t just ignore a call from the club. For just a second, your hand clenches tight around your phone, so hard your knuckles blanch, but somehow you find yourself sliding your thumb along the screen and tapping the button to put it on speaker.
“Hey, what’s up?” All you hear at first is muffled shuffling on the other end.
There’s a stretch of silence, some more rustling before Higuruma’s voice comes across the line, “Sorry to bother you so late, but we just got a call-in request from a membership holder. They’d like you to spend the day with them tomorrow.”
The whole day? It has to be a joke, right? Satoru told you what he was going to do but you didn’t expect him to want the whole day. Most clients only want dancers for an evening of entertainment, like for a gala, or a date, or whatever. Not Satoru though. No, that would be too easy. Your teeth grind together as you say tightly, “Okay, what client is this?” Even though you already know the answer, you still want to hear him say it.
“His name is Satoru Gojo, the trust fund kid that keeps requesting you for private dances,” There’s a pause and the sound of the line crackling in your ear, before he continues, “Are you okay with that? I’ll turn him down if you want.” There’s a reluctance in his tone that tells you that Satoru is probably paying an obscene amount for this. The thing is that you know Higuruma means it. He really will tell Satoru to kick rocks if that’s what you want.
You realize you’ve been quiet for too long so you rush to get out, “No, no, it’s fine. I can handle him.”
“Is there something I should know about? Some sort of history here?” He asks, his voice steady and calm. You’ve known Higuruma for a long time. He was the one who got you into stripping after Suguru left to help with your self-esteem and it worked.
Pursing your lips, you take a while to answer the question. Silence stretches out again before you reluctantly murmur, “History? Yeah, you could say that.” He only knows the bare bones of what went down between you and Suguru because you hate talking about it. It makes you feel as pathetic as you did five years ago to talk about it, although if someone were to ask if you’ve moved on, you’d swear up and down that you have. Have you though? Have you really moved on if you can’t even talk about it? You shake your head to clear and add, “But it’s fine. I can handle Satoru Gojo. Besides, how can I say no when he’s willing to blow his seemingly endless supply of money on me?”
“You sure?”
You nod, even though he can’t see you, and say, “Yeah, I swear. I’m good.”
“Alright, as long as you’re sure,” Higuruma replies quietly, “If you feel uncomfortable at any point, just let me know and I’ll have him banned.”
You picture the look of outrage Satoru would have on his face if he showed up at the club one day only to find out he’d been banned. It makes you let out a little chuckle and you say, “Alright, I get it. I’ll let you know if he does anything awful.”
But the thing is, Satoru hasn’t done anything awful, not yet anyway. Sure, he’s been a bit of an arrogant ass, but that’s just Satoru. He hasn’t been cruel, hasn’t tried anything beyond what you’ve let him; he’s actually been kind of … nice. The thought unsettles you. It’s hard to reconcile the Satoru you’re beginning to know now with the Satoru you knew five years ago. It almost pisses some small, bitter part of you off. Why couldn’t he have treated you like this five years ago? But then, that would have come with its own set of complications.
Higuruma hums, and says, “He’ll pick you up from the club at 11 AM. He said to have you wear something casual, but bring something nice along with.” There’s another pause, where a rough exhale comes across the line. He must be smoking. Faintly in the background, the faint click and scrape of a lighter striking repeats over and over. He sniffs and continues, “Word on the street is the kid’s a real party animal, and an arrogant ass to boot.” Well, the word isn’t wrong. Satoru is all of those things and worse. “Just be careful, alight?”
“Don’t worry, Higuruma. I know what I’m doing,” you say, but they feel like a lie even as they’re coming out of your mouth. Honestly, you have no fucking clue what you’re doing, not at all.
“Okay, well, I’ll let you get back to your trashy reality TV,” he says with a chuckle. He knows you too well.
You scowl and say defensively, “How do you know I was watching reality TV?”
“Tch. It’s after eleven and you’re at home. Of course you’re watching that shit. You eat it up,” he teases lightly, huffing out a breath of laughter. “Goodnight, babes.”
Rolling your eyes, you mutter a quick goodbye. The phone beeps three times when the call ends and you lower it from your ear. The silence of your apartment seems louder than before, even with the TV droning on in the background. Setting your phone on the bed beside you, you hunker down into the covers.
As much as you tell yourself that you’re agreeing for the club’s sake, for the money, for the enjoyment of making him squirm, there’s a small piece of you that might actually be looking forward to tomorrow and seeing just how far Satoru will take this little game. That’s what this is to him right? A fun little game that he’ll walk away from once he gets bored. There’s no way this actually means something to him, that he actually cares. If there’s one thing you know all too well, Satoru Gojo’s heart is three sizes too small, only enough room to fit two inside: Suguru and himself.
♡
The next day, you arrive at the club fifteen minutes before Satoru is due to pick you up. Since he said to wear something casual at first, you threw on a form-fitting little pair of black shorts over some black stockings and a crimson, lace corset-top. Over the top, you’re wearing a cute, thin little black, button-up sweater. A pair of velvety platform boots ties the look together. Thrown over your shoulder though, you’ve got an opaque white dress bag, a silken black cocktail dress inside and a pair of black satin Manolo Blahnik pumps with an ankle strap embellished in Swarovski crystals. They were a gift from another client.
The club isn’t even officially open yet. They don’t open until noon, but you’re almost certain that Satoru just kept throwing more and more money at Higuruma until your manager caved to whatever ridiculous demands he made. He’s annoyingly persistent like that. You go in through the club’s back entrance, unlocked for the staff who are arriving before opening to clean and prep. It opens to the kitchen, where people are already bustling around.
Some of the cooks wave to you or call out a hello. You smile and wave, but don’t say anything. You’re not really in the mood to talk. Anticipation and anxiety war inside your body, or maybe they’re one and the same. It makes your stomach roil, twist itself up into knots. If you tried to eat something right now, you’d throw it right back up. Weaving through the club, you go through the playroom and down a hall next to the bar, where Higuruma’s office is.
When you knock on the closed door, he calls out from inside, “Come in.”
You push the door open to find him sitting at his desk pouring over paperwork. A monogrammed fountain pen rests between his fingers as his downturned dark eyes rove over an expenses sheet. “Morning,” You say, slipping inside and shutting the door behind you. Crossing the room, you take a seat in the chair opposite him. It’s not a very comfortable seat, but then again, maybe it’s not supposed to be.
“Morning,” Higuruma says, straightening his hunched posture and raking his long fingers through his short, spiky dark brown hair. He looks up at you, eyes flicking up and down your outfit. “You look nice. Sure you’re not looking forward to this?”
“Tch. Don’t say such stupid things,” you snap defensively, glaring at him. But your face is turning how, a crimson flush spreading across the apples of your cheeks, the tips of your ears. Inside your chest, your heart stumbles.
He raises his hands in surrender, large palms face you, “Hey, okay, didn’t mean anything by it. Just curious.” But the knowing smile he gives you, as if he can see past all your blustering and defenses, makes you only want to snap back harder. He taps the pen in his hand against the wooden desk. “Although, that’s a pretty defensive reaction from someone who shouldn’t care.”
“Are you trying to pick a fight with me this morning?” You ask, arching your brow up at him, “I’ll throw hands with you. Don’t play games with me.”
Higuruma chuckles and says, “Alright, alright. I get it.” Letting out a breath, he glances at the clock and says, “He should be here soon.”
You nod, chewing your lip a bit. The truth is you’re dying to talk to someone about the twisted tangle of emotions that Satoru has growing in your chest. More than anything, you need an outside perspective on this. “He’s my ex-husband’s best friend,” you blurt out.
Dark brown eyes blink rapidly at you across the desk. His brows draw together before he asks slowly, “And how do we feel about that?”
You shrug, “I don’t know. It’s, uh, kinda worse than that though. He’s sort of the reason our marriage ended. He hated me from the very beginning, treated me like crap. And then, he set my husband up to cheat on me. It was a mess.”
“Yeah, a mess is one way to put it,” Higuruma says with a chuckle, “Jesus, why didn’t you say anything? I meant it when I said I’ll have him banned if you want.”
Sighing through your nose, you don’t answer for almost a full minute. Eventually you say, “I know that. I just, it feels nice that the tables have turned, you know. He used to hate me and now he wants me. I’m not immune to—“ you shake your head and let out a frustrated huff of air, “—I’m not immune to the petty satisfaction.”
Higuruma hums and leans back in his chair. His eyes flick up and down you, “Well, then, enjoy the petty satisfaction. If you’re having fun with it, then have fun with it. Just because he used to be an ass to you, doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to enjoy the attention.” He pauses, tilting his head, “If he was a dick to you when you were married to his best friend and he’s not being a dick now, maybe he didn’t hate you as much as you think.”
Your eyes narrow on him “What the hell does that mean?”
Just as he’s about to open his mouth to answer, the phone on his desk interrupts with a string of sharp rings. Higuruma picks it up and answers with a gruff, “Hello.” There are a few exchanged words that you don’t pay too much attention to. It’s not a long conversation. Less than two minutes later, he’s hanging the phone back up. “He’s here. Pulled up to the front doors.” Pushing himself, up Higuruma stretches, his large body taking up a lot of space in this small office. He’s almost as big as Satoru is.
Lifting your dress bag and the heels over your shoulder again, you follow him out. The closer you get to the doors, the more nervous you feel, but you’ve already come this far. When you reach the front door, Higuruma pulls the club’s keys from his pocket and unlocks it. He gives you one last look, an expression that you can’t quite read, “Good luck.”
You just nod and murmur, “Thanks.” Without any more waiting, you steel yourself and head outside. Sure enough, Satoru’s murdered out Benz is pulled up to the curb. The black paint is so glossy that the sun’s reflection against the hood makes you squint and you raise a hand to block the shine. Opening the back door first, you drape your dress bag across the back seat and set your heels on the floor. Once that’s settled you slide into the front passenger seat.
“You look so pretty, baby,” Satoru says as you settle into the seat and buckle in. He looks good, really fucking good. Black slacks, a red shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, button open at the collar, revealing the hollow of his throat.
“I’m not your baby,” You snap, glaring at him.
His lower lip juts out in a pout and he gives you those puppy dog eyes that normally get him whatever the fuck he wants. But a second later, that pout is splitting into a sly smirk and he teases, “I mean, you kind of are. At least for the rest of the day.” His blue eyes are dancing, his smile turning smug.
“You’re an ass,” You bite out, shooting him a venomous expression.
“Takes one to know one,” he counters swiftly. But his eyes are startlingly soft. So soft that you have to look away because you can’t take it. He hums and says, “Alright, you ready for the awesomeness?” He sounds so proud of himself that something thumps in your heart. It’s like listening to a little kid babble excitedly about winning their spelling bee, “I have everything all planned out. You don’t gotta worry about a thing, princess.”
Something in your chest aches, but you can’t bring yourself to deal with it. So you slump in your seat and mutter. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.” Just to be mean, just to hurt him. Your jaw clenches, molars grinding against each other.
“You wound me, baby,” he says theatrically, hand slapping over his chest as if he’s been struck in the heart by an invisible arrow. But he makes no move to pull the car out. You swear you can hear his heartbeat slamming against his ribs, or maybe that’s yours. After a long stretch of silence, he says quietly, “Look, I know deep down you hate me, and I fucking deserve it. I know I deserve it, but do you think that maybe just for today you can be a little bit nicer to me? I’m not asking you to sing my praises or pretend you’re hopelessly in love with me. But I’m—I don’t know—I already regret how I treated you back then and … I’m sorry. Okay? I was a complete and total dickwad to you for years. And you never deserved any of it.”
“You don’t have to do this.” You let out in a rush, sitting straight up as you look back over at him. Pure panic courses through you. You don’t want to believe Satoru is changing because it’s easier to hold onto your anger, your self-righteous pain, than face the truth you don’t want to acknowledge. A small voice in the back of your mind whispers, Without your rage, what do you really have? “The past is the past and it is what it is. Don’t apologize. You did what you did and it can’t be changed.”
“No, I wanna—“ he starts, thin silvery brows drawing together.
“Satoru, let’s just go,” You cut him off, “Really, your apologies aren’t necessary.” You’re certain it’s your heart now. You can feel it trying to jailbreak the cage of your ribs, slamming against them so hard that you feel sick. Your eyes burn with unshed tears and the worst part is that you don’t even know why you feel like you’re about to cry, but you just do.
Satoru gives you a conflicted expression. The problem is that Satoru is an open book, as much as he thinks he’s an enigma. He might hide a lot under humor and bravado, but once you understood that, it was quite easy to read him. His eyes are so sad, sadder than they have any right to be, that unflinching optimistic flippant arrogance is nowhere to be seen. “Alright, but I wish you would just let me fucking apologize,” he mutters.
“Why? Why do you feel the need? It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t fix what you broke. All it does is serve to make you feel better about how shitty you were back then,” you snap at him, clinging to your rage with your nails carving crescents into your palms. As soon as the words are out of your mouth, your teeth sink hard into your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The tang of copper spreads against your tongue, a little of the warm crimson smearing across your lip.
“That’s not—I’m not,” he stutters and you’ve genuinely never seen him this fucked up. His features set with frustration, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the words to express whatever it is he wants to say. Slowly, he reaches out and uses his thumb to pull your lip free of your teeth. It’s a gesture so intimate that you freeze, “Don’t do that.” The pad of his thumb smears a droplet of blood over your lower lip.
You can’t help how you’re staring at him. There’s such melancholy softness in his eyes that it makes you want to throw up. “Satoru—“ you start, trying and failing to keep your voice from shaking.
“For the record, apologizing to you doesn’t make me feel any better about what I did to you back then,” he cuts you off this time, punctuating the sentence with a bitter smile. “And I’m fully aware that no amount of apologies can ever fix or make up for what I put you through, but I’d spend the rest of my life trying if there was the smallest chance you’d ever forgive me.” His palm cradles your cheek, the touch unbreakable tender. It makes your head spin. “I really am genuinely sorry for everything. I was immature and selfish, hell, I’m still pretty selfish. But I … I want to be a better person. You make me want to be a better person.” He pauses, his expression serious as those pretty blue eyes roam over your face. His throat bobs before he continues in a tone laced with quiet agony, “Even if you cut me out of your life again, I’d still try to be better for you. I never want to treat anyone the way I treated you ever again.”
Your lower lip trembles and you have to look away from him. You can’t fucking take this. Tears well in your eyes. Why is he doing this to you? Why couldn’t he have changed five years ago? Your mind is in a fucking tailspin, or maybe it’s a sort of free-fall, but you can’t help imagining what it will be like when you finally hit the ground. “Okay,” you choke out, forcing your voice to stay as steady as possible. It’s the only thing you can say without losing your shit, whether sobbing or ripping him a new one is a game of Russian roulette with half the chambers loaded.
“I’m pouring my heart out here sweets. And all I get is an okay?” He laughs awkwardly, like he’s more hurt than he’s trying to let on. You can hear the tap-tap-tap of his thumb hitting the steering wheel. There’s a soft rustle, him shifting in his seat probably. You bite down hard on your tongue, using the physical pain to ground yourself. Then, softly, gently, Satoru murmurs, “You cryin’?” You know it’s not a question though. He’s not asking, he’s confirming. “Don’t do that, sweets. I don’t want you to cry over me anymore.”
“I’m not crying, you asshole!” You can’t help but shoot back angrily, a blatantly obvious lie, quickly raising your hand to scrub the tears away. Anger. Irritation. Good. Those are things that won’t make you look pathetic. You tentatively look back over to him, only to catch him sucking your blood off his thumb, his sweeping white lashes fluttering closed for a second. Fucking freak.
He pulls his thumb from his mouth with a wet pop before tilting his head in your direction. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say,” he says, clearly not believing you for a second, which only makes your teeth grind together. He’s really asking for a good smack upside the head. “If you did need to cry, I wouldn’t judge you,” he adds after a second, finally throwing the car into drive to pull it smoothly away from the curb, “Just this once.” At least he’s finally driving instead of focusing so much on you.
Sniffling quietly, you wipe away the lingering tears as surreptitiously as possible. You’re not so subtle for Satoru not to notice, but to his credit, he doesn’t say anything else about it. But, his hand slides across the center console to grip your thigh, heavy and warm. His thumb sweeps gentle circles over the thin, gauzy material of your stockings.
The sky is a bright, cloudless blue overhead. Before too long here, the LA sun will devour the city whole, making everyone in it swelter and sweat. It shines into the cabin, though muted by the dark window tint. As always, LA traffic is a bitch and a half to deal with, but Satoru muscles his way through it with ease; probably because he drives like a fucking asshole. He noses his way in front of people, cuts them off, and speeds through any open gaps he can get. Although, he doesn’t run any red lights and he does use his blinker (most of the time) so there’s that, you suppose.
The streets around you start to look very familiar as Satoru heads into downtown Los Angeles. Before long, he’s driving down Grand, passing the Gloria Marina Grand Park and then the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Your eyes catch on the Museum of Contemporary Art as you go by, the distinctive red brickwork and green roof unmistakable. That must be where he’s taking you. For some reason that makes your stomach do weird little flips and for a second you feel like you might be sick.
Satoru turns onto 4th, then makes another immediate turn onto Olive. He parks in the garage beneath the California plaza. Luckily, he somehow manages to get a freshly vacated spot near the entrance. After he pulls into the spot, he shuts the engine with a twist of his wrist and reluctantly lets go of your thigh. “Well, we’re here.”
You shift in your seat to look at him. “The Museum of Contemporary Art? Really?”
“Of course you figured it out. I dunno, I just thought that you probably still enjoy art,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting, “Didn’t think taking your clothes off for strangers would really change that.”
You scoff. “God, you do something actually kinda cool and then you open your fucking mouth and ruin it all.”
His little half smile breaks into a full-on beaming grin. “Hah! You admitted it. I did something right.” The curve of his lips softens into something that resembles affection a little too closely for comfort. Leaning forward, he taps a finger against the tip of your nose and teases, “Maybe by the end of this date you’ll be able to admit that you might like me a little sometimes.”
“Keep dreaming,” you snap, shooting him a glare.
Satoru lets out a sigh and replies smartly, “Thanks. I will.”
Smug, insufferable bastard. Rolling your eyes, you say, “Ugh, let’s just go inside. You’re being ridiculous.” You turn your head just in time to hide the little smile starting to tug on your lips.
The two of you get out of the car and start out of the garage, falling into step together. Every once in a while, Satoru’s arm brushes against you. Inside your chest, your heart does a weird little skip every time it happens, which you dutifully ignore. It’s a little over a block to the museum from the parking garage, but you don’t mind the exercise; it’s a nice day out, after all. But Satoru’s words sit heavy in the back of your mind.
You clear your throat and look over at him. Eventually, you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear you, “This isn’t a date by the way.” It had to be said. Just in case. Just in case of what? Just in case he means it? But Satoru rarely means anything he says.
Satoru tilts his head to look at you, that strange, intense expression he watches you with flaring in his eyes. “Oh? Then what is it?” Before you can react, he’s reaching down and grabbing your hand. One by one, his fingers interlace with yours. His skin is warm and soft, his hand huge compared to yours.
“Are we really gonna do this?” You ask tightly, trying to tug your hand away from his. This is heading to close into couple territory for you to be on board. His fingers only tighten around yours to make escape impossible. Huffing out a breath of irritation, you bite out, “It can’t be a date because you paid for me to be here.”
But Satoru only chuckles and purrs, “Hard disagree, that’s just chivalry.” At the expression in your eyes, like a cat watching a toy it's about to pounce on, he adds playfully, “Any guy of decent standing knows that unless requested otherwise, it’s just the right thing to do to pay for the date. Lucky for you, I’m a real gentleman.” The little fucking brat is having fun with this.
“Satoru?” You say sweetly, dragging out the syllables of his name.
“Hmm, what is it, sweets?”
“You’re an idiot,” you reply flatly just as you make it to the entrance of the museum. Since it’s a weekday, the museum isn’t as packed as it is on the weekends. It’s still fairly busy just because MOCA is a popular museum, but at least you won’t be packed in like sardines.
Satoru tugs you along to the ticket booth where he pulls out his phone to show the employee what you assume to be reservations. The museum is free; most people get reservations though to make sure they don’t have to wait in line. It might be a little slower today, but it was smart of him to get them, just in case.
There’s something about art galleries that invokes a special, peaceful feeling in you. Maybe it’s the scent of the cleaners they use, or the hushed nigh-on reverent tone people use inside them, or maybe it’s the art itself. Something could be said for the act of being surrounded by pieces of souls put on display. Art is the greatest act of love one can commit.
Your eyes trail across the different pieces, expression softened so much that you almost look like a different person. Slowly, you walk from piece to piece in the Rothko section. The different geometrical squares and rectangles, the explosions of color, the messy blends. It speaks a language spoken in the heart, the hands, and the soul. You stop in front of No. 61–Rust and Blue. As you study the painting, your brows furrow in concentration and you bite down on one side of your lower lip. Glancing up at Satoru, you’re startled to find that he’s not looking at the painting at all. He’s looking at you.
♡
(Satoru’s POV)
She looks so fucking beautiful. The words play in his mind over and over in a loop. That shine in your eyes, the peaceful, studious expression on your face, the way you bite your lip—those little details make his heart do somersaults in his chest. He had chosen this place with care. He hoped that you still loved art like you used to, that he hadn’t ruined that for you as well. If he had killed your love of art, he doesn’t know what he would have done. Then you look up at him and he almost fucking panics like a dumbass. Your pretty eyes meet his and he’s never felt so fucking raw before someone in all his life.
“You’re staring at me,” you tease, your eyes lighting up with humor.
He swallows. “And? What of it? Can’t a man admire the most beautiful exhibit in the room in peace?”
“Tch. Do those shitty lines ever actually work?” You bounce back immediately, rolling those pretty eyes.
His hand squeezes tighter around yours and he gives you one of those big smiles that’s more of a taunt than anything else. “Often enough,” he goads unabashedly. You just snort and take the initiative to pull him along to the next piece. It occurs to him that he could spend day after day doing this, taking you places and buying you things, just watching that expression on your face. Happiness. He’d do anything to keep you just like that.
You stop in front of the next painting. The placard reads No. 9—Dark over Light Earth. He doesn’t really get this art. It’s a bunch of squares and color, but you seem to like it, so he refrains from being an ass about it. He wonders, yet again, if he’s the reason you gave up on all those dreams you had in college, dreams of being featured in a gallery exactly like this, of sharing your art with the world.
He takes a breath before finally asking what’s weighing on his mind. “Serious question,” he falters for a moment, debating whether or not he really wants the answer to it. But he has to know, so he sighs and continues, “Uh, why did you become a dancer?”
You look away from the painting and back up at him, “Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity mostly,” he answers with a shrug. But he can’t bring himself to lie to you, so he admits a second later, voice softer, “I just, y’know, I know that I’m the reason your marriage ended. Even though it’s not my fault Suguru was an ass throughout the divorce, I don’t know, it’d just suck if I was the reason you ended up doing that, especially if it was something you didn’t really want to do.” He swallows down the feelings of guilt simmering in his throat.
For a moment, you just blink at him, your eyes roving over his face like he’s a machine you’re trying to pick apart and understand the inner workings of. Then you say with more gentleness than he deserves, “Don’t worry, Satoru. The fact that I became a stripper is one thing we can’t pin on you.” You pause and look away from him, like you can’t bear to maintain eye contact as you say the next part, “I was pretty depressed after the divorce. Suguru was all I had and I poured everything in me into him. So, naturally, once everything fell apart, I was … empty. And I started looking for anything I could get my hands on to fill that emptiness.”
“Hey, I really—“ He starts trying to say something, anything, to show how fucking sorry he is for everything. And he’s not just sorry because of the way things ended up. It eats at him day in and day out.
“Let me finish before you start in with the apologies again.”
He nods and lets you pull him to the next piece, murmuring, “Right. Okay.”
“Higuruma and I knew each other back in college. Let’s just say that he and Suguru were academic rivals,” you explain and somewhere in the far reaches of Satoru’s brain he vaguely remembers the guy now. Wow, drugs really do a number on the memory. He’d completely forgotten about him.
“We reconnected over some dating app that I was just using to get no-strings-attached dick. For a little while there, we were sort of friends with benefits. He noticed how sad I was and how low my self-esteem was so he took me to Imperial and had one of the dancers show me the ropes. It helped build my confidence, made me feel like I had some control over something.” You explain the whole thing pretty succinctly, absolving the guilt he feels over that portion at least. “The money is another reason why I’ve kept doing it. I still do art on the side.” You giggle, a sound that makes his heart jackhammer, and add, “If I didn’t want to be doing this, I’d be doing something else.”
His mouth feels dry and his voice is tight when he says, “I see. Well, I’m glad it’s been a net positive experience for you then.” Then, his silvery brows knit together, his face scrunching up like he’s tasted something sour. “You used to fuck your boss?” He frowns and quickly adds, “Do you still fuck? Are you guys, like, together?” The thought makes him want to throw up all over the shiny floor.
“Is that all you took away from that?” You ask flatly, glancing at him again. His expression changes into a glare, which draws another laugh from you, and you say with a shake of your head, “No, we don’t sleep together anymore. It was just for a few months in the beginning. We’re friends more than anything else.” Pausing, you give him a sly smile and add, “Why? You jealous?”
He scoffs. Once already, he’s admitted to being jealous and all you did was threaten and tease him. “No, but …” he trails off and lets out a long sigh before muttering, “It irritates me to think about. “
“You claim you’re not jealous and yet you describe the symptoms of jealousy,” you tease, your little smirk breaking into a full-blown smile—little sadist. You’re enjoying this.
“Tch, fine, believe what you want,” he says shortly as he lets go of your hand to pull you closer against his side and slide his hand into the back pocket of your shorts. Then he gives the curve of your ass a nice, firm squeeze. He just can’t help himself. It looks so cute in those little shorts. There’s also the bonus of distracting you from his jealousy.
“Satoru!”
“What?” He asks innocently, leaning in to rest his head against you
You slowly look up at him, the murderous look in your eyes filling him with an odd sensation in his chest, like a bathtub overflowing with foamy bubbles. “Are you seriously copping a feel right now?” You hiss and it sends a shudder down his spine.
Your head swivels back and forth, like you’re worried someone is watching. The other patrons are all milling about in their own groups, focused on the art, none of them giving either of you a second glance.
He leans in even closer to whisper against your ear, “I mean, we could go to the bathroom and you could let me cop a better one.” The tone leaves it up for debate whether he’s joking or being serious. His smirk forms against your skin and he adds teasingly, “I for one, feel like I’m being subtle.”
“Have you ever felt shame before in your life?” You grouse at him as you start to walk over to the next exhibit, forcing him to come along as well.
Satoru shrugs and says, playing theatrically dumb, “Shame? What is this shame you speak of? Never heard of her before.” The soft classical music throughout the building swells a bit louder for a heartbeat. Then, he continues more seriously, “Honestly though, what’s there to be ashamed of about taking the things you want?”
“Of course, a spoiled little brat would have that outlook,” you mutter. The muscles in your jaw flex from your teeth grinding together. For a few minutes, you stand there in silence, but he can tell you want to say something. It’s in the set of your shoulder. Just as he’s about to open his mouth to goad you into it, you say sharply, “You know not everyone can simply take what they want when they want. Some people spend their whole lives working to get what they want only to never see it because the system was stacked against them from the beginning.”
Blinking at you for a moment, his mouth tugs into a lopsided grin, “Are you lecturing me on privilege?” He presses a kiss against your temple, unable to help himself. Softly, he murmurs against your hair, “It’s kind of hot.”
Your jaw drops and you angle your head enough to look at him and you say with sweetness that belies your words, “Sometimes, you make me wanna slap the shit out of you.”
“Oh God, please do,” he groans quietly. His long, sweeping white lashes flutter closed as he fantasizes about you doing just that. What a fucking turn on.
“You’re really screwed up in the head,” you say like you’re stating a fact.
Satoru hums and says cheerfully, “Hate to break it to you, sweets, but you are too. That shit you pulled last time? Sucking me off with him on speaker? Only someone as twisted as I am could come up with that.”
You shoot him another look that’s pure venom, but you don’t argue with him, so he knows he’s won. Satoru finally pulls his hand from your ass pocket though and wraps it around your shoulders instead. This way when you stop to look at pieces he can wrap himself around you from behind like a starfish, chin resting on your shoulders instead as you talk about the artists, color theory, and your thoughts on certain pieces. He doesn’t really understand any of it, but he listens anyway just because it’s you. But if it gets you to let him keep you close, holding you and touching you, fuck, he’d listen to you talk about watching paint dry.
In the quiet moments between words, when he’s just got his arms around you, face burrowed into your hair while you take in the artwork, in those moments he realizes he feels more content than he ever has before. Truthfully, he doesn’t really care about the art. The only thing he cares about is the expression it puts on your face. It doesn’t matter that you and he are surrounded by strangers, their conversations flowing around you like water, because right now, it’s just you and him in this world.
In this world, you were never married to his best friend. In this world, you’re just a woman and he’s just a man and there are no walls or barriers between you. In this world, maybe he could have you the way he really wants to. What wishful thinking. He can’t tell if it’s a lofty dream or a fantasy.
As you near the entrance of the museum, Satoru notices you starting to slow down. Your gait doesn’t falter, but you wince every so often, like you’re in pain. There’s a hint of concern in those gorgeous blue eyes of his. His arm around your shoulders pulls you tighter against him and he looks down at you to say, “Tired baby?”
“My feet just hurt,” you complain. You guys have been walking around for hours now without a break and these heels are killing you. They’re new and have yet to be broken in.
Satoru looks down at you and, without even thinking about it, scoops you up right there where everyone can see. It’s like you weigh nothing at all to him. Your cheeks flush crimson and you glare at him, but your arms go around his neck automatically. “There you go,” he says warmly, one arm holding you snugly under the knees, the other wrapped around your lower back. “Problem solved.”
“Satoru,” you whine cutely, turning your blushing face into his neck. “This is embarrassing.” The words come out as a soft, pleading whisper and your soft lashes flutter against his skin. Another shudder goes straight down his spine to his cock. Oh, the way you sound like that is way better than how you sound when you’re being mean.
“Relax, pretty girl,” he says, holding onto you tightly so you can’t try to squirm away, “None of them care about us. Besides, we’ll probably never see any of those people again in our lives. Just hold onto me. I got you.”
He shoulders his way out the door, ignoring any lingering looks or stares in his direction. The air outside is warm, but not humid, one of the many blessings of LA. Under the endless blue sky, Satoru’s strong arms fit around you like two puzzle pieces finding their missing match. His heart is thumping hard in his chest, not from exertion, but because of what you do to him. Retracing the earlier walk, Satoru carries you back to the car in silence, though he’s humming some pop song under his breath.
When he arrives at the car, he sets you down on the trunk and stands right in front of you, trapping you there. He braces his hands on either side of your thighs and leans in to murmur, “Prettiest girl in the whole fuckin’ world.” Spreading your thighs apart, he pulls you closer to the edge, so your legs are spread on either side of him. You blink at him, those beautiful eyes so wide and guileless.
“Satoru …” His name is a soft question on your tongue, the sound of it almost enough to bring him to his knees.
“Hmm, what is it, sweets?” He asks as he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, just under the curve of your jaw. But the only answer you give him is a soft whimper. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his huge hands leaving the hood to cradle your face. He’s waited and waited and waited. And now, he really doesn’t want to anymore.
He’s been dreaming of this for weeks.
Satoru leans down until his lips are barely a centimeter from yours and pauses long enough to let you push him away if you want. But to his utter satisfaction, you don’t. The silky white locks of his hair fall forward a little as he tilts his head the rest of the way until the pout of his lips brushes yours. Your lips are soft, your breath sweet against his. The first touch is barely there and feather light, but it sparks something in Satoru—an all-consuming hunger. Or maybe it’s a kind of starvation.
With a low rumble in the back of his throat, he captures your lips with his in earnest now. His heart feels like it’s going to fucking explode right out of his goddamn chest when you start kissing him back. It’s faltering at first, sure, even hesitant, but then your lips are moving in tandem with his. He groans into it, long white lashes fluttering shut, the kiss growing more feverish and sloppy as he tries to devour you whole.
Satoru Gojo has lived with an ache in his chest since he was small. Maybe it’s because his parents never really showed him affection, or how they suffocated him out of every friendship except Suguru’s, or how even when he did have friends, everyone treated him differently because of his parents’ money and name. At times, he’s wondered if that hollowness will ever go away or if it will sit in the center of his chest for the rest of his life. Right now, with his lips on yours, for the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel it at all.
Slowly, he leans over you, forcing you to lie back on the trunk of his car. He swallows your breath and your sweet little whimpers that are music to his ears. One of his hands slides up to cradle the back of your neck to guide your head right where he wants it. Your noses bump together and your teeth. His tongue gently swipes along your lower lip and your mouth parts form him like a flower opening in the spring. He doesn’t hesitate. All pretense gone, he plunges his tongue inside and tastes you fully.
He thinks he might fucking cry from how perfect it is. He’s never felt like this before. It’s a similar sort of feeling to being stuck on a video game level or a boss fight, and then finally, finally getting it. Except, this is a million times better. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest, slamming so hard into his ribcage that he’s certain you can feel it. He angles your head to kiss you even deeper because every single atom of his being is screaming more, more, more!
But even he needs air. Eventually, he breaks the kiss, his breathing hard and fast. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and he uses his thumb to break the strand of spit stretching between you by wiping your bottom lip. His pretty blue eyes are shining and soft all at once.
“I’m gonna make you fall in love with me,” It slips out without his consent, but he doesn’t take it back. He lets it marinate instead. The hand at your nape slides up to tangle in your hair. “Do you hear me? Mark my words, pretty girl. It might not be today, and it might not be a month from now, but someday, I’m gonna make you fall in love with me.”
“Dream on,” you mutter, looking away from him, but your voice is all air and a shade higher than normal, cheeks stained a pretty shade of pink. God, you look so fucking beautiful like this. Those two words are nothing more than a challenge to him anyway.
He knows that if you really hated him to your core, you’d never allow all this, but you are allowing it, which means to some degree you’re tolerating it or you want it.
“Oh, I will,” he purrs, his mouth curling into a grin before he leans down to devour you all over again.
♡
(Your POV)
Those words: I’m gonna make you fall in love with me. Like he’s absolutely certain you will, like it’s something inevitable. You’re still reeling from the first kiss, but he’s on you again before you can do or say anything. His mouth steals the very breath from your lungs.
You wish you could say the kiss is awful. You really wish you could say that. And you wish you could say that kissing Satoru feels disgusting, wrong, terrible, and any other negative adjective you could slap on there. The truth is a real horrible, terrible, awful thing though, sitting in the base of your throat like a stone.
Satoru is a fantastic kisser, thorough and relentless. His natural feel for the rhythm of things is intoxicating—the push and pull between you like the tides and the moon. You can’t help but moan, whimper, and give in to the kiss. You melt under him, let him manhandle you, because all you can do is get caught in the wash of it. He kisses you for so long that your lips are swollen, wet, and a little chapped.
When he finally breaks the second kiss, he plants one on each corner of your mouth, before pulling away, a big smile on his face like he’s just won some prize. “Come on princess,” he says, wrapping his arms around you to help you down from the car. “I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve before the evening is done.” He guides you to the passenger side, hand on the small of your back, and opens the door for you. You slide inside and he shuts you in before jogging around to the driver’s side. Once you’re both settled in the car, he pulls out of the underground garage, only stopping to pay.
From the museum, he takes you to Echo Park Lake where you ride around on the swan paddle boats for a while. The water is peaceful, the late afternoon sun slipping closer and closer to the horizon. The two of you get lost in conversation about all sorts of random things: food, TV shows, music. It’s easier than you’d like to admit to talk to Satoru. In the past, you were so terrified of him that you barely exchanged a few words here and there. Most of his were jagged barbs and most of yours were mumbled apologies and acknowledgments.
He looks so fucking attractive in the golden hour sun. Those long white lashes and the silken snow of his hair tinted under the warm light, blue eyes glinting. Of course, he has to be holding your hand the whole time you’re on the boats. He’s very clingy and touchy. The whole time you were in the art gallery, he was wrapped around you like an octopus.
You’re a little surprised by how much thought he put into today. He picked activities he genuinely thought you might enjoy and he was spot on. The Satoru Gojo you used to know never would have thought about what someone else might want long enough to pull together something like this. The sweetness of it all leaves you feeling uneasy, like you always get when someone starts to seem like they actually like you. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
After you’re done at Echo Park, Satoru drives you to the Gojo Inc. building to change. You don’t have to ask why he doesn’t take you to his apartment. It’s an easy enough guess. Suguru is probably living with him after the divorce and he doesn’t want to risk having a little run-in. Knowing Suguru, he probably sold that house the minute the divorce was finalized. He never could stand staring at the ruins, he’d rather raze them to the ground.
You change into the dress you brought along. The silk feels like liquid against your skin, soft and lovely. After sliding the accompanying heels, you admire yourself in the mirror. The backless design shows off your spine and your waist. When you leave the bathroom, Satoru is waiting outside, seated on a low bench as he scrolls mindlessly through his phone. You clear your throat and his head jumps up.
The way his eyes go wide, the way they flick to each of your curves like he can’t decide where he wants to look the most, his thoughts on the dress are written all over his face. He shoots to his feet, throat bobbing as his gaze sweeps up and down you. “You look …” he trails off and you preen under it. The same guy who used to tease you for the way you looked is now staring at you like you’re some kind of salvation.
“Like it?” You sing-song, sidling up next to him to run your fingers along his collar, “Hah, you’re gonna get hard right here in the middle of the lobby of daddy’s company, aren’t you?” Patting him lightly on the chest, you add, “Come on, let’s go before you start getting any ideas into your head.”
“Me? Ideas?” He gasps all faux innocence, “Never.”
“That’s all you have is ideas and, somehow, they’re all fuckin’ bad ones,” you mutter. Just as you take the first steps away, Satoru snags your hand to hold it as you walk back to his car together. It’s like he can’t stop touching you.
The drive over to dinner is oddly silent for how much you guys have been talking the whole day. You watch LA traffic out the window, watch the sky turn cotton candy pink, sherbet orange, and lilac. Satoru hums along to whatever bouncy, catchy pop song has taken over the charts for the time being. Every so often, you steal glances at him as he drives. The flex of his thick, muscular arms, the way the veins bulge and twist when he turns, is more than a little distracting.
He muscles the car through rush hour traffic, the cars practically nose to nose. The intermittent honks and someone’s music so loud you can hear it in the cabin puncture the steady rumble of engines. Reaching over, Satoru grasps one of your thighs over the silk of your dress. His hand is warm even through the liquid material. Because of the traffic, the drive seems to stretch on and on, but the whole time Satoru’s long fingers trace maddeningly distracting, gentle circles over your dress. Bit by bit, he eases the material up your leg to touch your bare, smooth skin instead though. It sends a shudder down your spine, slick heat pooling in your panties.
Glancing over at him, you see that he’s got his gaze fixed on the road ahead like he’s not fucking teasing you. That’s what this is, right? A tease? His hand clamps down around your leg, fingers pressing in hard enough to leave marks. A moment later, those little circles continue against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your teeth sink into your lower lip as they trail higher and higher, until they’re brushing against the damp, lacy material of your little panties.
You almost jump when his voice cuts through the car, low and rough, “Why didn’t you tell me she was so needy?” One long digit swipes over your panties, stroking you over the damp material. “You’re so fucking wet, baby. Shoulda told me and I would have taken care of it.” His finger hooks into your panties, roughly pulling them aside for him to slide his finger along your soaked slit. A gasp rips from your throat and takes everything in you not to grind against his hand like a dog in heat. That finger parts your folds, sweeping up between them to circle your little clit once, twice, thrice, making your hips jump each time. His chuckle fills the cabin as he drags that same finger back down to circle your dripping hole.
“Fuck, baby, you’re lucky I’m not pulling this car off the fuckin’ road to eat your pretty little pussy,” he mutters, swirling his finger around your opening over and over, teasing you in a way that makes your cunt clench around nothing. “You know, I think about drinking up your pretty little pussy all the time. Jerk myself off to it before I go to bed every fucking night.” Sliding the just the tip of his finger in, he crooks it enough to make you squirm.
“Satoru,” your voice is an odd mix of warning and desire, a faint blush coloring your cheeks.
“What is it, sweets? Need something?”
“I’m gonna fucking—“ He pushes his finger deeper, pulling a whine from you, cutting off your threat. Bastard. He’s doing this on purpose.
He looks over at you out of the corner of his eye, a smug smirk on his mouth. “What? Got something to say, baby?”
“You—“ the word is pried out from between your gritted but he cuts you off again with a sweep of his thumb across your clit, making your hips jump, a little moan slipping out.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” he teases, toying with that sensitive nub some more. It’s taking everything in you not to hump his hand like a fucking teenager. Your hands curl into your dress, rumpling the material, and your teeth sink into your lower lip.
He plays with your cunt the whole way to the restaurant, alternating between gently stroking your clit and swirling his long, thick fingers around your tight little hole. The problem is that he never actually lets you come. Every time you get close and your moans pitch into something feverish, his touch slows, fingers turning featherlight. By the time you arrive, you’re a sopping mess, your thighs shaking. You’ve drenched through your panties, slick leaking down onto the seat.
“Look at you, baby,” Satoru breathes as he whips into a spot at the back of the lot. “So fuckin’ pretty for me, leaking onto my seat like a good little slut.” He presses his thumb hard against your clit and you cry out, your hand flying up to the oh shit bar on the ceiling of the car. Then, to your horror and frustration, he pulls his fingers from your needy body. Lifting them to his mouth, he sucks them obscenely clean. He groans, long lashes fluttering shut as he tastes your juices like the flavor is something holy. “Mmm, best dessert in the world,” he whispers, eyes opening and sliding over to you to give you that mischievous side-eye again. “But, it’d be a terrible idea to spoil my appetite with all this sweetness, so we best go inside,” he teases, clearly enjoying your misery.
“Seriously? You’re really gonna leave me like this?” You snap irritably, pissed off that he’s gotten your pussy so needy and aching, and is leaving you there to stagnate on the brink of climax.
He laughs, “What’s the matter princess? Feelin’ a little hot and bothered?”
“Fuck you,” you mutter, tugging your dress back down your thighs as you shoot a venomous glare. He just cackles as he gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side. When he opens your door and offers you his hand, you glare up at him and grumble, “Seriously, fuck you for that.”
When you don’t give him your hand, he reaches down and snags it anyway. Gently, he pulls you out of the car and up against his chest. Looking down at you, he gently strokes your hair and says softly, “Don’t worry, pretty girl. I’ll take care of you before the night is done.” The way he says it, solemn like a vow, his voice low and rough makes your walls clench around nothing.
Wrapping his arms around your shoulders, he leads you into Hotel Belair. Satoru is warm against you as you guys walk into the restaurant. The space is beautiful, yet intimate, with an elegant, yet bohemian vibe. After Satoru gives his name for the reservation, the host guides you back to a quiet table in the back.
The host leaves you with two menus and the drink menu; the latter Satoru sets aside. You look over the menu sheet, taking in the absurd prices, but you’re not the one paying, so what does it matter?
A few minutes of silence pass and for some reason, you feel the need to fill it. “Do you know what you’re getting?”
“Hmmm, I was thinking the lamb,” Satoru replies, his foot bumping against yours under the table. “You?”
You shrug, your eyes shifting around the restaurant. The dim lighting creates a romantic atmosphere and, with how tucked away this table is the thought crosses your mind that he might have requested it. “It’s a really nice place,” you say softly as you take in the dark leather, the white tablecloths, the pretty flowers at the center of each table. Inside your chest, your heart picks up for some reason. He tilts his head, silky white hair falling to the side, and gives you what you can only describe as a tender smile. Looking back down at the table, you mumble, “Actually, all the places you’ve taken me today have been really nice. It’s like you actually put some thought into it.”
It’s the truth, albeit an embarrassing one. Your cheeks are slightly pink and your teeth sink into your lower lip.
“Hey, I do use my brain cells sometimes.” He jokes, his smiles widening as he leans forward to prop his elbows up on the table so he can rest his chin in his hands. Those pretty blue eyes flick up and down at you before he says, “I dunno, I just really wanted to make sure you had a good time tonight.”
“Well, thank you. It’s been kind of fun actually.”
“Hah, look at that. My cruel, mean girl does know how to be nice from time to time.” He teases, eyes twinkling in the light.
His girl? Since when did you become anything even remotely resembling being his? You choose to ignore it though because some battles just aren’t worth picking.
“Don’t push your luck,” you mutter.
Just then, your waiter dressed in a nice, tailored suit appears at your table. He has kind eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. Politely clearing his throat, he says, “Good evening, miss, sir. Terribly sorry for the interruption. My name is Terrance and I’ll be your waiter tonight. May I start either of you off with anything to drink?”
Satoru starts rattling some stuff off to the waiter and you can’t help but watch the way his lips move, the way his broad shoulda carry that omnipresent reckless, confidence. The way the lights glow against his pale skin and his snowy hair, the curl of his thick, sweeping lashes, the glint of his eyes, the cut of his suit over his tall, broad frame. That’s when you realize you’re staring a little bit. You quickly look away as Satoru turns his head to look back at you.
“Want anything? Get whatever you want,” he says, the boyish smile on his lips, like you really could order the entire menu and he wouldn’t bat an eye.
You shake your head, your stomach twisting into knots. The waiter nods and walks away, your eyes following him as he disappears. In the back of your mind, a small voice whispers, This isn’t going to last. There’s no way he can sustain this. This could all be an act to begin with.
Satoru bumps your foot with his under the table again. He’s practically beaming when he says, “So, since I’ve done such a spectacular job putting together this date that you’ve enjoyed so much, does that mean that I get a reward?” He pauses, nudging your calf with the toe of his shoe. He leans forward, his expression downright roguish as he adds, “‘Cause, I think I kinda deserve a reward.”
You grind your teeth for a second before saying too sweetly, “Oh, do you?” One of your brows arches up. “I didn’t realize we were handing out rewards for, what did you call it earlier, chivalry?” At his frown, you laugh, the sound warm and happy. Meeting his eyes, you tilt your head and say, “What sort of reward do you think you deserve?”
He hums like he doesn’t already have something in mind, which you are 100% certain he does. “I think, since I’ve been such a good boy, I should get your phone number.”
He tried to get your number the last time you saw him, but you turned him down. That would make things way too messy. It comes a little too close to turning something that could be explained away as professional into something personal. “Sorry, no shot,” you reply instantly.
“Come ooonnnn, please, please, please,” he begs, “I’ll grovel if that’s what you want. You want me to get down on my knees right here in this restaurant? Because I will.”
“No, don’t do that,” you rush to say before he can mortify you in front of everyone here. “That’s a bad idea. If you want to see me, you can go through the club. I mean it.”
His shoulders cave inward and his lower lip juts out in a cute, pathetic pout. Jesus, why is he so adorable? Especially when he’s pouting like a spoilt child. He looks up at you with those baleful blue eyes and mumbles, “But you even said you had a good time today.” He sounds confused and wounded.
“I …” you trail off. You don’t feel like you should have to explain shit to him, but at the same time, the way he sounds makes you feel bad. It’s not guilt per se, just bad. The man is either a master manipulator (the likely option) or he’s genuinely hurt. Your jaw flutters as you clench your teeth, staring at him across the table. Some angry part of you revels in the fact that he’s all put out by not getting your number, but at the same time it’s hard to look at him with that sad expression and pathetic eyes. It’s probably best not to examine why it bothers you, you decide.
Luckily, the waiter saves you from having to answer. He comes to take your orders at exactly the right moment, giving you a reprieve from that expression on Satoru’s face. Satoru gets the lamb and you rattle off your order absently, lost in thought about what exactly you guys are doing here.
You need to put an end to this. Put him out of his misery like a wounded animal with no chance of recovery.
Once the waiter is gone, the rest of the dinner passes with a quiet tension simmering under the surface. Neither you nor Satoru speaks much, other than comments on the food, drinks, and other innocuous subjects. But the unspoken hangs over you like a pall. The rest of the dining room feels distant and far away, like you’re in the restaurant, but not. All that exists is the suffocating way he looks at you every so often and the delicious food that tastes like ash in your mouth.
Once both of your plates are empty, Satoru takes care of the bill, slapping his heavy, metal credit card on the table. You wish you could hear his thoughts because his expression is unreadable and you’re unable to gauge what he’s feeling. Normally, Satoru is sort of an open book, at least when you know where to look.
The walk back out to the car is quiet. The setting sun has fallen slowly under the horizon, the sky the deep periwinkle of twilight overhead. Your heels click against the pavement, loud in the unobtrusive evening. When you reach his car, he walks over to the passenger side with you and opens your door. Before you can slide inside though, he grabs your wrist.
“I’ll keep going through the club if I have to,” he says seriously, “But I meant what I said earlier.” He doesn’t specify what he’s talking about, but you already know. Someday, I’m gonna make you fall in love with me.
You swallow, “Satoru, this thing, whatever you’re doing here, we’re doing here, it’s not gonna end well.” Pausing, you take a breath, then continue, “We can’t keep doing this. It’s not … it’s not sustainable and it’s not good for us, either of us.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re scared,” Satoru accuses, glaring down at you. He’s looking at you with that intense expression, laced with anger this time.
“I’m not scared!” You immediately protest. It’s a lie though and not a very good one. You are scared, terrified actually. Every time you think about what’s going on between you and Satoru for too long you start to feel nauseous and uneasy. “Tell me, Satoru, what are you gonna do when Suguru finds out? Because he will find out eventually. You can’t hide it from him forever and he’s not completely stupid.”
Satoru’s jaw tightens and he mutters, “When the time comes, I’ll handle it.”
You let out a sigh and shake your head, “What if Suguru refuses to let you? What if the only outcome is losing him completely?”
“Don’t you get it yet?” He grits out, his pretty blue eyes roving over your face. “I’ve already lost him. The day he lost you, I lost him. We went out for drinks together for the first time in a year last night. But it’s …” He trails off and shakes his head, “If this ends with him not being my friend anymore, then so be it. It’s just more of the same.” And he sounds so fucking tired, bitter, and broken that it makes your heart lurch. “I just, I like spending time with you, okay? Can you please just let me have that?”
Your teeth sink into your lower lip. Say no. Say no. Say no. “Okay,” you murmur. Jesus Christ, what are you doing?
He smiles, not looking quite as stricken, “Okay.” Then, he quietly helps you into the car. A few minutes later, he’s pulling out of the restaurant parking lot and cruising down the road. You look out the window, watching the passing palm trees and street lights, not really paying attention to where he’s taking you. You assume back to the club, but you’re surprised when you eventually end up at Will Rogers Beach. Satoru parks in the lot across from it, facing the water.
It’s late enough now that there aren’t a lot of people here. Satoru unbuckles his seatbelt and adjusts his seat back before looking over at you and murmuring, “C’mere.” He pats his lap like an invitation.
You just stare at him for a minute that voice coming back to whisper how bad of an idea this is. But your traitorous body seems not to agree with your mind. Your hand reaches down to unlatch your seatbelt and you crawl across the center console to settle in his lap. He lets out a contented sigh with you pressed up against him, his thick, muscular arms wrapping around your waist to spread your thighs apart.
“Didn’t think I’d follow through on my promise, pretty girl?” He murmurs against your ear, his warm breath caressing the sensitive shell of it. “Told you I’d take care of you before the night is up. Meant that too.” His hands trail along your inner thighs, gently stroking the soft skin there.
A shudder goes down your spine and you can’t help but melt into him. You can feel his breath against your nape, your breath hitching as one of those hands slides higher and higher to drag over your panties, still soaked and sticky from how much he was teasing you earlier. The hand on your thigh continues its ministrations while the one gently feeling sweeping over your needy cunt starts to work your body back up into a frenzy.
You can feel him hardening under your ass and it only makes you wetter. Your nipples are hard pebbled and your teeth sink into your lower lip again. Only when you whimper out his name, “Satoru,” does he finally hook his finger into your panties to pull them aside.
The pad of his thumb swipes over your twitchy, puffy clit, which makes your pussy throb like it has its own heartbeat. It’s still so sensitive from what he was doing before dinner that you can’t help but moan and arch against him while he swirls his thumb around and around and around. Your walls flutter at the first press of his fingers against your greedy little hole. “Don’t tease me,” you whimper, sick of all the teasing from earlier.
Satoru just laughs and nips at your ear before immediately dragging his tongue over the reddened spot. He repeats the actions on the crook of your neck. “But it’s so much more fun this way,” he teases, slipping his finger in an inch, just barely. You buck your hips trying to get more, but the hand on your thigh shifts to pin you against him. “This is the only time I get to see you all needy for me,” he murmurs, “Let me enjoy this, baby. You look so pretty like this, all spread out and mine for the taking.” There’s something dark and heady in his voice that makes your heart feel like it’s being squeezed.
“Sato—“ the whine of his name is cut off by a moan as he finally plunges one finger into your aching, sopping cunt.
His finger curls toward your belly, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see fucking stars. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit, making your head swim from the dual stimulation. You moan, your hips wanting to can up instinctively, but he holds you right where he wants you. When he slides a second finger inside, your eyes squeeze shut and your head tips back against his shoulder. The obscene squelch of his fingers in your cunt fills the whole car, along with the tangy, musky scent of your arousal. He fucks his fingers into you, rocking his heel expertly over your clit to make sure you get the best of both worlds.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, nipping at your neck again only to lave over the spot with his tongue. “If I had my way, I’d keep you here just like this so I could have my hand buried in your pretty pussy all the time.” He chuckles darkly, “Scratch that, I’d rather have you in bed so I could eat you instead.”
His filthy words and the way his fingers are working between your thighs draw a helpless moan from your lips. “You like eating my pussy?” You gasp out as his fingers stroke particularly hard against that soft, spongy spot inside you.
“Like it?” He scoffs, “What a joke. I live for it. I told you, sweets. I haven’t been able to get your taste out of my mouth since and all I can think about is doing it again. If I had you in my bed, you wouldn’t be leaving it until I drank my fill.” His palm grinds down hard on your clit drawing a sharp cry from you, the sensitive nub throbbing.
“Fuck—ah—Satoru,” you manage to get out.
“There you go, pretty,” he whispers, “So good for me. Say my name again, princess. Fuck, I want you so bad. I’d sell my soul to fuck you, you know that? In a heartbeat.” His cock twitches against your ass like the thought alone drives him crazy. He grinds himself shamelessly against your ass and you can feel every inch of his cock pressed against you, straining against the confines of his pants.
His fingers start fucking into you in earnest now, stretching your cunt open. You’re so soaked that you’re dripping down his hand onto his pants. That tension is ratcheting down deep in your guts, your walls growing tighter and tighter around his diligent fingers as they stroke your inner walls. Every grind of the heel of his palm over your swollen clit brings you closer and closer to the edge of an abyss.
“You’re close,” he breathes against your neck, “I can feel it, baby. Come on, you can do it. Let go for me, hmm? Wanna feel you come all over my hand.” He presses the heel of his hand hard against your clit, fucking his fingers hard against that spot inside you.
“Fuck, Satoru,” you cry out, eyes rolling back. The orgasm hits you like a freight train. You’re moaning obscenely as you gush over his fingers, your walls fluttering around them. Arcs of pleasure shoot through you, radiating out from your center, reaching the tips of your toes and your fingers. You feel molten and light and alive. The entirety of your body feels light and tingly, your vision turns white around the edges, and your hearing fades in and out.
“That’s it, good girl,” he coaxes, his voice soft, as his hand continues to work you through the orgasm. And when you finally fall limp against him, he draws his fingers out with a wet squelch and you whine at the absence. He lifts his hand to his mouth and sucks his fingers clean of you. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he whispers.
But you’re still lost in the pounding of your heart, in the feeling of his breath against your skin, in the perfect way he brings you to your peak every time. Letting out a sigh, you wonder just how the fuck you’re supposed to put the brakes on this when your body is hell-bent on putting a brick on the pedal.
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A/N: I’m so, so sorry for this monster of a chapter. If you’ve made it to the bottom, thank you sm for reading. I hope you enjoyed. Likes and reblogs are very much appreciated.
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