Chapter 4 : The beginning of something real
He pulled away just far enough to look at her, his hand still cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin there. The intensity in his eyes had softened into something warmer, more wondrous. He had just laid his soul bare, and she had not run. She had stayed. She had held him.
"So," he began, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "I'll court you then. Properly. And when you fall for me, I'll date you."
The old-fashioned, formal word "court" sounded so strange and yet so earnest coming from him that a small, incredulous giggle escaped her lips. It was a sound of pure, unburdened amusement, and it made his own smile widen.
"Who courts someone before dating them?" she asked, her voice laced with a shy playfulness she didn't know she possessed.
"I do," he stated, as if it were a universal truth. "And that's only with you."
The specificity of it—only with you—made her blush bloom anew, a warm flush of pleasure that spread from her cheeks down her neck. In this bubble of quiet intimacy, the impossible power dynamic had momentarily dissolved. He was just a man, and she was just a woman, and he was telling her she was singular.
Emboldened by her reaction, his gaze grew more heated, more possessive. "So, if I'm courting you," he continued, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "I get to touch you, right? Your hips, and your waist..." His hand slid from her cheek, down the column of her neck, over her shoulder, coming to rest on the curve of her hip, his fingers pressing gently into the softness there. She gasped softly at the deliberate contact. "You're too sexy, Nami. I can't keep my hands off you." His eyes flicked down to her lips. "And I get to kiss you, right?"
Her mind went blank. The directness of his desire was a tidal wave. "I- I don't know," she stammered, the honest, flustered answer of someone completely out of her depth.
A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. It wasn't cruel, but it was filled with a confident allure that was utterly captivating. "How about we test it?" he proposed, his voice a seductive murmur. "I kiss you. If you like it, we do it more often. If you don't... we stop." He was giving her control, even as he was the one initiating the act.
He didn't wait for a verbal answer. He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to turn away. She didn't. Her eyes fluttered shut as his lips brushed against hers. It was the lightest of touches, a whisper of a promise. She gasped at the contact, a small, startled intake of breath.
He took that as his invitation. He deepened the kiss, his lips moving against hers with a firm, yet questioning pressure. It was slow and exploratory. She sighed in content, the sound a quiet surrender. Her body relaxed into his, her hands coming up to rest tentatively on his chest. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft, and the sensation was so new, so overwhelmingly pleasant, that her thoughts simply dissolved into feeling.
Then, he did something that sent a jolt through her system. His teeth grazed her bottom lip, a gentle nip that was more sensation than pain. She gasped, her lips parting in surprise.
Seizing the opportunity, he slipped his tongue into her mouth.
Her eyes flew open. The intimacy was shocking, foreign. She pulled back abruptly, breaking the kiss, her breath coming in shallow pants. She stared at him, wide-eyed.
"I- Is that normal?" she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock and budding curiosity. "I've never kissed anyone before, so..."
He looked at her, his own breathing slightly uneven. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a dark, smoldering heat. He nodded, his expression serious. "It is," he said, his voice rough. "It's called a French kiss. It's... more intimate."
She processed this, her gaze dropping to his lips, then returning to his eyes. The initial shock was receding, replaced by a burning curiosity. She had liked the kiss. She had liked it very much. And she wanted to understand this new, more intimate version.
Slowly, hesitantly, she leaned forward this time, initiating the second kiss. It was a clumsy, innocent press of her lips to his. But it was all the encouragement he needed.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her firmly onto his lap, straddling him. She let out a small squeak of surprise, but he captured the sound with his mouth. This time, when his tongue sought entry, she was ready. She met him tentatively at first, her own movements shy and uncoordinated. But he was a patient, if passionate, teacher. He didn't rush her. He guided her, his tongue stroking against hers in a slow, sensual dance.
A low moan escaped her, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that seemed to come from somewhere deep within her soul. The sound seemed to ignite something in him. One of his hands tangled in her damp hair, tilting her head to a better angle, deepening the kiss further. The other hand slid from her waist down to the curve of her backside, pressing her more firmly against him. She could feel the hard evidence of his arousal through their clothes, and a fresh wave of heat flooded her.
She gripped the soft cashmere of his sweater like a lifeline, her fingers clutching the fabric as the world spun away. There was no office, no CEO, no shy junior employee. There was only this: the taste of him—a hint of coffee and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Arima—the feel of his strong body beneath hers, the scent of his cologne mingling with her own strawberry-rose shampoo.
They broke apart, gasping for air, their foreheads resting together. Her entire body was trembling, humming with a newfound energy. She felt alive in a way she never had before, every nerve ending sensitized and singing.
He was blushing. Arima Kousei, the formidable titan of industry, had a faint, pink tinge high on his cheekbones. The sight of it, this evidence that he was as affected as she was, sent another thrill through her.
"Was that... acceptable?" he asked, his voice gravelly with desire.
She could only nod, her voice lost to the storm of sensations. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent, trying to steady her racing heart.
He held her like that for a long moment, his hands stroking her back in slow, soothing circles. The frantic energy of the kiss gradually subsided, replaced by a deep, thrumming warmth.
"You are..." he began, then stopped, as if searching for the right word. "Incredible."
She didn't know what to say. She felt incredible. She felt powerful and desired and utterly, completely seen.
"Your inexperience," he murmured into her hair, "is the most erotic thing I have ever encountered. Your reactions are... pure. Unpracticed. Real."
He shifted her on his lap, and she felt him wince slightly. "As much as I would love to continue this... educational endeavor," he said, a wry smile in his voice, "I think I should go before I break my promise to you."
The reality of their situation began to seep back in. He was in her apartment. It was late. He was her boss. But the facts felt distant, muffled by the profound intimacy they had just shared.
Reluctantly, she slid off his lap, her legs feeling like jelly. He stood up as well, running a hand through his hair, which was now deliciously disheveled from her fingers.
He looked down at her, his expression a complex mix of desire, wonder, and frustration. "I meant what I said, Nami. I will court you. This isn't a game for me."
She believed him. The intensity in his eyes was too raw, too genuine to be fake.
He leaned down and pressed one last, soft, closed-mouth kiss to her lips. "Goodnight, Nami."
"Goodnight, Arima," she whispered back.
She walked him to the door, her body still humming. He paused on the threshold, his gaze sweeping over her one more time, from her flushed face down to her bare legs, memorizing the image.
Then, he was gone.
Nami closed the door and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor. She brought her fingers to her lips, which were still tingling, swollen from his kisses. The taste of him was still in her mouth. The feel of his body was imprinted on her skin.
She had just had her first kiss. And her second. And her first French kiss. All with her CEO. In her apartment. While wearing nothing but a t-shirt.
A hysterical bubble of laughter escaped her, followed by a wave of dizzying disbelief. It was madness. It was the most illogical, reckless, and professionally suicidal series of events imaginable.
But as she sat on the floor in the silent aftermath, the ghost of his touch and the memory of his whispered confessions wrapping around her, she couldn't find a single ounce of regret. Only a bewildering, terrifying, and exhilarating sense of anticipation for what would happen next. The courtship had begun.
The morning after felt like waking up in a different universe. The familiar walls of her apartment seemed to hum with the lingering energy of his presence. Nami’s first conscious thought was the memory of his lips on hers, the taste of him, the solid weight of his body beneath her. A flush heated her skin before she even opened her eyes. She spent an inordinate amount of time getting ready, her nerves a tangled mess of anticipation and anxiety. How would he be today? Would the man from last night—the vulnerable, freckled, intensely focused man—be there? Or would he be the CEO, all sharp lines and impenetrable authority?
She chose her outfit with a new, tentative awareness of her own body. It was a simple, emerald green dress that followed the lines of her frame without clinging too tightly. It was a step away from the baggy concealment of her old wardrobe, a quiet nod to the woman in the red dress. She paired it, as always, with her white sneakers—a grounding touch of her practical self. Over it, she wore a long, beige trench coat, a shield against the outside world and her own nerves. But as she looked in the mirror, she deliberately left the first two buttons undone, a small, brave reveal of the color beneath. It felt like a secret message, just for him.
When the summons came, her heart didn’t plummet with dread; it gave a frantic, hopeful flutter. She walked to his office, the corridor stretching before her like a path to an unknown fate.
She pushed open the heavy door without knocking, a small act of newfound familiarity. He was at his desk, and he looked up immediately. The morning light caught the sharp planes of his face, but his expression softened the moment he saw her. A genuine, warm smile touched his lips, and it was entirely for her.
"Good morning, Sir," she whispered, the title feeling strange on her tongue after the intimacy of the night before.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Good morning, Nami." He gestured vaguely around the room. "And don't worry. Call me Arima. The cameras in this room are on a private loop. They're only monitored by me."
The revelation was another brick removed from the wall between them. Here, in this inner sanctum of his power, they could just be Arima and Nami. She nodded, a wave of relief washing over her.
"I... I brought you lunch," she said, stepping forward and placing a small, carefully packaged bento box on his desk. "It's a sample of the chips I made to go with the Moonlight Velvet. I wanted you to taste them, and also... to eat. You probably skip meals." She was rambling, her cheeks pink.
His smile widened. He opened the box. The delicate, pale chips were arranged artfully next a small ramekin of the creamy white paste. The scent of toasted coconut and almonds wafted into the sterile air of the office. He picked up a chip, dipped it, and took a bite. He closed his eyes, his face a mask of pure concentration as he savored it. When his eyes opened, they were alight with genuine admiration.
"It's wonderful," he said, his voice low with appreciation. "Oh my God, Nami. This is superb. The texture is perfect—so light and crisp. It complements the paste beautifully. It’s… inspired."
The praise, so specific and heartfelt, made her blush deepen with pleasure. "Thank you," she murmured, her heart swelling.
A sudden, pressing urgency made itself known in her bladder. The nerves from earlier had made her drink far too much water. "Can I use your washroom?" she asked, her face flushing for a different reason now. It felt like such a mundane, human request in the midst of their intense dynamic.
He smiled, a gentle, understanding curve of his lips. "Of course." He gestured to the discreet door that led to his private suite. "There's a password. The password is your birthday."
The air left her lungs. She stared at him, her mind struggling to process the implication. "My birthday?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.
He nodded, already shoving another chip loaded with paste into his mouth, as if he had just told her the most ordinary thing in the world. "Mmm-hmm."
Her heart pounded a frantic, painful rhythm against her ribs as she walked to the door. She typed in the four digits: the day and month of her birth. There was a soft, definitive click as the lock disengaged.
The sound echoed in the silent room, and in her soul. He had programmed her birthday into the lock of his most private space. It was a gesture so profoundly intimate, so quietly possessive, that it stole her breath. It wasn't a grand declaration; it was a simple, concrete fact. She had access. She was allowed in. The emotion that swelled within her was so vast and sharp it was almost painful—a confusing, overwhelming mixture of being cherished and being claimed.
She slipped inside, using the luxurious, marble-adorned bathroom. When she emerged, feeling slightly more composed, she found him leaning back in his chair, the empty bento box set aside. His gaze was warm and heavy on her.
He gestured to his lap. "Come here."
The blush returned in full force, heating her from her scalp to her toes. But there was no hesitation in her steps this time. She walked to him and, with a shyness that was now laced with a thrilling sense of belonging, she settled onto his lap.
He let out a low, pained groan, his hand tightening almost reflexively around her waist.
"W-What's wrong?" she stammered, her face aflame.
He shut his eyes for a second, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "You sat a bit too high," he said, his voice strained.
Understanding dawned, and with it, a fresh wave of mortification and a secret, feminine thrill. "Should I... get up?" she asked, her voice small.
He shook his head, his eyes still closed. "No. Stay put." The command was gritted out between clenched teeth.
She obeyed, sitting perfectly still, feeling the tense, hard planes of his body beneath her. After a moment, he let out a shaky breath and, with his hands on her hips, adjusted her position, shifting her slightly lower on his thighs. The new position was, if possible, even more intimate, but it seemed to offer him a degree of relief. He sighed, his breath still a bit unsteady.
"Let's have you help me with these recipes," he said, his voice returning to a more controlled tone, though it was still deeper than usual.
He booted his computer, his left arm wrapping securely around her waist, his hand splayed possessively on her stomach, holding her snugly against his chest. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against her back. With his right hand, he navigated the mouse, pulling up product reports.
And so, they worked. Nami, perched on the CEO's lap, offered her opinions on sourcing for wasabi peas and the market viability of a new line of artisanal pickles. His questions were sharp, his mind as incisive as ever. But his touch was a constant, warm presence, a silent conversation happening beneath the professional one. His thumb would occasionally stroke absent-minded circles on her abdomen through the fabric of her dress, making it incredibly difficult to concentrate. Once, when she shifted slightly to point at a graph on the screen, his arm tightened, and he pressed a soft, warning kiss just behind her ear.
"Stay still, please," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin.
She froze, a shiver running through her. "S-Sorry."
"Don't be," he whispered, his lips lingering for a second before he returned his attention to the screen. "Just... be aware of the effect you have."
They continued like that for over an hour, the outside world held at bay. In this room, with the password set to her birthday and his arms around her, the impossible felt not just possible, but inevitable. She was helping to steer the direction of a multi-billion-yen company while sitting in the lap of the man who ruled it all. And that man, for reasons she was only beginning to understand, had decided she was the most fascinating and desirable creature he had ever encountered. It was a heady, terrifying, and utterly exhilarating reality. The courtship was underway, and it was unlike anything she could have ever dreamed.
The rhythm of their work was a strange, new symphony. The click of the mouse, the soft tap of keys, the rustle of Nami’s dress as she shifted on his lap, and the steady, calming sound of Arima’s breathing. It was a bubble of focused productivity wrapped in an intoxicating layer of intimacy. For nearly an hour, they functioned as a single unit—his strategic mind and her creative palate seamlessly merging.
Then, his hands stilled, hovering above the mouse. He didn't speak for a moment, his attention clearly shifting from the screen to the woman in his arms.
"What's wrong?" Nami asked, her voice soft with concern.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, a slow, appreciative smile spread across his face, one that made her pulse quicken. "I want to see your dress," he said simply, his voice a low rumble.
Her blush was instantaneous, a warm bloom across her cheeks and neck. The request was so direct, yet so devoid of lechery. It was a desire for aesthetic appreciation, a wish to see the whole picture of her. Without a word of protest, her fingers, slightly trembling, went to the remaining buttons of her trench coat. She quickly undid them and shrugged the coat off, letting it fall in a soft heap onto the leather couch beside his desk.
She stood before him in the simple emerald green dress, suddenly feeling more exposed than she had in the red Valentina dress. This was her own choice, her own style, and his intense, dark-eyed scrutiny made her feel profoundly vulnerable.
"Turn around a bit," he instructed, his gaze sweeping over her.
Feeling a flush that reached the tips of her ears, she did a slow, self-conscious twirl, the hem of the dress flaring slightly. She came to a stop, facing him again, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.
"You're beautiful," he stated. It wasn't a flowery compliment; it was a declaration of fact, delivered with the same conviction he might use to approve a quarterly report. The simplicity of it, the sheer certainty, stole her breath. It felt more real, more impactful than any poetic line could have.
He reached out, not with a demanding grasp, but with an open hand. She placed hers in it, and he gently guided her back onto his lap. The dynamic had shifted. Before, she had been a hesitant visitor in this position. Now, she settled against him with a newfound sense of belonging, her body molding to his as if it were its designated place.
They returned to work, but the atmosphere had changed. The professional barrier had thinned even further. As she typed an email to an employee, politely but firmly requesting a revision to a submitted recipe, she felt his lips press against her cheek. A soft, fleeting kiss.
"You're distracting," she murmured, her fingers pausing over the keyboard, a small smile playing on her lips despite her chiding tone.
He didn't apologize. He simply did it again, another soft kiss on the same spot. She sighed, a feigned exasperation that held no real annoyance. She turned her head to glare at him playfully, but he was ready. He leaned in and pecked her lips, a quick, soft touch that silenced her mock protest.
Her eyes widened in surprise. He did it again, another quick, affectionate kiss.
Flustered and blushing, she quickly turned her head forward, focusing intently on the computer screen as if her life depended on it. She could feel the heat of his smile against her temple.
He chuckled softly and resumed his pattern, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "You're too easy to fluster," he murmured, his breath tickling her skin.
It was in this warm, comfortable silence that a new curiosity bloomed in her. Her gaze drifted to the faint, charming dusting of freckles across his nose. They were so at odds with the severe image he projected to the world.
"Do you wear makeup?" she asked softly, her voice hesitant. "To hide your freckles?"
He didn't seem surprised by the personal question. He nodded, his chin brushing against her hair. "Yeah. I remember when I first took my position here, the board members were... skeptical. A young CEO. They said I had to look 'flawless' to appear powerful and in control. So, since then, I put on makeup." He paused, and she felt him take a slow breath. "But with you, I won't. It's not because we're at work. It's because... I don't want to."
The confession was small, but its significance was immense. He was letting her see the artifice, the armor he wore for everyone else. He was granting her access to the man beneath the title, the one with human imperfections.
Nami felt a surge of protective indignation on his behalf. "Board members and their stupidness," she muttered, the vehemence in her voice surprising even her. "I think you look fine. More than fine."
The words were out before she could polish them, but their sincerity was unmistakable. She felt the arm around her waist tighten, pulling her just a fraction closer. It was a wordless, powerful response.
"Thank you, Nami," he said, his voice thick with an emotion that went far deeper than gratitude for a compliment on his appearance. It was a thank you for seeing him, for accepting this unvarnished version of himself that no one else was permitted to witness.
They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the computer the only sound. The email she had been typing was forgotten. In that quiet exchange, something profound had solidified. It was no longer just about a powerful man's fascination with a shy employee, or a woman's thrilling surrender to an overwhelming attraction. It was about two people, in their own flawed, vulnerable humanity, finding a strange and powerful connection in the most unlikely of places. He was allowing her to see his freckles, and she was telling him they were perfect. And in that simple, quiet truth, the courtship deepened from a pursuit into something that was beginning to feel remarkably like trust.
Of course. Here is a detailed continuation and expansion of the chapter, focusing on the emotional weight of their parting and the anticipation that follows.
---
The work was finally done. Nami moved the mouse, clicked to shut down the computer, and the large monitor faded to black, plunging the side of the room into a deeper quiet. The action felt symbolic, closing the chapter on the professional pretense that had thinly veiled the last few hours. She stood up from his lap, her legs a little unsteady, and turned to face him.
"I have to go," she said, her voice soft but firm. The real world, with its team meetings and test kitchen schedules, was waiting.
Arima let out a long, slow sigh, a sound of genuine reluctance that warmed her from the inside. He stood, and as always, the sheer scale of him, the way he seemed to dominate the space, made her breath catch. He didn't just let her leave. Instead, he reached out and intertwined his fingers with hers, his grip firm and sure. He led her to the door, their joined hands a tangible bridge between the intimate world they had created and the one she was about to re-enter.
They stopped in front of the heavy oak door. He turned to her, his free hand coming up to gently lift her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, intense, and filled with a possessiveness that should have been frightening but instead sent a thrill straight to her core. He leaned in and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her lips. It wasn't the soft, exploratory kiss from her apartment, nor the quick, teasing pecks of moments before. This was a kiss of ownership, a seal on the time they had shared.
When he pulled back, his voice was a low, intimate murmur. "I'll come over today. Is that okay with you?"
Her heart hammered against her ribs. A whole evening with him, in her space, with no office, no emails, no pretense. She blushed, the heat a familiar companion now, but she nodded, her eyes wide and sincere.
A slow, teasing smile spread across his face. "Make sure to wear just a t-shirt," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I promise I'll be a gentleman." He punctuated the playful command with another soft kiss.
The combination of the scandalous request and his teasing tone made her blush deepen to a scorching crimson. She ducked her head, but she nodded again, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.
"Really? You will?" he pressed, his voice laced with a mixture of surprise and dark delight.
She couldn't look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the knot of his tie. She nodded once more, her voice a barely audible whisper. "I will... for you."
The addition of those two words—for you—seemed to shatter the last of his control. His smile vanished, replaced by a look of raw, unadulterated hunger. He captured her lips again, but this time the kiss was anything but gentle. It was deep and consuming, a claiming. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she met him with a newfound confidence, their movements falling into a perfect, heated sync. She melted against him, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, her world narrowing to the taste of him, the feel of his solid chest, the sound of his ragged breath.
Three minutes passed, or maybe three hours—time had lost all meaning. When they finally broke apart, they were both panting, their foreheads resting together. He pressed another soft kiss to her swollen lips, then her forehead, then the tip of her chin, before trailing his lips down to the sensitive skin of her neck. The sensation drew a soft, involuntary moan from her.
"A-Arima," she breathed, her voice trembling. "I really have to go." She placed her hands on his chest and pushed, gently but firmly.
He nodded, his expression one of pained resignation. He released her, but his eyes never left her as he walked back to the couch and retrieved her discarded trench coat. He held it open for her, a gesture of old-world chivalry that felt incredibly intimate. As she slipped her arms into the sleeves, he leaned close, his lips brushing her ear.
"Don't show anyone this figure," he whispered, his voice a low, possessive growl. "It's only mine to see."
The words should have felt restrictive, domineering. But wrapped in the warmth of his embrace and the memory of his kisses, they felt like a protection, a vow. She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
Then, just as she thought the moment was over, his hand came down and gave her backside a firm, playful squeeze.
She gasped, her eyes flying wide open as a fresh, scorching blush ignited her entire face. She spun to look at him, utterly scandalized.
He just smirked, a wicked, unrepentant glint in his eyes. "Bye," he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.
"B-Bye," she stammered, her mind reeling.
But he wasn't done. He pulled her back one last time, capturing her lips in a final, searing kiss that tasted of promise and goodbye. When he released her, he gently smoothed down her hair, his touch lingering with a tenderness that contradicted his earlier boldness. He looked at her, his expression softening into something that looked remarkably like a pout.
"Go on, then," he said, his voice thick with reluctance.
Nami, her legs feeling like they were made of cotton, finally managed to turn and open the door. She stepped out into the cool, impersonal air of the executive corridor, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound of finality. She leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to steady her breathing and her racing heart. Her lips were tingling, her body hummed with the ghost of his touch, and the memory of his pout as she left was etched into her mind.
The walk back to the eighth floor was a blur. Her colleagues' greetings sounded distant. All she could think about was the evening ahead. The promise of his visit. The feel of his hand on her backside. The whispered command to wear only a t-shirt. A nervous, giddy, terrified excitement bubbled within her. The workday was far from over, but her mind was already home, waiting for him.
---
The walk home was a symphony of frantic anticipation. Every step, every breath, was measured against the impending reality of his visit. When she finally closed her own apartment door behind her, she leaned against it, the silence a stark contrast to the roaring in her ears. He was coming.
With a surge of nervous energy, she set about tidying the already neat space, fluffing cushions and wiping down counters that didn't need it. It was a futile attempt to impose order on the chaotic storm of her emotions. The bath was a ritual of preparation. She used her best scented oils, the same strawberry and rose scent he seemed to like, and soaked until her skin was pink and steaming, as if trying to wash away the last vestiges of her shyness.
Afterwards, standing in her bedroom wrapped in a towel, she faced the final hurdle. She opened a drawer and pulled out a soft, blush-pink top. It was made of a thin, drapey cotton, and it fell to her mid-thigh. It was the closest thing she owned to a nightgown that wasn't an old, oversized t-shirt. Her cheeks flamed as she slipped it on, the fabric whispering against her bare skin. The feeling of being so exposed, even in the privacy of her own room, was both terrifying and electrifying. She looked at her reflection—her damp red hair, her wide green eyes, the way the soft pink fabric hinted at the curves beneath. She was doing this for him. The thought was no longer one of passive surrender, but of active choice.
To calm her nerves, she decided to bake. The familiar, methodical process of measuring flour, whisking eggs, and folding in plump blueberries was a meditation. The warm, sweet scent of vanilla and baking cake soon filled the apartment, layering over her perfume, creating a welcoming, domestic atmosphere. It was a piece of her world, a offering.
Just as she was placing the golden-topped muffins on a cooling rack, the doorbell chimed.
Her heart didn't just skip a beat; it seemed to launch itself into her throat. She wiped her hands on a towel, took a deep, shuddering breath, and went to the door. Peering through the peephole was unnecessary; she knew it was him. She turned the knob and pulled the door open.
He stood there, having changed out of his work clothes into dark, soft-looking trousers and a simple grey henley that stretched across his broad shoulders. The freckles were on full display, and his hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d run his hands through it on the way over. He looked… approachable. Handsome in a way that was real and tangible. He smiled, a slow, warm smile that reached his eyes, and her blush returned with a vengeance. She couldn't hold his gaze, her eyes dropping to the floor.
"Hi," he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble that vibrated right through her.
"Hi," she whispered back, stepping aside to let him in.
He entered her space, his presence immediately expanding to fill it. He looked around, taking in the warm lighting, the scent of muffins, and her, standing there in her pink top and bare feet.
"You can sit down," she stammered, gesturing vaguely towards the living room. "I made blueberry and vanilla muffins, they just came out of the oven, so they're still warm, and I have tea, or coffee if you prefer..." She was rambling, a nervous habit she couldn't seem to break.
He didn't respond to her offer. Instead, he closed the distance between them in two long strides. He reached out, his hands gentle but firm on her hips, and pulled her to him. Before she could utter another word, he bent his head and captured her lips in a kiss.
It wasn't like the frantic, desperate kiss in his office. This one was slow, deep, and tasting. A hello. A confirmation. Her eyes widened in surprise for a second before fluttering shut. Her hands, which had been fluttering uselessly at her sides, came up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid, steady beat of his heart through the soft cotton of his shirt. She kissed him back, her movements growing less tentative, more sure, as the initial shock melted into pure sensation.
Three minutes later, they broke apart, both breathing heavily. He didn't let her go. Instead, he leaned his forehead against hers for a moment before burying his face in the crook of her neck, his arms wrapping around her in a tight, almost desperate embrace. The intimacy of the gesture, the way he seemed to be breathing her in, made her blush deepen and her heart ache with a strange, sweet pain.
"I missed you," he murmured against her skin, his voice muffled and thick with emotion. Then he lifted his head, a boyish grin appearing on his face. "And I brought ice cream." He raised his hand, showing a white insulated bag she had been too flustered to notice.
He lifted his head and pecked her lips once, softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Overwhelmed by the sheer domestic normalcy of it—him bringing ice cream, her baking muffins—she took the bag from his hand with a mumbled "thank you" and hurried into the kitchen, needing a moment to compose herself.
He settled onto her couch, looking completely at ease, as if he belonged there. She busied herself arranging muffins on a plate, her hands trembling slightly. She could feel his gaze on her, tracking her movements. The thin pink top suddenly felt impossibly flimsy.
When she finally brought the plate of muffins over, she set it on the coffee table and made to sit in the armchair opposite him.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, his tone light but leaving no room for argument. He patted the space right next to him on the couch.
Hesitantly, she sat down, leaving a careful few inches between them. He immediately closed the gap, his thigh pressing against hers, his arm draping along the back of the couch behind her. The heat of his body was a brand.
"So," he said, picking up a muffin. "Blueberry and vanilla. My favorite combination."
"Really?" she asked, surprised.
He took a bite, his eyes closing in appreciation. "It is now," he said, his voice sincere. He opened his eyes and looked at her, his gaze intense. "Everything about you is becoming my favorite."
The directness of his compliment left her speechless. He leaned in and kissed her again, this time his lips tasting of sweet blueberries and warm vanilla. It was a kiss that was both innocent and deeply sensual. When he pulled back, he didn't go far, his forehead resting against hers.
"The top is perfect," he whispered, his fingers lightly tracing the line of her collarbone where the neckline hung loose. "Pink is your color."
She shivered under his touch. "You... you kept your promise," she stammered, referring to his text.
"And I will keep my other one," he said, his voice low and serious. "I am a gentleman, Nami. This," he said, his hand moving from her collarbone to gently cup her cheek, "all of this, is about more than just... this." He gestured between their bodies. "I meant what I said. I'm courting you."
The old-fashioned word, spoken in her modern living room with such conviction, made her heart swell. He wasn't just here for a physical encounter. He was here to be with her.
They sat like that for a while, talking. He told her about a frustrating board meeting, his voice laced with a dry wit she'd never heard before. She told him about her struggle to get the almond-coconut chips just right, and he listened with rapt attention, asking intelligent questions about the process. They ate muffins and later, the rich, dark chocolate ice cream he had brought. It was shockingly normal. It was a date.
And throughout it all, his touch was a constant, grounding presence. A hand on her knee, an arm around her shoulder, his fingers playing with the ends of her hair. He was acclimating her to his presence, to his touch, breaking down her barriers not with force, but with persistent, gentle intimacy.
As the evening wore on and the city lights twinkled outside her window, Nami realized with a jolt that she was no longer just "doing this for him." She was enjoying it. She was enjoying him. The powerful CEO was gone, replaced by this man with freckles and a love for ice cream, who looked at her as if she held the secrets of the universe in her hands. And the woman in the pink top was no longer just a nervous employee, but a woman being courted, seen, and cherished. The fear was still there, a quiet hum in the background, but it was being steadily drowned out by a louder, more powerful feeling: hope.
