As the SUV pulled away from the Mori estate, Nao didn't look back. Her mind was already operating like a high-precision stopwatch. She had calculated every second of this day with the cold efficiency of a diamond cutter.
"Hiro-chan," she said, her voice dropping into a smooth, authoritative purr. "Forget the school. I don't care about the cherry blossoms today. Turn left toward Roppongi. I've made reservations."
Hiroki hesitated, his hands tightening on the wheel, but he obeyed. He didn't see the predator sitting beside him; he only felt the suffocating warmth of her presence.
**Nao POV**
The schedule was not a suggestion; to Nao Kinomoto, it was a commandment carved in stone. As the black SUV glided through the rain-slicked streets of Tokyo, she sat in the passenger seat with the poise of a diamond merchant evaluating a rare, uncut stone. Hiroki was that stone today—and she was going to cut him, shape him, polish him until he reflected only her light.
**11:30 AM – The Roppongi Strategy**
For exactly one hour they sat in a secluded booth of an upscale Roppongi bistro. The lighting was warm amber, the service so discreet it felt like magic. Nao led the conversation with surgical precision. Between delicate bites of sashimi and sips of chilled sake, she probed him about Jessica Rabbit. Every time Hiroki mentioned the "guest" at the Mori estate, Nao felt a fresh blade of hunger twist in her gut. She didn't just want Hiroki anymore; she wanted the orbit he was now part of—the glamour, the power, the legend sleeping under the same roof. By the time the check arrived she had already mapped her next moves. Jessica Rabbit was not a rival. She was a ladder.
**12:30 PM – The Velvet Prelude**
The Royal Karaoke Lounge was a fortress of soundproofed luxury. Inside their private suite the neon glow painted Nao's skin in shifting shades of electric violet and rose. She didn't bother with the song list. For the next hour she turned the small room into a slow-burning pressure cooker of intimacy.
She was eighteen and technically still a virgin, but her mother had taught her everything else long before today. Nao moved with the ancient, deliberate knowledge of seduction passed down through generations of women who understood that control was sexier than surrender. She started slow—fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, breath warm against his ear, whispered promises that sounded like prayers. Her perfume—jasmine and amber—filled the air until it felt thick enough to taste.
She kissed him the way she had practiced in her mind for months: soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, guiding his hands exactly where she wanted them. She felt him tremble, felt the moment his usual restraint cracked. When she pressed herself against him and let him feel the full heat of her body through thin fabric, she heard the low, involuntary sound he made in his throat. That sound was victory.
She didn't let him rush. She made him wait, made him ache, until his breathing was ragged and his pupils blown wide. By the time they stood to leave the suite, Hiroki was no longer the quiet Mori heir. He was hers—body humming, mind fogged with want, every nerve ending tuned to her frequency.
**1:30 PM – The Final Hour**
The Kinomoto residence stood silent, a hollow monument to her parents' corporate empire. With both mother and father at work until late evening, the house belonged entirely to her. It was the perfect stage.
They barely made it through the front door before Nao pushed him against the wall in the foyer. She kissed him hard, claiming, teeth grazing his lower lip just enough to sting. His hands found her waist; she guided them lower, letting him feel how ready she already was.
Upstairs, in her bedroom, the curtains were drawn. Soft grey light filtered through silk. Nao peeled off her clothes with deliberate slowness, watching his eyes darken as each piece fell away. When she stood naked before him she saw the awe, the hunger, the flicker of nervousness. She liked that last part best. It reminded her she still held the reins.
She pushed him down onto the bed and straddled him. For a long moment she simply looked—his broad shoulders, the faint definition of muscle earned through years of judo, the way his chest rose and fell too fast. Then she reached down, wrapped her fingers around him, and froze.
Eighteen inches.
The number hit her like cold electricity. She had expected him to be big—Hiroki was tall, strong, quietly masculine—but this was something else entirely. Thick, heavy, pulsing in her hand, it looked almost obscene against her smaller frame. For the first time that day, Nao felt genuinely surprised. A rush of heat flooded her core, sharper and more primal than anything she had planned.
She looked up at him. His face was flushed, eyes half-lidded, completely unaware of how extraordinary he was. That innocence made her want him even more.
"You're… huge," she breathed, voice low and reverent. She stroked him slowly, feeling every vein, every ridge. "I didn't know, Hiro-chan."
He swallowed hard, voice rough. "Is that… okay?"
Nao smiled—slow, wicked, triumphant. "It's more than okay. It's perfect."
She guided him inside her with careful, deliberate pressure. The stretch was intense, almost too much, but she wanted every inch. She rocked slowly at first, letting her body adjust, letting him feel how tightly she gripped him. When she finally sank down completely, taking all of him, they both gasped.
She rode him with ruthless control—slow grinds, then faster rolls of her hips, setting a rhythm that made his hands clamp onto her thighs hard enough to bruise. She loved the sounds he made: low groans, broken curses, her name falling from his lips like a plea. She leaned down, kissed him deeply, tasting his surrender while she clenched around him deliberately, milking him until his eyes rolled back.
She came first—hard, sudden, a white-hot wave that made her vision blur. She cried out against his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders. The moment her body started pulsing around him, Hiroki lost control. He thrust up into her once, twice, then buried himself as deep as he could and came with a guttural sound that vibrated through both of them. She felt every pulse, every hot rush filling her, claiming her as much as she claimed him.
They stayed locked together for long minutes, breathing hard, sweat-slick and trembling. Nao rested her forehead against his, smiling into the quiet.
"You were incredible," she whispered. "My perfect man."
**5:00 PM – The Clean Escape**
At exactly five o'clock they stood together in the steam of her oversized shower. Hot water cascaded over them, washing away the sweat, the scent of sex, the physical evidence. Nao was efficient, almost tender—helping him soap his back, running her fingers through his wet hair until it lay neat again. She dressed him herself, straightening his collar, smoothing his jacket, turning him back into the dutiful son who had left the house that morning.
But the marks she had left were deeper than skin.
**5:45 PM – The Gate**
They arrived at the Mori estate exactly on time. Mist swirled around the tires like a living secret. Nao stepped out first, looking refreshed, radiant, untouched.
At the gate she pulled him close one last time. She kissed him deeply, possessively—tongue sliding against his, a final brand. When she pulled back her lips curved in a teasing, victorious smile.
"You were perfect today, Hiro-chan," she whispered against his mouth. "A real man. My man. Go inside now. Your mother is waiting."
She gave him one lingering look, then turned and walked back to the car, hips swaying with quiet triumph.
**Hiroki POV**
The world outside the car window felt like a fading photograph, colours muted, edges soft. But the girl sitting next to him was in high definition—every curve, every breath, every glance razor-sharp.
In the dimly lit bistro Hiroki felt Nao's gaze like a physical weight pressing against his chest. He tried to talk about home—the strange tension between his mother and Jessica, the way the house felt different now—but Nao had a gift for pulling him back into the present. For that first hour he felt something shift inside him. Usually he was the quiet Mori heir, the shadow-son, the one who carried invisible burdens. But Nao looked at him like he was the centre of the universe. It was intoxicating. For the first time the "Mori blood" didn't feel like a curse. It felt like a reason to be wanted.
In the private karaoke suite the air turned thick, electric. There was no music, only Nao's low voice and the heat of her body pressed against his. Hiroki felt a terrifying rush of adrenaline. He knew he should be thinking about Kanoko, about his mother's quiet warnings, about the estate waiting for him—but Nao was a fire that made everything else feel cold and distant.
Every touch was a question: Are you still a boy, or are you finally a man?
The three and a half hours at the Kinomoto house were the longest and shortest of his life.
When Nao pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, Hiroki's mind went quiet. She was beautiful, fierce, commanding—and when she took him in her hand and froze, eyes widening, he felt a strange mix of pride and vulnerability.
"You're… huge," she breathed.
He had never really thought about it before. But the way she looked at him—hungry, awed—made something primal wake up inside his chest.
When she sank down onto him, taking every inch, Hiroki nearly blacked out from the sensation. Tight, hot, perfect. She moved with ruthless grace, riding him like she owned him, and maybe she did. He tried to hold back, tried to be careful, but the way she clenched around him, the way she moaned his name, shattered every ounce of restraint.
When she came—shuddering, crying out, nails raking his shoulders—Hiroki couldn't hold on any longer. He thrust up into her, hard and deep, and spilled inside her with a groan that felt like it came from his soul. The release was blinding, endless, like every suppressed want he had ever buried came rushing out at once.
In the shower afterward the hot water felt like absolution and betrayal at the same time. Nao washed him gently, dressed him carefully, turned him back into the son his mother expected. But when he looked in the foggy mirror he saw someone new—someone harder, someone marked.
At the gate, when Nao pulled him into that final possessive kiss, Hiroki didn't feel trapped. He felt chosen.
"You were wonderful today, Hiro-chan," she whispered. "A real man. My man."
As her car disappeared into the mist, Hiroki stood motionless for a long moment, breathing in the damp air. He turned toward the heavy wooden doors of the estate. His clothes were straight. His hair was neat. His secret was safe.
But the boy who had left that morning was gone forever.
And the man who stepped inside carried the taste of Nao on his skin—and the weight of a new, private world burning quietly in his chest.