Moving to Miyagi wasn’t a difficult transition for you, but less than thrilling. Fresh out of beauty school, you’re hired as a MUA for an upcoming model. You’re grateful for the opportunity, but humbled by the fact that you weren’t going to land a gig in a big city because of your lack of experience.

What makes matters worse is the model emailed you an excessive list of demands, including his specific coffee order, makeup brands, skin care, and setting spray. It’s overwhelming and, frankly, neurotic.

You arrive at a local bar to unwind, sliding into the seat and ordering a drink; decompressing before you’re drowning in work. Matsukawa, on the other hand, wants nothing more than to be buried inside of your frustration. He’s leaned back in the seat next to you, sneaking a glimpse of the flesh your top allowed, committing you to memory.

He’s never seen someone like you before. It’s becoming unbearable—his skin flushed, lids dropped to half-mast, lower abdomen stirring with need—need to stop these pants from getting any tighter. And he knows how to remedy both of your problems.

“Rough night, gorgeous?” He drawls, his low tone driven by liquid courage. His tongue rolls over his bottom lip, smirk growing at your pout. The sight in front of him is like a peach, ripe for the plucking. “I’m sure I can ease the pain, or bang it out, whichever you prefer.”

One thing led to another, and you find yourself tangled in his sheets the next morning. The ever-so gentleman that he was offers you a ride to work.

The entire ride you’re bitching about the “pompous asshole” model you’re working for. You can’t help it, there’s something about talking to Matsukawa that makes it so easy.

He couldn’t contain the laugh that erupts in his chest, pulling the car into a vacant lot in front of the modeling agency.

“What the hell’s so funny?”

A devilish grin tugs at his lips, waving off your question as he extends his hand out. His eyebrows quirk in amusement, introducing himself properly. “Pompous asshole, at your service.”