He was already buried inside you by the time you open the jar. His cock rests deep and heavy, unmoving, your walls soft and warm around him, clenching every so often without meaning to. Not riding. Not grinding. Just sitting, your thighs snug around his hips, chest to chest, full in a way that makes your whole body ache.

Nanami’s not even looking at you. His eyes are closed. Head leaned back against the headboard. One hand loose around your thigh, the other resting across his stomach. Calm. Quiet. Pretending this isn’t fucking killing him.

You dip your fingers into the cream and call him to look at you. His eyes open immediately. Obedient, steady, almost bored, except for the muscle twitching at the edge of his jaw. You smooth a layer of moisturizer across the high slope of his cheekbone. Slow and focused. Like you’re not straddling him with his dick inside you. Like this is just another part of your routine. He exhales through his nose, measured, deliberate, but his cock twitches inside you. A slow, dangerous throb.

“You shifted,” he mutters, not opening his eyes. You told him he was imagining things but you did. Only a little. Just enough to feel him drag along that tender inner wall. enough to make your breath hitch, to make your core clench helplessly around him again.

He grunts when you reach for the folded sheet mask on the side table, lifting one hand off his chest for balance. The shift makes you clench again, and his hands tighten around your hips like a warning. “You like being difficult,” he says flatly.