There was never a need for extras.

No velvety ropes. No blindfolds. No toys humming on the nightstand, waiting for their turn. Sae had never cared for them—not out of judgement or a lack of curiosity, but simply because he didn’t need them.

His hands knew you. Better than anyone else.

Every inch of skin, every shift in breath, every subtle twitch beneath his fingertips. His lips knew exactly how to coax a gasp from your swollen lips. His voice—a low, breathy murmur—knew the right timing to slip between your thighs and into your spine. He didn’t need help. You had learned that from the very first time he touched you.

And he reminded you every time after.

Sometimes it was tender. Other times it was slow. But most times, it was quiet, sticky, unspoken. Just Sae pressed against you, sweat at your temples, your breaths mingled. His rhythm unforgiving, his eyes always open. Watching. Studying. Drinking in every reaction you couldn’t suppress from that pretty face of yours.

And god, did it get messy. Sticky fingers, soaked sheets, damp hair curling at your neck. His thighs flush against yours, your knees pushing back into the mattress, his grip digging into the meat of your hips as he pushed the himself deeper, slower. Not to hurt. Not to tease. But to feel you. Full and fluttering, trembling with overstimulation—just from him.

But sometimes…just sometimes…he didn’t want to dirty his hands.

And those were the kinds of nights where things started long before the bedroom.

Like tonight.

He had watched you get dressed. Silent on the edge of the bed, one arm resting over his thigh, eyes tracing your every movement as you slipped into that long black dress. Floor-length. Backless. Absolutely elegant on you. The kind that made heads turn the moment you walked into a room. But Sae? He wasn’t interested in the room.

He was interested in you.

He stood when you reached for your earrings. Came up behind you. Not a word. Just the brush of his hand at your lower back, the cool whisper of his breath against your ear. And then he lifted the hem of your dress—slow, purposely, watching your reflection the whole time—and without so much as a warning, he slipped the it inside you.

Small. Discreet. Already warm.

You gasped, one hand flying to his chest, the other gripping the edge of the vanity. But he just pulled your dress back down, smoothed the fabric over your hips, and pressed a soft kiss behind your ear.

“Be good,” he murmured, voice low enough to dissolve into your skin.

And then you left. Together.

The car ride was quiet. His hand rested casually on your thigh, as if nothing had happened. But the hum was there. Faint. Teasing. And when the waiter guided you both to your table—private, candlelit, high-end—you could barely breathe, let alone walk in a straight line.

Sae didn’t look at you during dinner. Not really. Just watched the wine pour, cut his food, answered questions in that flat, smooth voice of his—so casually as if nothing was happening underneath the tablecloth. But every ten minutes or so? A subtle flick of his finger under the table. A tap on his phone. And the intensity climbed.

By dessert, your thighs were slick. Shaking. The stimulation constant—unforgiving, yet somehow never enough. Your lip was raw from biting it. The tears had started too—quiet, barely-there streaks rolling down your thighs, hidden by that merciful length of fabric.

And Sae? He didn’t say a word about it. Barely spared a glance your way.

Completely and utterly unaffected.

Only when the bill was paid and your hands trembled as you reached for his arm, fingers curling around the fabric of his perfectly ironed blazer, did he finally lean close. His voice so silk, just for you, delivered with a maddening calm.

“Let’s go. I still haven’t had my dessert.” He smirks, it’s barely there—but you noticed it.

You always did.