I leaned in closer, and Tomoko's breath caught ever so slightly. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her apron, as if she'd just realized it was the single most dangerous garment in the known universe.
Her lips parted, like she was about to say something, then snapped shut again as her eyes darted away. That faint waver in her composure made my chest throb in ways no doctor could ever diagnose.
Tomoko Matsumoto: world-class beauty, apron-wielding temptress, part-time executioner of my sanity.
Unable to resist, I raised a hand and gently tugged at the ribbon tied around her waist. Just the slightest tug. The bow loosened like a red string of fate giving way.
She flinched.
"W–wait, Sosuke…"
But the tone wasn't rejection. It was half-hearted protest—the kind of voice someone used when the rules of propriety demanded objection, but the heart had already thrown in the towel.
"You don't know what you're doing," she whispered, her voice trembling in that dangerous space between panic and anticipation.
I swallowed. My throat felt drier than a desert. "No… I think I know exactly what I'm doing."
Her eyes widened. For a second she looked ready to retreat. Then, like a switch had flipped, Tomoko laughed softly—low, breathy, and devastating. She leaned forward just enough for the scent of her shampoo to hit me, her cherry-pink lips hovering dangerously close.
"Then show me, Ginjo-kun… show me what you think aprons are really for."
Every neuron in my brain screamed at once. My rational side begged me to keep things under control. My not-so-rational side? Already planning the next ten moves ahead like a grandmaster of apron-related seduction.
I rested my hand against the wall just beside her head—classic kabedon technique, straight from the romcom playbook. Except this time, the stakes were astronomically higher.
Her cheeks flushed even deeper. She bit her lower lip. So I leaned in.
And the apron—the blessed, cursed apron—slipped just a little lower down her shoulder, as if conspiring against her, against me, against the universe itself.
Her lips trembled just inches away, and before my brain could argue, instinct took over. I closed the gap.
The kiss landed soft at first—just the barest brush. But then Tomoko's gasp sent a spark through me, and suddenly I was devouring her like a man starved.
Her back hit the wall as I pressed closer, the sound of her breath mingling with mine. My fingers slipped down, catching that loosened apron ribbon and tugging until it fell open. The flimsy fabric gaped, no longer a barrier but an invitation.
"Ah—Sosuke…!" Her voice cracked, trembling with both protest and need.
The apron slipped from her shoulders, baring smooth skin and curves that had no business existing outside of fever dreams. I traced along her collarbone with my lips, down the gentle slope of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin.
Her hands fisted weakly at my shirt, but instead of pushing me away, she pulled me closer—dragging me into her. The apron, still tied at her waist, framed her body like some cruel designer had engineered it specifically to destroy me.
When I palmed her breast through the thin layer beneath, Tomoko cried out, muffling the sound against my shoulder. The way she arched into my hand… it was like her body had been waiting, desperate, aching.
I tugged the apron lower, finally baring her completely. My mouth descended, tracing every curve, every shiver, until she was trembling against the wall. Her legs gave out for a moment, and instinctively she wrapped them around my waist, holding herself to me with surprising strength.
When I slid my hand down between her thighs, she jerked violently, a sharp whimper spilling from her lips. She was already soaked, heat radiating against my fingers even through the last barrier.
I kissed her again, rougher, swallowing her muffled cries as I slid that final barrier aside and pressed two fingers deep inside.
Her nails dug into my shoulders. "S-Sosuke—ahh!"
Her walls clenched around me, hot and desperate, as if begging me not to stop. And I didn't. I couldn't. I set a rhythm, curling my fingers until she was shaking, moaning into my mouth, hips rolling against my hand like she'd forgotten everything except this need.
When I pulled back just enough to see her face, her flushed cheeks, her glazed eyes—it hit me like a freight train.
"Tomoko-san," I whispered hoarsely, fumbling with my belt one-handed, "tell me to stop and I will."
Her eyes locked with mine, pupils blown wide, lips trembling. Then, with a shaky breath, she whispered:
"Don't stop, Sosuke… please. I want you inside me."