My breath comes in gasps and wheezes, too little air passing through the silk and into my lungs. Will he stop fucking me when I pass out? Even such a broken toy warrants that much regard.
Mr. Ito jerks me up, crushing me against his body. The tie loosens when my hands leave the floor. Oh, I’ve been strangling myself? Fucking hell…
He slides the tie over my shoulders and forearms, pulling the leash around my torso now. Dangerously close to breaking one of my rules—no bondage at the same time as blindfolding—but I’m so dangerously close to losing control I don’t care.
Then he strokes my cock.
“Oh, fuck yeah.” I don’t realize until it’s slipped out. Vulgar. Unprofessional. Jersey. Not the sort of thing Mr. Ito’s pretty little toy should be moaning.
Mr. Ito laughs, low and ominous in my ear. “Omocha enjoys himself?”
I nod this time, flushed with embarrassment, which makes me lightheaded. My brain boils from too much heat, too much sensation. I’d explode if I could see more than the blackness inside the hood.
“Should I make you come?”
“Yes, please.” My body is already begging, humping his hand, and ruining the rhythm of his thrusts.
He corrects to match my pace, a powerful symmetry of his cock and his hand. As if I’m not in between them. And really, I’m not. I’m just the toy in his self-play.
Except … Christ, he’s hardly started, and I’m already coming.
Someone told me once orgasm is a dance with death. That a person’s heart is in danger of exploding when it happens. I’d been far too young to hear this. Probably at some cast party when the adults forgot there was a kid in the show. It was the most frightening thing about puberty for me, the constant desire for pleasure, the endless fear I would accidentally kill myself seeking it.
The shattering still scares me as much as it relieves me, and when I come it’s with a whispered wail barely recognizable as my own voice. A kind of death on its own. But it feels so good, so damned fine. I can’t even be self-conscious about the sounds I’m making, about the unbridled desperation, about how shameless I must appear.
Mr. Ito pauses in his attack to caress my chest, to move the tie back to my neck. While his cock throbs inside me, thrashing for its own release, his hands tie the fabric gently around my throat. I collapse back into his arms, trusting entirely in his strength to support me.
How foolish to trust him.
Once he’s had his joke and dressed me in his tie, Mr. Ito pushes me forward. I fall flat on my face, too surprised to catch myself.
My pleasure was a personal duty accomplished for his own pride. Having fulfilled this obligation, Mr. Ito tends to his own release with ruthless efficiency. He allows me to uncurl, spreads my legs wide, and pounds me so hard and so fast that if we’d been in my apartment, he might have broken the floor with the force of his lust. I moan with joy beneath him, longing to see him, to taste his skin while he uses me.
He’s quick and violent. Before I can recover from my own orgasm, he pulls out. He cuts all contact between our bodies, until the drops of his lust rain on the curve of my ass. They drip forward into the bend of my lower back. That’s the last touch for now.
Mr. Ito stands. Zips his trousers. He walks around me again. Inspecting his toy for damaged parts? Does he still take pleasure in what he sees? Does it make him proud to see this broken little thing covered in scratches and bruises, this angel he’d bought to be his slut?
He walks toward the wall to put on that God-damned mask.
****
The summer camp’s success made us overconfident. We planned for a little Off-Broadway Burlesque, strictly adult, between Halloween and Christmas. Plenty of interest. Not enough donors. When it was clear we wouldn’t make our Kickstarter goals, when we knew we’d spend the season leasing our space to companies with better fundraisers, we headed out to the bar to drink off the humbling, if familiar, failure.
It hit Vanessa the hardest. In a few weeks every taxi, every bus, every subway would have a picture of women who looked exactly like her. So, in the bar, though she laughed, bright-eyed and smiling, there was too much force. She knew how to smile when her toes bled and her ankle was fractured, but her voice had no such training. The prospect of facing the holiday season without a project devastated her.
I wouldn’t have kept up the fight for myself, but I couldn’t sit across from my friend’s desolation and not try to do something for her.
So, I sent Mr. Ito an e-mail in the bar. Professional. Just reminding him who we were and explaining this project. By then, I’d lost the specifics of his face, but I still remembered the way his gaze wandered over my body. I mentioned the more adult nature of this project to pique his interest.
A moment later, while Mercy sang at the top of his voice some snatch of tragic and relevant opera, I got a text from Mr. Ito. Can we meet someplace private and discuss a 10k donation?
I nearly dropped my beer.
Van noticed. “Who the hell’s texting you, Harp? We’re all here.”
I stared at the message in a kind of terror. Ten-thousand-dollar donation. Someplace private. Sordid, obviously. I couldn’t tell Van, because … she’d make me do the sensible thing, the legal thing, and tell him no.
“Ah, it’s Mom.” I pocketed the phone. “The upstairs neighbor’s cat just kicked it and Mom’s being dramatic. You’d think the mangy piece-of-shit was the neighborhood’s mascot.”
Is that really how quickly I made the decision? Indecent, borderline illegal, but a ten-thousand-dollar donation. And Mr. Ito… He’d been hot … hadn’t he? Maybe I was reading into it. I couldn’t ask Joanna— her mind would go to the gutter. Scissors would tell Van. Mercy and Faizz were useless to me...
But Carlos could be objective. He could keep a secret.
I pushed out of the booth. “Sweetness, we’re out of beer and wings. Let’s get some.”
Scissors called. “Don’t make him pay, Harp. He’s gonna go broke feeding us.”
I shrugged at her gracefully, and Carlos waved off her concern, then insisted on paying for another pitcher and bowl of wings. While we waited, I showed him the text.
He’d been absolutely floored. Damned uncomfortable as I told him everything I remembered about Mr. Ito. Mostly that he was rich as hell, taller than any Japanese man had a right to be, and had made the summer camp happen. I didn’t want to piss off Mr. Ito by misinterpreting his text.
“I’m sure that’s what it is.” I’ve never met a Hispanic man who blushed like Carlos. “ELLs miswrite things all the time.”
“ELL?”
He looked away, curling his shoulders tight to his ears. “English Language Learners. He probably meant … why don’t you just ask him where he wants to meet? If it’s his house or something weird, say no. Or bring Van along and pretend you didn’t understand.”
I glanced over at Van, studying the bubbles in her beer, unguarded, ignoring her friends.
When Mr. Ito sent me back the address to the 5th Ave. condo tower, I didn’t bring Van.
And I didn’t say no.
****
I’ve been dozing when Mr. Ito crouches over me to gently unlace the hood.
Just fucked and lying on his floor like a used condom. I should not be relaxed. This is a performance. He’s an audience. He’s a patron. He’s—
He’s lingering.
Typically, it’s a quick, “Thank you, Mr. Brosh. Get home safe.”
Tonight was too short. He wants more. His lips graze my neck, and my entire body shudders with anticipation I should not be feeling.
He says, with a hesitation that’s definitely out of character for him, “I’d like to have dinner with you.”
That’s new.
Are we going outside of the apartment? He’d have to take off his mask. I turn on my back to see him. “Dinner?”
Behind the silver and gold glower, his dark eyes squeeze shut. “Never mind. I only thought—”
Ah, fuck, he’s
being nice. “Dinner sounds great, boss.”
“Good.” He only rises when I agree, as if he had to pin me down or I’d flit out the door wearing only his necktie. “What kind of food do you like?”
I snicker. “I’m partial to sushi.”
The corners of his mouth dent in with disapproval of my joke. I’ve become obsessed with the shape of his lips, the small creases at the edge when he smiles, the deeper line when he frowns.
“All right. Take a shower while I … prepare.”
I lift up on my elbows, as he walks silently toward the kitchen, running his hands through his hair as if it could get any slicker. Tall, broad, like a Japanese Phantom of the Opera, complete with weird fucking mask.
I hate it with a sudden sickening passion, with more personal animosity than I’ve ever felt for an inanimate object. That intensity does not suit the ambivalence I feel toward Mr. Ito.
Let’s not psychoanalyze. Just do what the rich guy in the mask says, Harp.
****
His bathroom is empty and polished as a hotel ad, devoid of anything more personal than a toothbrush. The shower is glass, with a jet spray, and one of those fancy bendy heads. Behind the silver-gilded mirror, there’s a metal comb, hair gel, a glasses case, and the accouterment for someone who wears contacts. In the tiny white hutch, there are six towels rolled up and packed in a way that would give Marie Kondo a lady-boner.
But damn, the shower feels good. Hot and soft water. Higher quality than the tap water in my apartment. Like bathing in Evian. Maybe it’s the fancy showerhead. Maybe it’s the bright lights. Maybe it’s just clean. I don’t realize how knotted up and tense my muscles were until I’m under the hot spray, until the jets relax me. I rub my calves and think of the animal who’s just fucked me. Who wants to fuck me again. After dinner.
I’m not sure I like it.
I clean myself doubly good. Use only water on my hair, because I’m not sure which of his fancy foreign bottles is the shampoo and which is the conditioner or what havoc such products will wreak on my curls. Besides, I’ve already lingered too much. I’m not desperate. I’m not even poor—I mean, comparatively. The point is, I have my own shower, my own shampoo, my own stuff in my own apartment.
Christ, the towel is great. Soft and fluffy. There’s a big gray bathrobe, but it’s too intimate to wear his clothing.
It’s too intimate to eat with him. Don’t want to get comfortable. To take advantage.
Naw, don’t read into this. He’s only feeding you so he can keep you and fuck you again. You’re nothing special, Harp.
Still, the shower calms the color in my face, makes me feel like a person again. Fresh and awake.
I comb my curls with my fingers. It’ll be a disaster if I use his tiny-toothed comb. But damp looks sexier than usual. Less angel. More swimsuit model. I catch sight of his tie and put it back around my neck. There’s an image that would sell some Dolce and Gabbana.
I walk out with the kind of slutty catwalk that would get me in trouble if I actually—
Jesus Christ, he’s making sushi. Harper Brosh, what the hell is your life?
Under the mask’s golden edge, Mr. Ito’s mouth slackens. His gaze flickers over me. As if he’d forgotten I was in his apartment. As if he’d forgotten other humans existed. As if the sight of me makes him forget language.
Very validating.
I try not to be so smug. “Your shower is fantastic, boss.”
“Yes.” He stares down at his hands, the bamboo cutting board, the mat laden with rice, his fillet knife. There’s even tea and chopsticks—real ones with carvings in them and everything. “The robe was for you.”
I flick the tie around my neck and slide into the stool across from him. “You don’t like this look?”
The corner of his mouth crinkles as he suppresses his smile. “I do. If you get cold, it’s your own fault. I will not allow you to change now.”
I smile broadly. “Won’t allow? How extreme, Mr. Ito.”
My throaty purr turns him on, and that irritates him. He gestures to the sushi. “Eat.”
I do. It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s made my favorites, salmon avocado roll and a California roll. They’re probably popular. Definitely simple. Though he’s made them perfectly. Did he take a class, or is it as simple as sandwiches for him? I don’t know shit about Japan.
Like, for example, is it rude to talk while eating? Am I holding the chopsticks properly? Should I actually wait for my host?
Judging by his quiet, respectful silence seems called for. So, I eat my sushi and reach for the tea to pour myself a cup. He startles a bit. Maybe I ought to have poured for him first. There’s definitely some social etiquette about tea I don’t know it.
“Want some?”
“Yes.” He watches me pour with his mouth pressed tightly. “I ought to have poured for you.”
“No harm, boss. You know, we don’t do courtesy in New York. I’m lucky if I notice when some tourist crashes into me.”
He smiles slightly. Then finishes the California roll, squeezing it in the mat and slicing it with the dexterity of a trained chef. He places it on the plate between us.
I grab a piece of that. Crazy good.
Mr. Ito eyes his cup of tea as if it betrayed him, then takes a sip. “I apologize for my awkwardness. I’m not comfortable with small talk.”
“Oh jeez,” I laugh. “Here, I thought I was being polite. Isn’t there some taboo about talking at mealtimes?”
He says something in Japanese, then shakes his head and tries again. “When you enter a village, obey…”
He struggles for the right word, then settles on, “The customs of that village.”
What nuance did he lose in translation? Something about tradition or religion or art. Maybe it was more dismissive. Maybe—
It doesn’t matter.
“Well, since we’re not in Japan…” Shit. What to talk about? Come on, Harp. Be charming, for the sexy billionaire. “I’ll talk your ear off. My mom always said I had a knack for saying nothing while I was talking. This is fantastic, by the way. I’ve never had homemade sushi this good before.”
He chuckles. His face must be so soft under that damned mask. “It’s nothing special.”
I remember reading something about Japanese modesty. Denying compliments. “Except it really is. I mean the most I could give a—”
“Fuck buddy” is not the word I’m going to use to describe this relationship.
“Guest would be burnt pizza. Maybe cold cuts. This is professional-grade sushi.”
Mr. Ito puts off the compliment once more. “The fish is not fresh enough, and the rice is not quite right.”
That’s enough of trying to compliment. “Where did you learn?”
He stiffens. “What?”
How could that possibly offend him?
Without relaxing he admits, “My … uncles taught me.”
The statement offers a million doorways to totally normal pleasant conversations about him, his family, and food. But the tension in his shoulders, the grit of his jaw, steers me away from that path.
“All right, no personal questions. Guess I’ll never learn how to say your first name, then.”
The mask shadows his downcast gaze and gives only the slightest glimpse of long lashes and the curve of his eye. “Joji.”
A little like Joe and Gigi smashed together. “Joji. Cool name.”
He nods. Sharply. Not an agreement, but a well-rehearsed reply. “Just like the singer. But no one calls me that. Most people call me—”
He pauses.
Before it gets awkward, I finish the joke for him. “Mr. Ito?”
“Well, yes.” That makes him smile, but it’s not what he intended.
I can’t guess what he intended. Maybe a nickname that’s even more complicated for an English speaker. Such an unreadable man. Is he naturally so mysterious, or is it because I have no facial cues? The cultural difference or that fucking mask?
One
thing will always translate, so I lean closer to him and flirt. “Would you prefer I stick to Mr. Ito? Maybe Ito-sama?”
I only notice his shiver because I’m hyper-aware of his body language. Still, I can’t tell if that was an insulted flinch, or if he really, really likes the way Ito-sama sounds. His lips remain a firm, neutral line.
But he lifts his gaze. The mask reduces his eyes to black beads inside the inhuman face. “That. Yes.”
He averts his gaze again. “Though -san is more appropriate in mixed company.”
From what I understand—which is precious little—both “san” and “sama” are titles for a person higher-up than you. I think “sama” is more formal, but I’m a Jew from Jersey City. The hell do I know about politeness or the Japanese?
“Oh, are we going into mixed company, Ito-sama?” I pop another piece of sushi into my mouth, tilting slightly back to remind my formal host, I’m only wearing his necktie. “Dressed as we are? Maybe we could take a stroll through the park. I bet we’d even scare the locals.”
“No,” he says dryly. “They’d just file it away under oddities to discuss on Twitter.”
“No doubt.” I like his sense of humor. Refined. Makes me want to rile him up. So, I cross my legs and tease. “Guess we’ll just have to do it for the ‘gram, then.”
“You should finish eating before you tempt me, Omocha.” The low growl of command rumbles through me. Does he know that turns me on? I don’t show it.
“Yes, sir, Ito-sama.” I’ll tempt him all I want. For now, I change my tone. “So, tell me about you. Where you from originally? What do you do?”
“San Francisco.” He answers tersely as if daring me to challenge his right to be in America. Then he softens a bit. “You know I deal with software start-ups.”
Christ, he really doesn’t want to talk about himself. I eat the last of the salmon and avocado roll and wait for the questions about me.
He won’t meet my eye. “Are you seeing anyone?”
I laugh outright. Bastard has been fucking me for two months, and this is the first time he’d thought to ask. My mind immediately jumps to Carlos. Not that I’m not “seeing” Sweetness. Too many reasons not to get involved with a coworker. Not the least of which has just made me dinner. “Hell no. Just you, boss.”
Billion Dollar Love: Manlove Edition Page 2
