Page 15 of Kotori

We stop before sliding doors painted with delicate cherry blossoms. When he opens them, my breath catches.

The room beyond is smaller than the formal dining space, with low tables surrounded by silk cushions in rich burgundy and gold.

Lamplight creates pools of warm illumination while shadows dance in the corners.

Everything speaks of intimacy, privacy, the kind of setting where secrets are shared and boundaries dissolve.

"My personal dining room," he says, watching my reaction. "For occasions requiring discretion."

The way he says "discretion" makes me suddenly hot. This isn't about cultural education anymore. This is about him and me. Alone.

"Please," he gestures toward the cushions. "Sit."

I settle down, immediately aware of how the formal position puts me at a disadvantage.

Kneeling while he towers above, looking down at me with dark satisfaction.

The memory of last week's encounter floods back—his hands on my shoulders, his voice commanding proper submission, the way my body responded despite my mind's protests.

And then every night since, my deliberate performances for his cameras, the blue silk nightgown becoming a ritual.

He moves to the sake service. "Traditional service honors both guest and host," he says, settling onto the cushion across from me. "You'll pour."

Not a request. A command delivered in that quiet voice that makes my nipples pebble against my bra. I reach for the ceramic flask with hands that tremble slightly, hyperaware of his attention on my every movement.

"From both hands," he corrects when I try to pour casually. "Show proper respect."

I adjust my grip, and he moves closer to guide my position. His fingers cover mine on the flask, warm and firm and completely inappropriate. The contact makes breathing suddenly difficult.

"Like this," he murmurs, so close I can feel his breath against my ear. "Service is an art form, Paige-san. Beautiful when performed correctly."

The way he says "service" makes clear we're not just talking about pouring drinks. His thumb traces across my knuckles while he speaks, the gentle touch at odds with the possession in his voice.

"Now pour. Slowly."

I follow his instruction, trying to ignore the way his proximity affects my concentration. The sake flows in a stream while he watches my face instead of the cup.

"Beautiful," he says softly.

When I try to pull my hands away, he doesn't let go immediately. "Again. You need practice." He downs the first cup like a shot, something that doesn't seem appropriate but what do I know?

We repeat the exercise three times, his fingers guiding mine while he murmurs corrections about angle and flow and respect. Each repetition puts him closer, his chest nearly touching my back, his voice dropping to something intimate and commanding.

By the time he's satisfied with my technique, I'm focusing on every point of contact between us. The warmth of his hands. The way his breath ghosts across my neck when he leans close to observe my form.

"Much better." He finally releases my hands but doesn't move back. "Now serve me."

Serve.

Serve him.

I pour his sake with the precision he's taught me, presenting the cup with a bow that feels more natural than it should. When our fingers brush during the exchange, heat shoots straight between my legs.

"Perfect." The approval in his voice shouldn't affect me this much. "Your posture has improved as well."

I glance down, realizing I've automatically straightened into the formal seiza position he corrected last week. When did that happen? When did my body start adjusting to his expectations without conscious thought?

"Learning comes naturally when the student is motivated," he continues, lifting the sake cup. "Tell me, what motivates you, Paige-san?"

The question catches me off guard. "I want to do well. To help your daughters succeed."

"Admirable. But I asked what motivates you. Not what you think I want to hear." His dark eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity. "What do you want from life?"

I stare at him, thrown by the personal turn. "Security, I suppose. Purpose. The feeling that I matter to someone."

"Someone hurt you." It's not a question. "The reason you fled to Japan."

My chest tightens. "That's not—"

"My apologies. Too personal." But his tone suggests he's not sorry at all. "Let's discuss more appropriate topics."

Hayashi appears silently to arrange the first course of delicate appetizers presented on tiny ceramic plates. The moment she withdraws, leaving us alone again, the atmosphere shifts back to something charged and intimate.

"Kaiseki," Kaito says, settling across from me with fluid grace. "The height of Japanese culinary art. Each course tells a story."

The first dish is a single perfect ginkgo nut nestled in a ceramic shell no bigger than my thumb, glazed with something that catches the lamplight like amber. Beside it sits a piece of sea bream so thinly sliced it's nearly translucent, garnished with a single chrysanthemum petal.

I pick up my chopsticks awkwardly, still struggling with the proper grip. The ginkgo nut has a buttery texture and an earthy flavor I've never tasted before. When I reach for the fish, he speaks quietly.

"Slowly. Kaiseki is meditation through taste. Each bite should be savored."

The way he says "savored" makes me aware of his attention on my mouth as I eat. The fish dissolves on my tongue, sweet and clean, the chrysanthemum adding a subtle floral note that lingers.

Hayashi returns with the second course—a small bowl of clear soup so delicate I can see the bottom through the golden broth. Floating inside are three perfect drops of green tea oil and a single white flower that looks too pretty to eat.

"Suimono," he says. "Clear soup to cleanse the palate. The flower is edible—a symbol of purity."

I lift the bowl with both hands the way I've seen him do, bringing it to my lips. The broth is warm silk, flavored with something oceanic and clean. When I bite into the flower, it releases a burst of subtle sweetness.

"The oils carry the essence of tea ceremony," he continues, his dark eyes never leaving my face. "Harmony, respect, purity, tranquility. The foundations of proper understanding between two people."

The way he says "understanding" makes heat gather low in my belly. Every word feels loaded with double meaning.

The third course arrives as I'm finishing the soup—a single piece of grilled fish, no bigger than my palm, presented on a bed of cut radish. The skin crackles perfectly, and when I take a bite, the flesh flakes apart to reveal tender sweetness with a hint of smoke.

"Wild salmon," he says. "Caught this morning, grilled over cherry wood."

"It's incredible," I say, meaning it completely. Every bite is a revelation, flavors I've never experienced combining in ways that seem impossible.

The next course is a work of art—sashimi arranged like flower petals on a black lacquer plate, each piece of fish a different color and texture. Ruby red tuna, pale yellow amberjack, silver-skinned mackerel, and something white as snow that gleams like a pearl.

"Each fish represents a different season," he explains. "Tuna for winter's depth, amberjack for spring's freshness, mackerel for summer's richness, sea bream for autumn's elegance."

I try the tuna first, and it melts on my tongue like butter, rich and clean. The amberjack has a firmer texture and a brightness that makes my mouth water. The mackerel is more intense, with oils that coat my palate, while the sea bream is delicate as snow.

"You eat with proper appreciation," he says, watching my reactions with something that might be approval. "Many foreigners rush through such meals, missing the subtlety."

"I've never tasted anything like this," I admit.

"Because you've never been properly taught. Education requires the right teacher. Someone who understands both the student's needs and their potential."

The way his voice drops on "potential" makes my pulse quicken. He pours more sake, and when he hands me the cup this time, his fingers linger against mine.

"The next course requires guidance," he says, rising with fluid grace. "May I?"

Before I can ask what he means, he moves around the table to kneel beside me, close enough that our thighs almost touch. The new course is unlike anything I've seen—tiny vegetables carved into flowers, arranged around a central dish that looks like abstract art.

"Takiawase," he explains, his voice close to my ear. "Simmered vegetables, each prepared separately, then arranged in harmony. Like bringing different elements together to create something beautiful."

He picks up a piece of lotus root with his chopsticks, the vegetable carved so thinly it's almost translucent, shaped like a flower. "Open your mouth."

The command is quiet but unmistakable. Heat floods my cheeks, but I part my lips obediently. He places the lotus root on my tongue, his chopsticks barely brushing my lips as he withdraws them.

The vegetable is silky and mild, cooked in a broth that tastes of the sea. But I'm barely registering the flavor because of his proximity, the way his dark eyes watch my mouth as I chew.

"The lotus grows in mud but blooms pure," he says softly. "Transformation through proper nurturing."

He feeds me each element of the dish—baby turnips carved like flowers, their sweetness brightened with citrus; squash that melts on my tongue like butter; delicate baby corn that crunches between my teeth. With each bite, his attention on my mouth becomes more intense, more intimate.

"Beautiful," he murmurs when I taste the final piece— eggplant so tender it dissolves instantly, leaving behind a hint of miso and smoke. "You learn so quickly when properly guided."

The praise makes warmth bloom in my chest. When did earning his approval become so important to me?

By the time I finish the last bite, I'm aware of how quiet the room has become, how intimate the lamplight makes everything feel. The meal has been unlike anything I've ever experienced—not just food, but ceremony, seduction, art.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "That was incredible."

"You honored the meal with proper attention," he replies. "Not everyone has such receptiveness to new experiences. Tell me," he continues, lifting his sake cup, "what did you think of today's lesson with my daughters?"

The question catches me off guard. "I... there was some disagreement about—"

"Mizuki spoke with me," he interrupts smoothly. "She was quite upset. Something about American teachers overstepping boundaries, encouraging inappropriate dreams."

My stomach clenches. "I was just trying to help them think about their futures."

"Their futures are not uncertain, Paige-san. They have roles to fulfill, responsibilities to embrace. Duty that transcends personal desire." His voice remains perfectly controlled, but something cold enters his tone. "I'm curious why you felt qualified to counsel them otherwise."

"I didn't mean to overstep. I just thought—"

"You thought." He sets down his cup with deliberate precision. "Tell me, what do you know about duty? About sacrifice for something larger than yourself?"

The questions hit exactly where I'm most vulnerable. "I know that I came here to help."

"You came here because you were running away," he says quietly. "From a man who betrayed you. From a life that didn't turn out as you'd planned. And now you want to teach my daughters to run from theirs?"

"That's not what I was doing."

He leans forward slightly, his dark eyes holding mine. "You encouraged them to pursue selfish dreams, to prioritize individual happiness over family obligation. Very American. Very destructive."

His proximity during the meal, the way he fed me, the intimacy of the evening—suddenly it all feels dangerous instead of seductive. I push back from the table slightly, needing space to think clearly. "I should go," I say, starting to rise. "This conversation is getting too personal."

"Sit down."

The command stops me halfway to standing. When I don't immediately comply, his expression darkens.

"You came to my country. Accepted my employment. Honored you with the finest meal my family can offer." His voice drops to something quietly dangerous. "And now you insult me by implying this conversation is inappropriate?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Sit. Down."

This time the authority in his voice makes my legs buckle almost involuntarily. I sink back onto the silk cushion, heart hammering as he towers over me.

"In Japan, we have a concept called 'reading the air'—understanding unspoken social cues, responding with proper respect." His tone is perfectly controlled, but there's steel underneath. "You have failed dramatically."

Shame burns in my cheeks. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand."

"Clearly." He settles back into his position across from me, but the warmth from earlier has vanished completely. "You think dinner conversation about my daughters' future is inappropriate? You think expressing concern for their well-being crosses some boundary?"

"I just thought—"

"You thought wrong." He pours himself sake with deliberate precision, not offering me any.

"My daughters have already lost one woman who claimed to care about their futures," he says, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous.

"Their mother died protecting them. Ensuring they would have futures at all. "

The statement is sharp. Died protecting them. Not a car accident or illness, but something violent. Something intentional .

"I didn't—" I start, but he cuts me off with a sharp gesture.

"Tomorrow you will join me for a morning walk through our family gardens. Five AM. Traditional dress will be provided." His tone brooks no argument. "You will learn about this family's history, about the weight of obligation, about the consequences of encouraging others to abandon their duty."

Five AM. A morning walk through the family gardens.

"And Paige-san?" He meets my eyes with cold intensity. "When you understand what this family sacrifices to maintain our position, perhaps you'll be more thoughtful about the advice you give my daughters."

The dismissal is clear.

"The meal tonight honored you with beauty, tradition, the finest my family can offer," he says with quiet certainty. "Tomorrow you'll understand what that generosity costs. What we do to protect what matters to us."

The promise in his voice makes me shiver. Educational.

My hand trembles on the door frame. "Goodnight, Matsumoto-sama."