Page 6 of Kotori

Paige

When I wake, just for a moment, I forget where I am—the silk bedding, cedar and incense scent, the silence broken only by birds outside.

Then reality crashes back. Japan. The Matsumoto compound. My new job teaching English to three daughters of a man who looks at me like I'm something he's considering acquiring.

The guest quarters outshine any hotel I've ever stayed in. Japanese architecture blended with modern amenities—massive bathroom with Western fixtures and traditional soaking tub, sitting area with low table and silk cushions, built-in wardrobes filled with clothes I didn't pack.

I slide open the wardrobe doors, staring at the selection of conservative blouses and skirts in my exact size.

When did they arrange this? The clothing is beautiful, expensive, perfect for my position.

It's nothing like my usual style—more formal, more traditional, like someone else's idea of how I should dress. I suppose it’s my new uniform.

Just like the girls. Thankfully, I have some of my own clothes for the weekends.

The thought makes my skin crawl, but I select a navy blouse and matching skirt anyway. The fabric feels expensive against my skin, fits perfectly in ways that suggest professional tailoring rather than guessing.

Someone studied my body carefully enough to select clothing that flatters without revealing, projects professionalism while maintaining femininity.

I'm brushing my hair when the soft knock comes at the door.

"Matsumoto-sama wishes to see you in his study."

Hayashi delivers the message with the tone she might use to announce tea service, but something in her expression twists my stomach. Not sympathy, but understanding. She knows what's coming and doesn't envy me.

"Now?" I glance at the lesson materials spread on the table where I've been preparing. "The girls and I start at nine."

"The girls have been informed their lessons will begin later today." Her tone allows no argument. "This way, please."

I follow her through corridors I'm still learning. My heart pounds harder with each step, though I can't explain why a simple meeting with my employer feels like walking toward an execution.

We stop before the same sliding doors where I first met Kaito yesterday. The memory makes my pulse jump when I remember his overwhelming presence, the way he looked at me like he was undressing me while discussing his daughters' education.

"Enter when called," Hayashi instructs, then disappears down the corridor with efficient silence.

I stand alone outside his study, pressing my palms against my skirt to stop them from shaking. This is professional feedback. Discussion of expectations. Normal employer-employee interaction.

So why do I feel like prey about to walk into a predator's den?

"Come in."

His voice carries through the door with quiet authority that makes my nipples tighten against my bra. The man says two words and my body responds like he's touched me.

I slide the door open and step inside. The atmosphere feels different. Yesterday, this room felt formal but welcoming. Today, it feels like a place where sentences are delivered.

Kaito sits behind the low table in perfect posture, wearing a charcoal business suit that emphasizes his shoulders, the power in his form.

His jacket unbuttoned, revealing a crisp white shirt open at the collar just enough to hint at black ink beneath—traditional tattoos that speak of a world more dangerous than corporate boardrooms.

"Paige-san. Sit."

Not "please sit." Just a command in that quiet voice that makes my knees buckle. I settle onto the cushion across from him, trying to copy his posture and failing. My legs ache from the unfamiliar position, but he sits like he was born to it, comfortable in his authority.

Silence stretches while he studies me with unnerving focus. My cheeks heat under his scrutiny, the way his gaze lingers on my mouth, drops to the neckline of my blouse, returns to my eyes with something that isn't professional interest.

"How did you sleep?" he asks finally, his tone polite.

"Fine, thank you." The lie comes easily. I'd tossed all night, unable to stop thinking about dinner, about how he looked at me when our fingers touched over the sake cup.

"I'm glad to hear it." He gestures to the teapot with a slight nod, his expectation clear without needing words. "Pour."

The command is simple, direct. I reach for the teapot, conscious of my every movement under his scrutiny. The ceramic feels warm against my palms as I lift it with unsteady hands.

When I finish pouring and set down the pot, he reaches for his cup, his fingers brushing against mine. Our hands overlap on the ceramic, his thumb tracing my knuckles with deliberate pressure. "They've been without proper guidance since their last tutor left."

The touch is light, professional. It sends heat straight between my legs. His hands are beautiful—strong with elegant fingers that move with unconscious grace. I imagine those hands elsewhere on my body.

"I'm excited to work with your daughters," I manage, proud that my voice stays steady.

"I'm certain you are." He releases the cup but doesn't move back, keeping our hands close enough that I feel warmth from his skin. "The question is whether you understand what working in this household requires."

Something in his tone makes the professional conversation feel like foreplay. His voice drops slightly on certain words, creating a rhythm that's almost hypnotic. When he speaks, I watch his mouth—the perfect shape of his lips, the flash of white teeth against olive skin.

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Yesterday's interactions revealed certain... adjustments that will be necessary." He finally leans back, giving me space to breathe while my pulse hammers. His suit jacket parts slightly, revealing how his shirt stretches across his broad chest. "Behavioral expectations, you might say."

"Was there a problem with my behavior?"

"Your understanding of appropriate conduct within this household.

" His eyes hold mine with intensity that dries my mouth.

When he blinks, I notice his eyelashes—thick and dark against sharp cheekbones.

Every feature of his face seems designed for maximum impact—strong jaw, straight nose, eyes that see too much.

"My daughters noticed several irregularities that require correction. "

The word "correction" sends liquid heat to my core. God, what is happening to me? He's talking about proper conduct, not—

"What kind of irregularities?"

"Forms of address, for one." He rises, the movement revealing his height and lean, powerful build his suit can't disguise.

Suddenly he towers over me while I remain kneeling.

"In this household, respect is shown through proper language.

You will address me as Matsumoto-sama, not the casual American forms you used yesterday. "

The height difference feels calculated, designed to emphasize who holds power. I crane my neck to maintain eye contact, and the angle puts me in a position that's devastatingly submissive. Kneeling at his feet while he stands above me, the breadth of his shoulders blocking the light.

Heat floods my cheeks as I realize how this looks—me on my knees before him, skirt stretched tight across my thighs, tilting my head back in a way that exposes my throat. The position makes me feel small, vulnerable, owned in a way that should humiliate me.

Instead, wetness pools between my legs as his eyes travel down my upturned face, lingering on my parted lips before returning to hold my gaze with burning intensity. The air between us feels charged, heavy with unspoken promises that have nothing to do with employment.

"Yes, Matsumoto-sama." The honorific feels strange on my tongue, formal in a way that makes the power dynamic impossible to ignore.

"Better." The approval in his voice shouldn't affect me this much, shouldn't make warmth bloom in my chest like I've earned a reward. "Though your pronunciation needs work."

He moves behind me, and suddenly I'm aware of his presence at my back, the expensive cologne, the way the floorboards don't creak under his weight.

"Say it again," he commands softly.

"Matsumoto-sama." My voice comes out breathier than intended, and I curse my body's responses.

"Again. With proper respect."

"Matsumoto-sama."

"Good." His voice is closer now, almost at my ear. "Respect begins with language, but it doesn't end there."

His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and firm through my blouse, and I bite back a gasp. He's barely touching me, just correcting my posture, but every point of contact burns. The scent of him surrounds me—subtle cologne mixed with something uniquely male that makes my head swim.

"Your posture needs correction," he says quietly. "Spine straight, hands folded properly. Like this."

His fingers guide my shoulders into alignment, press between my shoulder blades to straighten my spine.

The adjustment brings his chest closer to my back, close enough that I feel his body heat through our clothes.

I'm acutely aware of how much larger he is, how easily his hands span my shoulders, how completely he could overpower me if he wanted.

"Breathe," he murmurs when I tense under his touch. "Resistance defeats the purpose."

Breathe. Right. Except his proximity is making that nearly impossible.

When he adjusts my hand position, his fingers brush against my palm, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from making a sound.

His touch is precise, professional, yet somehow intensely intimate.

Every small contact feels like foreplay.

"Proper posture reflects internal discipline," he continues, his voice just above my ear. His breath stirs the fine hairs at my nape, sending shivers down my spine. "Something everyone in this household must demonstrate."