Kyoto's gaze locked onto hers. The flickering blue TV light painted shifting shadows across her face, highlighting the curve of her smirk, the dark hunger in her eyes. He knew this game. The deliberate tease, the friction she built like a storm cloud. His hand slid from her jaw, tracing a slow, deliberate path down the side of her neck, over the jut of her shoulder beneath the thin cotton. He felt the slight hitch in her breath, the subtle shift of her weight against the wall. He kept moving, fingers trailing lightly down her spine, feeling the warmth radiating through the shirt, the tension coiling beneath her skin. She arched her back almost imperceptibly, pressing into his touch, a silent demand for more.
His palm settled low on her hip, fingers splaying possessively over the swell of her ass beneath the oversized shirt. Bianca's breath hitched again, sharper this time. Her eyes, dark pools reflecting the TV's glare, held a challenge mixed with anticipation. "That all you got, salaryman?" she murmured, voice thick. "Thought you hated commercials."
Kyoto didn't answer. His gaze dropped, watching the way the faded Nirvana logo stretched taut across her back as she subtly arched, pressing herself harder against his hand. The fabric was thin, worn soft. He could feel the heat of her skin radiating through it, the powerful curve of muscle beneath. His thumb traced the dipping hemline at her thigh.
Then, Bianca moved. Fast. One moment she was pinned against the wall by his touch, the next she'd spun, using his own momentum against him. Her hands shoved hard against his chest. Kyoto stumbled backwards, his calves hitting the low edge of his worn sofa. He fell back onto the cushions with a grunt, springs protesting. Before he could react, Bianca was on him. Knees straddling his hips, pinning him down. The TV's blue glare haloed her wild, violet-tipped hair, casting her face in sharp, shifting shadows. That grin was pure feral electricity – wide, unhinged, eyes blazing with dark promise. "Convinced yet?" she breathed, leaning forward until her lips hovered inches from his.
Kyoto's hands shot up instinctively, not to push her away, but to claim. His palms found the soft weight of her breasts beneath the thin cotton of his own shirt. They weren't enormous, not like Mariko's suffocating pillows, but perfect handfuls – firm, warm, the peaks already hard against his palms through the fabric.
A low groan tore from his throat. He was achingly hard beneath her, trapped by the denim of his jeans and the relentless pressure of her hips grinding down. Every nerve ending screamed. The fake drama on the TV was just static now, drowned out by the pounding of his own blood.
Bianca threw her head back and laughed, the sound sharp and triumphant. She rocked her hips against the rigid bulge straining against his jeans, grinding slow circles that sent sparks up Kyoto's spine. "Knew you weren't built for soap operas," she purred, her voice thick with victory. His hands tightened possessively on her breasts, thumbs rubbing rough circles over the hardening nipples pressing against the worn cotton. He could feel her heartbeat thudding against his palms, fast and fierce like a trapped bird.
Kyoto bucked his hips upward, a wordless demand. Bianca's grin widened. She leaned down, her violet hair falling like a curtain around their faces, blocking out the flickering blue glare of the TV. Her breath was hot and smelled faintly of cinnamon gum. "Say it," she whispered, her lips brushing his. "Say you want it." Her hips rolled again, harder this time, the friction maddening through the layers of denim and cotton. Kyoto groaned, his fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the shirt. "Fuck the soap opera, Bianca."
"Louder," she commanded, biting his lower lip, sharp enough to sting. Her hand slid down between them, fingers deftly popping the button of his jeans. The zipper rasped open.
"Want it," Kyoto gritted out, arching his back. "Want you. Now." The admission ripped from him, raw and stripped bare. It was the magic word. Bianca's triumphant laugh vibrated against his mouth as her hand plunged past the waistband of his briefs, closing around his aching length. Her grip was firm, knowing. Kyoto hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily off the couch cushions. She pumped once, twice, a cruel tease, her eyes locked on his, drinking in the desperation twisting his features.
Then, in one fluid motion, she rocked back onto her heels, knees still pinning his hips. Kyoto's hands slid down her sides as she lifted the hem of the Nirvana shirt, peeling it up over her head in a swift, defiant motion. The fabric flew across the room. Her breasts bounced free—medium, perfect handfuls, tipped dark and hard in the TV's flickering light. Kyoto's groan was primal. He reached for her, fingers digging into the soft flesh, thumbs scraping over stiff peaks. Bianca arched into his touch, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.
She leaned forward again, bracing her hands on the sofa cushions beside his head. Her hips lifted just enough to yank his jeans and briefs down past his hips in one brutal tug. His cock sprang free, thick and rigid against his stomach. Bianca's eyes locked on it, dark with hunger.
--------------------------
Kyoto groaned, blinking against the brutal morning light slicing through the gap in his cheap blinds. Every muscle ached pleasantly, a deep, satisfying throb that spoke of thoroughly conquered territory. He shifted slightly, the rough texture of his bare mattress scratching his back. Mattress? He lifted his head, squinting. The bed frame was gone. So were the pillows. Just the stained, lumpy mattress on the floor, like some college kid's crash pad after a bender.
He rolled his head to the side. Bianca lay sprawled next to him, utterly naked and deeply asleep. Her violet hair was a tangled halo on the bare mattress, her face pressed sideways into the fabric. Smudged remnants of last night's dark eyeliner and mascara streaked her cheeks like war paint. Kyoto's gaze traced the elegant curve of her spine, dipping down to the swell of her ass. There, stark against her smooth skin, was a dried, pearly streak of his own release, glistening faintly in the harsh sunlight. A visceral reminder of where he'd finished – buried deep inside her while she rode him backward, demanding more, harder, faster, her cries echoing off the bare walls.
He let his head fall back with a soft thud, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The night flooded back in fragmented, electric bursts. Bianca's fierce energy, the raw, almost violent coupling that left bruises blooming on his hips and shoulders. The frantic scramble across the apartment after they'd demolished the couch cushions. The triumphant, breathless laughter when she'd pinned him against the bedroom wall. And then… the bed frame collapsing under their combined fury, wood splintering with a sound like gunfire sometime after midnight. They hadn't bothered moving to the floor. They'd just kept going right there on the wreckage until sheer exhaustion claimed them.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Kyoto's face. Crazy? Absolutely. Worth it? Every goddamn splinter. He felt… alive. Used up, bruised, but vibrantly, electrically alive. The fluorescent numbness of the office felt like a distant, alien concept. He reached out a hand, letting his fingertips brush lightly against the small of Bianca's back, just above the dried evidence of their collision. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. She murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, shifting slightly but not waking. Kyoto watched the slow rise and fall of her breath, the faint flutter of her eyelashes against her smudged cheek. The city outside buzzed, Thurdsday morning grinding into gear, but here, on this island of wreckage and dried cum, time felt deliciously suspended. Elara Vance and the Henderson account could wait. Right now, the only spread that mattered is the massive ass he just spread last night.
The sharp trill of his phone shattered the quiet. It vibrated violently against the bare floorboards somewhere near the shattered remains of his nightstand. Kyoto groaned, the pleasant ache in his muscles sharpening into annoyance. He rolled carefully off the mattress, wincing as his bare feet landed on a stray chunk of broken bed frame. Ignoring the debris, he stalked towards the insistent sound, stepping over discarded clothes—his jeans, her ripped panties—and an overturned lamp. He snatched the phone off the floor. Elara Vance. The name glared from the screen like an accusation. He pictured her pinched face, those thin lips pursed in disapproval. Probably calling to confirm his impending doom over the Henderson file. Kyoto hit 'ignore' with savage satisfaction, tossing the phone onto a pile of Bianca's discarded clothes. Let her stew.
He padded towards the tiny kitchenette, the cold linoleum biting his soles. The carnage extended here too: an empty tequila bottle lay on its side near the sink, two sticky shot glasses beside it. He grabbed a glass, filled it with tap water, and gulped it down, leaning against the counter. His gaze drifted back to the mattress island. Bianca hadn't moved. Sunlight caught the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the dried streak on her ass glowing almost pearlescent. A possessive warmth bloomed in his chest, fierce and primal. Mine. At least for last night. He remembered the way she'd thrown her head back when she came, a sound ripped from her throat that was part scream, part laugh, pure fucking chaos unleashed. Yeah. Worth every broken piece of furniture.
The phone buzzed again, muffled now under fabric. Kyoto ignored it, focusing instead on the slow, deliberate stretch of his shoulders, feeling the pleasant pull of abused muscles. He poured another glass of water. Outside, a car alarm started wailing, a shrill counterpoint to the low thrum of traffic. Kyoto smirked.
Then he glanced at the microwave clock.
The digital numbers glared back: 8:47 AM.
Ice water sluiced down his spine, colder than anything from the tap. Shit. Double-shit. Elara's double-shift ultimatum slammed into his brain. He never forgot to set an alarm. Never. But Bianca… Bianca had a way of rewriting reality, erasing inconvenient things like clocks and responsibilities. He'd been too busy navigating her pussy to remember tomorrow existed.
His gaze snapped to the mattress island. Bianca hadn't stirred. Deep, even breaths lifted her ribs. A tiny snore escaped her parted lips. Kyoto scanned the wreckage: his clothes, her clothes, the shattered bed frame, the tequila bottle. She'd crashed hard, a beautiful, volatile bomb that had detonated spectacularly and was now inert. She worked at that overpriced salon downtown, Gloss or Glam or whatever. Didn't open until noon. Bianca operated on vampire hours. She wouldn't surface before 11 AM unless someone set her hair on fire.
Kyoto did the math fast, coldly efficient despite the lingering haze of sex and exhaustion. Ten minutes. That's how long he had before Elara's meticulously penciled eyebrows would climb her forehead in glacial disapproval. Before the Henderson file became a funeral pyre for his paycheck. Three hours? That's how long before Bianca might even groan and roll over with her lazy ass.
He moved. Not frantic, not panicked – just ruthless efficiency honed by years of dodging consequences. He snatched his crumpled dress shirt off the floor near the shattered nightstand. It smelled like Bianca's perfume and stale tequila. Good enough. He buttoned it swiftly, fingers flying, ignoring the faint smear of eyeliner near the collar. His discarded slacks were miraculously intact, draped over the back of a dining chair Bianca hadn't yet kicked over. He stepped into them, zipped, buckled. Socks? One black, one navy, balled together near the kitchenette. He jammed them on, then shoved his feet into scuffed loafers without tying the laces. Belt? Forgotten. Tie? A wrinkled casualty draped over the TV stand. He looped it loosely around his neck, knotting it halfway to the door.
He spared one last glance at the mattress island. Bianca hadn't stirred. Sunlight glinted off the dried streak on her ass. A savage little grin touched his lips. Worth it. Then he was out, apartment door clicking shut behind him, muffling the city's growing roar.
The Civic coughed to life, protesting the cold start. Kyoto didn't care. He peeled out of the gravel lot, tires spraying wet grit. Twenty minutes. Minimum. Even if every light turned green just for him – which they wouldn't. Elara's pinched face swam in his mind's eye. That tight-assed bitch. Her fury when he walked in late wasn't just about punctuality; it felt personal, visceral. Like his very existence scraped against her nerves. Why him? Josh from Sales rolled in forty minutes late twice a week smelling like cheap beer and stale pizza, and Elara barely flicked her eyes at him. A muttered "See HR about the tardiness policy," maybe. But Kyoto? Kyoto breathed wrong near the Henderson account, and she looked ready to peel his skin off with a letter opener. Did she want him fired? Or did she want… something else? The thought flickered, dark and unwelcome, as he swerved around a slow-moving bus. Her thin lips. That icy glare. The way her collarbones looked sharp enough to cut glass. He stomped on the accelerator. Crazy bitch energy wasn't confined to his bedroom. The office had its own special brand.
Rain lashed the windshield again. The wipers slapped a frantic rhythm. Kyoto's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Why always the crazy ones? It wasn't a new question. It echoed back through every chaotic fling, every screaming match, every restraining order nearly filed since high school. Becky Nguyen, sophomore year. Sweet smile, honor roll, captain of the debate team. Also secretly obsessed with taxidermy roadkill. She'd tried to gift him a preserved squirrel she named "Sir Reginald" on their three-week anniversary. Then there was Chloe, senior year. Volleyball star. Could bend like a pretzel. Also convinced the government was tracking her through her fillings. She'd made him smash her phone with a hammer in a Denny's parking lot at 2 AM. Even his one-night stands came with baggage heavier than Mariko's tits. The sane ones? The quiet girls who liked reading and early nights? They looked at him like he was a live grenade rolling towards their picnic blanket. He didn't even know how to talk to them. What was the point? Nice was boring. Safe was suffocating. He needed the voltage.
His grip tightened. The Civic's engine whined. Goku. The name popped into his head, unbidden. That dumbass. He had Chi-Chi. Yeah, she yelled. A lot. Freaked out over bills, school fees, Gohan's safety. Especially in the Cell saga… Chi-Chi was ready to chain Goku to the damn refrigerator. But why? Kyoto merged onto the highway, weaving through sluggish traffic. Because she cared. Deep down, under the screeching and the frying pan swings, she just wanted her family safe. Wanted Goku safe, even when he was too busy chasing stronger guys to notice. She wasn't crazy crazy. She was… intense. Passionate. Protective. Kyoto snorted. Bianca wasn't protecting shit. She'd probably set his apartment on fire just to watch the pretty flames. Lucia? She'd film it for her Insta story. Anya? She'd steal his wallet while he ran for the extinguisher. None of them gave a solitary fuck about him. Just the rush. The chaos. The way he could make them scream. Was that all he was? A glorified vibrator with a pulse? He pictured Chi-Chi's worried face after Goku pushed got his ass kicked by Piccolo at the world martial arts tournament. That raw, terrified love. Kyoto's jaw clenched. He floored it. The Civic shuddered. Elara's icy contempt felt suddenly preferable to that hollow ache blooming behind his ribs. He needed speed. Noise. Distraction. Anything to drown out the quiet.
Kyoto slammed the Civic into the office parking lot's last remaining space, tires screeching against wet asphalt. 8:58 AM. He killed the engine, the sudden silence thick with the drumming rain and the frantic pounding of his own heart. Two minutes. He ripped the wrinkled tie from his neck, shoved it into a jacket pocket already bulging with forgotten receipts and a lone condom wrapper. He ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair – futile. He still smelled faintly of tequila, Bianca's cinnamon perfume, and sex. Elara would smell it like a bloodhound. Fuck it. He shoved the car door open, rain instantly soaking his shoulders again, and sprinted for the glass doors of Vance Consulting.
The lobby was a tomb of fluorescent light and cheap potted ferns. Mariko, the receptionist, sat hunched behind her curved desk, her usual posture radiating apologetic existence. Her enormous breasts seemed to rest precariously on the keyboard, threatening to trigger a keypress avalanche. She glanced up as Kyoto burst in, dripping rainwater onto the polished floor. Her wide, perpetually anxious eyes blinked behind thick glasses. "Oh! Mr. Kyoto! You're..." Her voice trailed off, a trembling whisper lost in the vast, quiet space. "...wet."