Kenji Aikawa stood under the scorching shower spray until his skin turned pink and the steam fogged every mirror in the bathroom. It didn't help. The dream clung to him like sweat—Shō's soft whimpers, the way his slim legs wrapped around Kenji's waist, the heat of that obedient body arching under his hands.
He shut the water off with more force than necessary. Droplets rolled down his broad shoulders, over the defined lines of his chest and abs—evidence of the brutal gym routine he stuck to like religion. Control. Discipline. That's what built his life.
Kenji wrapped a towel low on his hips and walked back into the bedroom. The penthouse was silent, modern, cold—glass walls, dark marble floors, minimalist furniture. No photos. No clutter. Everything in its place.
Just like him.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the city skyline. Twenty-seven years old, CEO of the biggest bookstore chain in the city, net worth that made investors nervous. And yet here he was, wrecked by a wet dream about a guy.
A guy.
Kenji huffed a bitter laugh. If his father could see him now.
His dad, Hiroshi Aikawa, had been old-school ruthless. Built the company from one tiny shop to a chain of thirty locations. Strict didn't even cover it. Emotions were weakness. Tears were forbidden. Love was a distraction.
Kenji grew up in a house that felt more like a boardroom. Breakfast meetings with executives at the table. Dinner lectures about profit margins. His mom tried—soft smiles, quiet hugs—but even she bowed to Hiroshi's rules.
At ten, Kenji cried when his dog died. His father dragged him to the office the next day. "Tears don't bring back the dead. Work does."
At fifteen, he got caught kissing a girl behind the school gym. Dad's response? "Fine. Date if you want. But don't let it affect grades or sports. Women are fine—useful even—but never let them control you."
At eighteen, Kenji took over the company after his father's sudden heart attack. No time to grieve. Just endless meetings, contracts, expansions. He learned fast: show no weakness, trust no one fully, keep everything—and everyone—at arm's length.
Relationships? Short, clean, no strings. Beautiful women who understood the rules. Dinner at fancy restaurants, sex in hotel suites or his penthouse, polite goodbyes in the morning. No sleepovers. No "I miss you" texts. No feelings.
He liked it that way. Safe. Predictable.
Until Shō Matsuda.
Kenji rubbed his jaw, remembering the kid's soft skin under his thumb yesterday. How Shō froze but didn't run. How his breath hitched, eyes wide and trusting.
It stirred something primal in Kenji—something he didn't have a name for yet.
He stood and walked to the kitchen, pouring black coffee into a plain mug. No sugar, no cream. Bitter and strong, just how he liked it.
His phone buzzed on the counter. A message from his assistant.
Assistant: Morning, sir. Board meeting moved to 10 AM. Q4 projections ready?
Kenji typed back quick.
Kenji: Got it. Send the slides to my tablet.
He downed the coffee in three gulps, dressed in a charcoal suit—crisp shirt, perfect tie—and headed out.
The drive to the office was autopilot. Tokyo traffic, holiday lights already up even though Christmas was days away. His mind wasn't on numbers though.
It was on messy dark hair and flushed ears.
By noon, the meeting wrapped. Profits up eight percent. Investors happy. Kenji nodded through compliments, shook hands, kept his face neutral.
Inside? Restless.
He checked the bookstore schedule again—habit now. Shō's shift started at twelve.
Kenji told himself he wouldn't go.
He went anyway.
The store smelled the same—paper, coffee, rain. Busier today, Sunday shoppers browsing holiday gift sections. Soft piano music played overhead.
Kenji walked in like he owned the place—because he did. Employees straightened when they saw him, greetings quick and nervous.
He scanned the floor.
There.
Shō stood on a small ladder in the fantasy aisle, reaching to slot a thick hardcover on the top shelf. Gray sweater riding up just enough to show a strip of pale skin above his belt.
Kenji's mouth went dry.
He moved before thinking, straight toward him.
Shō wobbled as he stretched higher. The book slipped.
Kenji caught it mid-fall—one hand on the spine, the other steadying the ladder.
Shō looked down, eyes widening. "M-Mr. Aikawa…"
"Careful," Kenji said, voice low. He handed the book back, fingers brushing Shō's again.
That same jolt. Shō's cheeks pinked instantly.
Kenji didn't step back. He stayed close, looking up. "You're short for this job."
Shō blinked. "I… manage."
A tiny smile tugged Kenji's lips—rare. "Use the rolling ladder next time. Safer."
Shō nodded fast, climbing down. The ladder was narrow; he had to brush past Kenji to get off.
Shoulder to chest. Brief, warm contact.
Shō's breath caught. Kenji felt it.
He grabbed Shō's wrist gently—stopping him from fleeing. Thumb pressing lightly over the pulse point.
Fast. Racing.
"You okay?" Kenji asked, quieter.
Shō swallowed. "Y-Yes, all good... sir."
Those big eyes looked anywhere but at him.
Kenji's grip tightened a fraction. "Look at me."
Shō did. Slowly.
Kenji searched his face—flushed cheeks, parted lips, that cautious trust again.
Something snapped inside him.
He released the wrist but didn't move away. "Storage room. Now. I need to… discuss inventory."
It wasn't a request.
Shō's eyes widened more, but he nodded.
Kenji turned and walked toward the back, heart pounding harder than any boardroom deal.
He didn't know what he was doing.
But he knew he couldn't stop.
Not anymore.