Chapter 43: Kiss In The Bathroom

Haruka Himuro’s movements were skillful yet gentle as she helped him remove his jacket, then his shirt, her fingers brushing lightly against his chest as she pushed the fabric from his shoulders. She knelt to unfasten his belt, sliding his trousers down one leg at a time, her touch steady and unhurried.

When Quillan was left with only his underwear, Haruka’s gaze intentionally or unintentionally swept over his lower body. A faint blush crept up her cheeks.

"Master has a great figure..." she murmured softly.

The strap of her thin nightgown slipped down, revealing her entire snow-white shoulder and the generous swell of her breasts, the sheer fabric barely clinging to her body. Steam curled around them, and the scent of her skin—milk and honey, warm and impossibly intimate—filled the small space between them.

Even though he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the wall in front of him, his mind betrayed him. The sounds alone painted vivid pictures—he couldn’t help but imagine the way her skin would look under the warm bathroom light, flushed and smooth, and the way her hair would fall against her body as she reached behind to unhook her bra.

"Master... it’s ready." Her voice was small, almost a whisper, but it carried through the quiet apartment like a bell.

The bathroom was already filled with warm, foamy water, the white bubbles piled up like soft marshmallows, and a sweet fragrance filled the air.

Haruka stood by the far wall, her back to him, a small towel clutched in front of her chest. The towel was woefully inadequate. It barely covered anything—certainly not the generous swell of her breasts spilling out on either side, nor the soft curve of her hips and thighs, nor the smooth expanse of her back, which was fully exposed to him.

"You... you can sit here," Haruka said, her voice trembling slightly. She gestured to the plastic stool she’d placed beneath the showerhead. "I’ll wash your back."

He sat down, grateful to have something to do other than stand there awkwardly. He faced forward, eyes on the far wall, and waited.

Behind him, he heard the soft rustle of the towel being set aside. Then the squeak of the soap bottle, the splash of water, the quiet lather of hands working up a foam.

Her hands touched his shoulders first, small and warm and slick with soap. She worked the lather into his skin with slow, circular motions, her palms gliding over the muscles of his back.

An unmistakably feminine scent enveloped him. Not perfume, but something deeper: milk and honey, mixed with clean soap and the natural musk of her skin.

It grew richer with her body heat, blooming whenever she leaned in. He could smell her hair, her breath, the delicate valley between her breasts. Every inhale made his head spin and the heat in his belly coil tighter.

"How is this?" she asked softly. "Too hard?"

"No," he managed. "It’s fine."

She continued in silence for a while, working her way down his spine, her fingers tracing the ridges of his back with a care that felt almost reverent. The warm water from the showerhead ran down his skin, washing the soap away, and she followed it with more lather, more touches.

When she shifted closer, Quillan felt the soft, warm weight of her breasts pressing against his back, the slick heat of her soapy skin against his. She leaned forward to reach his lower back, and the motion brought her fully against him, the generous swell of her chest molding to the curve of his spine.

His hands tightened on his knees.

"Is this okay?" she murmured, her breath warm against the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rougher than he’d intended. "Keep going."

Her hands moved lower, over his sides, down to the small of his back, and with every motion her breasts shifted against him, soft and heavy and impossibly warm. The soap made everything slick, and he could feel the slide of her skin against his, the way her nipples had hardened from the cool air, twin points of pressure against his shoulder blades.

"Do you feel good?" she whispered.

"...Yeah," he said. "I feel good."

She seemed satisfied with that. She reached for the showerhead and gently rinsed his back, the warm water sluicing away the last of the soap. Then, almost reluctantly, she stepped away.

"There. All done."

Quillan stood up, grabbed a towel, and dried himself off mechanically. He didn’t turn around until he heard her wrapping herself in another towel behind him.

"Thank you," he said, voice even.

"Mm." Haruka’s cheeks were pink from the steam—or maybe from something else. She clutched the towel around herself, eyes downcast, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

Then she did something that caught him completely off guard.

Haruka stepped forward, rose on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.

It was a quick kiss, barely more than a brush of skin against skin. It was the kind of thing that a woman like Haruka Himuro, who had spent years bowing her head and apologizing for existing, would only do if she had gathered every last scrap of her courage.

Before Quillan could react, she pulled away.

Her face was burning crimson. Her eyes were wide, almost panicked, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just done.

"I—I’m sorry—goodnight—!"

Quillan stood there in the steam, one hand touching his lips, as the front door of his apartment opened and slammed shut.

He exhaled slowly. "...What the hell just happened?"