Obsession

“More wine, sir?”

The waitress stands beside your table, patient as can be when you hand her your empty glass, and it’s full again before you blink.

You’ll need every drop tonight.

Seated at some exclusive restaurant overlooking the city skyline, you’re surrounded by others—colleagues, business partners, mostly unfamiliar faces. Sakura sits beside you, elegant and adorned in black. One leg crossed neatly over the other, her wine glass untouched. She hasn’t said much to you in the last fifteen minutes, but her hand rests possessively on your thigh beneath the table, reminding you she’s here. Despite it being an almost weekly occurrence, you’ve never been able to get used to these sorts of situations.

And when the waitress leaves the table, that hand squeezes a little firmer, demanding your attention. Sakura turns, and you glance her way.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asks, but it’s not really a question. The grip on your thigh is all too telling, and it doesn’t waver when you try to shift the slightest bit under the table.

“No, not really.”

It’s the truth, and Sakura would know better if you tried to play this off. Her lips curl into the smallest of smiles, eyes narrowing as her thumb rubs idly along your inner thigh. She’s dressed to kill tonight. A tight, figure-flattering dress, clingy in all the best ways, but showing just a hint of cleavage. Narrow straps resting over her bare shoulders, long, silky, dark hair drapes loose behind her neck, with that sheen on her lips that makes them look even fuller than normal.

Gorgeous doesn’t even begin to describe it.

“I know these events aren’t particularly enjoyable for you,” Sakura replies, sighing with something akin to annoyance. Her wine glass lifts to her painted lips, just the smallest sip, crimson as the lipstick smeared onto the rim. “But I appreciate you coming with me anyways. It’s only another hour.”

Only an hour. The wine glass still feels pretty heavy in your hand, and the thought of spending another minute like this sounds like torture. You give a resigned nod regardless. Sakura turns her gaze elsewhere—someone trying to catch her attention across the table.

Sipping your wine is about the only thing you have any interest in.

You rest a hand atop Sakura’s, as if it’s the only thing keeping you sane right now. A small glance to smile again, like she’s silently rewarding your bravery, then back to those conversations that you can’t begin to contribute to.

Somehow, you manage to get through it all—if only for dessert you hear being ordered for the entire table. By the time it arrives, you’ve finished a second glass of wine, and Sakura’s is still almost full, lingering idly between those delicate fingers, like it’s all for show. Nothing else to do but indulge, at least. Especially when she feeds you the first bite.

It’s the sweetest of bliss when she excuses the two of you an hour and ten minutes later, ignoring the comments of surprise and pleas for her to stick around. She doesn’t have time for that, and neither do you.

“Benefits of being the boss. People don’t ask too many questions.”

There’s not much you can do but agree. When those glossy lips crash against your own, it has you a bit lost, distracted in the moment. But before you can really fall deeper into the heat of her kiss, she’s pulling away—the slightest hint of that lip gloss transferred onto you.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

“Am I?”

There’s a pause. Sakura looks into your eyes, like she’s trying to stare inside your soul. But she can’t seem to find anything, turning on her heels to lead the way once the elevator opens.

“You were. Come.”

Sakura’s heels clack at a quick, almost impatient pace across the smooth, marble floor. You follow close behind, gaze inevitably drifting along those tantalizing hips and that dangerously short dress. You’re not quite sure you’ll ever get over her legs—silk stockings barely hiding that flawless skin, enough of a distraction that it takes you a moment to notice that she’s waiting by the valet booth.

It doesn’t take long for a sleek, black convertible to pull up, and you wait with her at the curb until the keys are handed over. She stops you at the door, holding her hand out expectantly with a silent stare.

“I’m driving. You’ve had too much to drink,” Sakura chides, the slightest touch of disapproval in her eyes. Yet, she’s not wrong, given she barely finished half a glass while you can feel the lingering effects much more. Still, the way she says it still feels a bit condescending, like you’ve failed some test you didn’t even know existed.

So you keep quiet and simply obey, passing her the keys as you saunter over to the passenger side, easing yourself into the plush leather of the seat. She waits until the two of you are both settled in, car purring to life and seatbelts secured.

“Good boy.”

The apartment door barely shuts behind you, and then her mouth’s on your neck again. Sakura can’t seem to keep her hands off you once you’re alone, but her kisses are possessive, teeth scraping, nails digging into your scalp as she drags her fingers through your hair. You can’t deny the enjoyment of her pinning your body against the closed door, trapped by the weight of her lithe figure against the wooden surface.

Just like that, she pulls away as fast as she started. Sakura stares hard at you, lip gloss smudged across her lips while you wait in the deafening quiet.

“So—" Sakura starts as she holds on to the kitchen counter and steps out of her heels. “You were enjoying yourself tonight, weren’t you?“The question lingers more than it should, and the answer is anything but yes—but the hesitation sparks suspicion in her eyes.

"No, not—"

Sakura doesn’t give you a chance to finish. What’s next is a rough slap across your face that snaps you out of any protest that might be forming—a complete 180 from a second ago. The sting doesn’t even register as much as her words do.

“You let her touch you.”

Her? You freeze. With how many people had been around tonight, that could’ve been anyone. Not to mention you’re not exactly in the business of letting anyone other than Sakura lay a finger on you.

"Who are you even talking about?”

There’s another sharp slap that shuts you right up. Once again, you can’t even begin to process her words, because there’s only one person you’re interested in, and that’s Sakura. But you scatter to form a checklist in your mind: the waitress, one of Sakura’s colleagues, maybe someone in passing—you don’t have a clue. The last hour of that whole event was such a blur that you’ve pushed out any thoughts that don’t involve that delicious slice of cake or Sakura.

"Don’t act clueless. The blonde across the table? With her fake fucking tits falling out of her dress who kept trying to undress you with her eyes? Ring a bell, yet?” Sakura’s words are cold and accusatory, and it’s like she’s telling an entirely different story than what happened tonight.

“That blonde? She was drunk,” you insist, wondering why Sakura is so concerned with something so preposterous. “I didn't—”

A third slap. This one connects hard enough to make you stumble back. You’ve gotten your fair share of jealousy in the past from Sakura. Hell, you’ve even seen her practically ready to pounce at another girl just for breathing the same air as you do. And now? The venomous way she looks at you, and talks to you. It’s unnerving.

“What, are her tits better than mine?”

“No, of course not. Your tits are fine—“

If you could choose the moment your world stopped, it would have been half a second after those words fell out. Unfortunately, that’s all Sakura needs to really lose it.

“Fine? Fine!?” The sound of her voice cracking breaks the deafening silence, and if you hadn’t done anything before—well, you certainly have now. There’s no return from this. “No, my tits are fucking perfect. If they were just fine, she wouldn’t have had you so worked up in front of a table full of my subordinates. She’s married, you know. But I guess you were too busy staring at her plastic fucking tits to even notice the ring that whore pretends to care about. ”

“Sakura, I—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Sakura hisses through clenched teeth. “That’s my secretary. She’s the type that can’t take no for an answer, and I won’t have her thinking you’re fair game. You let her touch you. And worse, you smiled.”

Each word that comes out her mouth just gets more heated, like the accusation is more and more real each time one gets added. Her hands ball into fists, trying to stop herself from giving you another hard slap. “I don’t care what excuse you think you have. You belong to me.”

You can’t even get another word out before Sakura pulls you away from the front door and drags you down the hall toward the bedroom. She practically throws you inside. Her manicured fingernails slide up under your chin, scratching along the edge of your cheek as she tilts your face upwards, until you’re staring at her dead in the eye.

“Strip.”

You freeze, just for a second—long enough for her to slap you again.

“I said strip. Now."

There’s no room for argument. Not that you’d dare say another word. Your clothes hit the floor one piece at a time, and Sakura watches each layer that leaves you more exposed. Once you’re left in nothing but your underwear, she grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks, snapping your head back without warning.