Busy Packing

“Hey, Hun.”

You’re on the bed with your half-folded shirt in your hands when Sakura has just come out of the closet in something that you swear stopped time. Trust that she knows how to make you weak—well it doesn’t take much, really—her existing and wearing anything or nothing is enough.

“You said this fits me, right?”

You barely stop yourself from answering with the first thought to pop into your desolate head—the authorities in your mind deemed it too inappropriate. This almost-slip-up does, however, force you to respond with a small, choked noise.

“Sweet—heart?”

She’s in a tight gray mini-dress—the one you bought for her back in Osaka last summer. The one you told her to pack because you knew—you fucking knew—that if she wore it on the trip, you would easily find a way to end up in a hotel bathroom at some point and put that dress to good use. And here she is, in it—absolutely stunning.

“...it fits.”

She twirls once; the hem lifts. (You are but a man of few coherent words in the presence of this goddess of a woman and her wardrobe.)

“Does it still look okay on me?” She gives another twirl and you can’t help but smile. “I haven’t worn it in like a year.”

“Yeah,” you nod frantically.

“That’s it?”

“...yeah?”

“Yeah?” she echoes back mockingly, hand on her hip. “Hun, I put in so much effort here. Give me more than a ‘...yeah.’”

“It’s, uh…” Your brain is not helping you at all—feels like a monkey is banging cymbals inside it—and you’re trying to come up with literally any word from your suddenly limited vocabulary whenever you’re with her. “...very much a dress.”

“Wow. You sure you write?”

She shakes her head, but her mouth is doing a crooked smirk—knowing full well her effect on you. You know that smirk; she’s been doing that since you started dating, and it still—four years later—makes you fumble any thought you were about to form.

“Sit down, Kkura. Let me have a look at you properly.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been looking at me for three minutes.”

“Well—not properly enough.”

She scoffs, but she sits anyway—on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, one heel tapping the floor—and on god the dress rides up her thigh shortcircuiting your brain in ways you didn’t know was possible. You know she is doing that on purpose because Sakura does not sit like this accidentally.

“Hun.” She points at your lap. “Focus.” What was once a half-folded shirt is now a wrinkled hostage. “We are supposed to be packing.”

“I am packing.” You give a slight smirk; hoping she gets it.

“You are supposed to be packing that—” She points at the shirt which coincidentally is near your crotch—so you’re not quite sure if she’s entertaining the innuendo or not. “—not staring at me.”

“Can’t a man do both?”

“Well, you are doing neither.”

She stands up, briskly, as if to signal the end of this topic—and heads back to the closet. Hangers clack, and you watch the sway of her hips retreat further away from you. You reason with yourself that this is a productive Thursday and you are being an adult and you have exactly three hours until you should be done for dinner and the shirts must be folded.

You try re-folding the shirt.

Then she comes back out in something else.

“Hun~ What about this one?”

She is in a black lace top and jean shorts. The lace top is new. It is barely hiding anything beneath it and is small enough to be considered legally optimistic. Sakura is not a big person—this top is smaller than her.

“...Kkura.”

“For dinners out.”

“Sakura.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It is a felony.”

She grins, tits visually spilling out of the fabric; pushing against it hard enough to make the seams complain and the lace straps to almost pull apart. You have to look at the ceiling for a moment to compose yourself. The ceiling somewhat looks too bright right now; you look back down.

“You’re going to be arrested wearing that outside, Kkura.”

“By who and for what?”

“By me and I’m prepared to draft the legal paperwork.”

The room fills up with her laugh. It starts as a giggle and turns into a snort, then turns back into a giggle again because she’s laughing at her own snort.

You are simply so gone for this woman.

“Come here.”

“Hun, we have to pack—”

“Come here, sweetheart. I want to see if it comes off easily.”

“Excuse me?”

“For the trip.” You spread your arms. “What if the strap gets stuck? This is a practical concern.”

Sakura crosses her arms. Which, in that top, does not make her case for finishing the packing any easier.

“You are the worst liar in this apartment.”

“I am serious.”

“You are so serious you cannot look at my face right now.”