After her outburst, Sato Ruri tried to push Sasaki Fuyumi away and bolt, but he just grinned that infuriating grin of his. "Don't move, or I might accidentally cut your pants. Then you'd have to walk home with a nice breeze where it counts."
The scissors were still gripped at the edge of her torn jeans, poised to slice through at any moment.
Sato Ruri froze instantly. The thought of her pants being cut sent genuine panic through her—because Sasaki Fuyumi was exactly the kind of pervert who would actually do it.
"What do you even want?" she demanded, glaring at him while desperately covering the hole in her jeans to keep her thigh hidden.
"I told you—I'm just signing my name on your thigh." He blinked with mock innocence. "Besides, I promised I wouldn't take your pants off. So why are you overreacting?"
Sato Ruri fumed. Somehow, he'd her fault?
Sasaki Fuyumi didn't have time for her tantrums—he was hungry and waiting for her to cook him dinner. Time to escalate.
"Move your hand so I can sign it, or I'll cut."
He pressed the scissors against her thigh, gesturing threateningly. Then, almost casually, he poked the tip against the zipper of her jeans.
"Eep!"
A strange little noise escaped her—high and breathy, almost flirtatious. Her legs instinctively squeezed together, her pretty face flushing crimson as she shot him a look of pure indignation.
Sasaki Fuyumi ignored her outrage entirely. Instead, he found himself fascinated by the zipper. He traced the scissors tip up and down along its teeth, then hooked the point under the zipper pull and slowly, deliberately, began to drag it down.
Zzzzzzzzzt.
"No—!"
Sato Ruri's hands flew from her thigh to clamp desperately over her zipper, trapping the scissors there as well.
"Keep your hands right there," Sasaki Fuyumi murmured, wicked satisfaction coloring his voice. "If you let those scissors fall, I'll cut your pants in half."
He released the scissors, leaving her pinned in place—one hand over her zipper, holding the scissors hostage, the other useless at her side. Then he pulled out a permanent marker and bent to sign his name on her exposed thigh.
The pen tip traced over sensitive skin. Sato Ruri trembled uncontrollably, her face burning. Every instinct screamed at her to stop him, to push him away—but terror of the scissors kept her frozen.
After a long, agonizing moment, she turned her head away in shame and let him write on her inner thigh.
The signature was quick. Sasaki Fuyumi capped the marker and admired his handiwork—his name in black ink against her pale skin.
Something primal stirred in his chest.
Possession.
Ownership.
He reached out and touched the signed spot.
So smooth.
Her skin was impossibly soft, warm and elastic under his fingertips. He couldn't resist a little pinch.
"Mmgh..." Sato Ruri's chin lifted, a helpless sound escaping her. "You said you'd only sign!"
"Ah, sorry." His smile wasn't remotely apologetic. "But Ruri's just so charming. I couldn't help myself."
He actually withdrew his hand, stood up, and stepped back. "Alright. You can cook now. I'm starving."
Sato Ruri stared at him, bewildered by the sudden reprieve. But she didn't trust it for a second. She watched him warily, refusing to turn her back—because last time she did that, he'd pressed his face against her butt.
"Ruri." His voice sharpened. "I'm hungry."
She held his gaze for a long moment, then finally turned to the kitchen. What choice did she have? If he wanted to force things, resistance was useless anyway.
She was about to pour oil into the pan when she stopped suddenly.
Her thigh itched.
Right where he'd signed.
She rubbed at it absently, and a shiver ran through her. It felt... good. Really good. She rubbed again, harder, and her breathing quickened.
What's happening? Why does this feel so nice? I can't stop—but Fuyumi's right there watching—
Her face cycled through expressions of struggle and shame, but her hand kept moving, massaging her thigh in small circles. She tried to be subtle, but—
"What are you doing?"
She jumped at his voice. But she didn't stop rubbing. "N-nothing! Just—cooking!"
"Liar. I saw you rubbing your thigh."
She heard him move, felt him crouch behind her, then lean around to watch her hand work over her own skin. His name rode each stroke of her fingers, rising and falling with her touch.
"I'm not—I just—it's itchy," she gasped out, and then her eyes fluttered closed, her focus narrowing to nothing but the sensation building under her touch.
She chased it desperately, but it always stayed just out of reach, just shy of what she needed. Frustration coiled in her belly.
Sasaki Fuyumi watched with fascination. The sex marker was even more potent than he'd imagined. Write on a sensitive spot, and the girl would probably read aloud for him without hesitation.
But he noticed her frustration—the way she chased but never caught. Maybe it was because he'd signed his name. Maybe only he could give her what she needed.
His mouth went dry.
He reached out and touched her thigh through the torn jeans. Sato Ruri shuddered violently, turning to look at him with hazy, confused eyes. "What...?"
"Let me help you."
His voice was serious, almost clinical. He began stroking her thigh properly—firm, deliberate strokes that made her gasp. She opened her mouth as if to argue, but then her expression went slack, her eyes drifted closed, and satisfaction bloomed across her features.
While one hand worked her thigh, Sasaki Fuyumi couldn't resist pressing his face against the curve of her jeans-clad butt. The firm, perky shape beneath the denim sent a thrill through him.
"Don't... touch... my butt..."
But her protest was nonsense, breathless and weak. Her hands gripped the stove, and she rose slightly onto her toes—pushing back against him, inviting more.
Sasaki Fuyumi nuzzled against her for a long moment, and then he caught it—a faint, damp scent in the air. His blood ran hot.
He wasn't satisfied with half measures anymore.
He stood, turned her dazed body to face him, and kept one hand on her thigh while the other wrapped around her slender waist. Then
"Mmph..."
She moaned against his lips, but made no move to stop him. Instead, her emotions climbed higher, her hips rolling, her breasts pressing against his chest as if begging for more contact.