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The days following their encounter in the music room are a tightrope walk, each moment laced with the thrill of their secret and the dread of its consequences. Suzune moves through her routine with a precision that masks the chaos within—her body still hums with the memory of Kiyotaka's touch, his breath, the way he unraveled her with a look, a word, a thrust. But her mind is a battleground, torn between the ecstasy of their connection and the fear of what it's costing her. Her focus, her ambition, her carefully curated control—all are slipping, eroded by the intensity of what they've become.
Kiyotaka, too, is not immune. His usual detachment, his ability to manipulate any situation with cold precision, falters when it comes to her. He catches himself watching her in class, noting the way her lips part when she's deep in thought, the faint flush that lingers on her cheeks after their stolen moments. He's always been a strategist, but Suzune is a variable he can't predict, a force that pulls him into uncharted territory. And for the first time, he's not sure he wants to control it.
Their next meeting is unplanned, a collision in the library's secluded archives after hours. Suzune is there to retrieve a reference book, her flashlight cutting through the dimness, when she hears footsteps. Her pulse quickens, and she knows it's him before he speaks. "You're working late," Kiyotaka says, his voice a low rumble, stepping into the pool of her light. His presence fills the cramped space, and the air crackles with the weight of their shared history.
"So are you," she replies, her tone sharper than intended, a defense against the way her body reacts to him—heart racing, skin tingling, an ache blooming low in her belly. She turns to leave, needing distance, but he steps closer, blocking her path. Not with force, but with the sheer gravity of his gaze.
"Don't run," he says, and it's not a command, but a plea, raw and unguarded. Her breath catches, and she hates how easily he sees through her, how he knows she's been pulling back, trying to rebuild the walls he's torn down.
"I'm not running," she lies, but her voice trembles, and her hands clutch the book to her chest like a shield. "I just… I need to focus. This—" she gestures between them, "—it's too much."
His eyes darken, not with anger but with something deeper, something that makes her heart ache. "Too much?" He steps closer, close enough that she feels the heat of him, the faint scent of his skin. "Or not enough?" His hand lifts, brushing her cheek, and the touch is electric, reigniting the fire she's tried to smother. She leans into it, despite herself, her resolve crumbling.
"Kiyotaka," she whispers, his name a surrender, and he kisses her, slow and deep, as if trying to anchor her in the moment. The book falls to the floor, forgotten, as her hands find his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. The kiss grows hungrier, more desperate, and he presses her against the shelves, the wood digging into her back. Her legs part instinctively, and he steps between them, his thigh pressing against her core, sending a jolt of pleasure through her.
She gasps, her hands sliding beneath his shirt, nails scraping his skin, and he groans, the sound raw and unrestrained.
His hands are everywhere—tugging her blouse open, buttons scattering, his fingers deftly unclasping her bra. Her breasts spill free, and his mouth is on her instantly, sucking one nipple hard enough to make her cry out, her hips grinding against his thigh. The friction is maddening, and she's already wet, the heat between her legs unbearable.
"Suzune," he growls against her skin, and his hand slips beneath her skirt, finding her panties soaked. He pushes them aside, his fingers sliding through her slick folds, circling her clit with a precision that makes her tremble.
She's unraveling, her moans echoing in the dim archive, and when he thrusts two fingers inside her, curling them against that perfect spot, she arches, her vision sparking. "Kiyotaka," she gasps, her hands fumbling with his belt, desperate to feel him. He helps her, freeing himself, and the sight of him—hard, thick, pulsing with need—makes her ache deepen. She wraps her hand around him, stroking firmly, and he hisses, his hips jerking into her touch.
He lifts her, her legs wrapping around his waist, and presses her harder against the shelves. Books shift, some falling, but neither cares. He enters her in one slow, deliberate thrust, the stretch intense, filling her completely. She moans, her nails digging into his shoulders, and he pauses, letting her adjust, his breath hot against her neck. "You're mine," he murmurs, and the words, possessive and raw, push her closer to the edge.
He moves, deep and relentless, each thrust driving her higher, the shelves rattling with their rhythm. Her body clenches around him, the pleasure building to a crescendo, and when she comes, it's with a cry, her muscles tightening, pulling him with her. He follows, his release a low groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside her, their bodies locked together in the throes of ecstasy.
They collapse against each other, breathless, sweat-slicked, the archive silent except for their ragged breathing. But as the haze clears, reality crashes in—the risks they're taking, the recklessness of this moment. Suzune pulls back, her blouse hanging open, her body still trembling. "We can't keep doing this," she says, her voice shaky, but her hands linger on him, betraying her words.
"We will," he replies, his eyes locked on hers, fierce and unyielding. "Because we're not done." He kisses her softly, a contrast to the intensity of moments ago, and she knows he's right. This fire, this love, is a force they can't escape, even if it burns them both.