Tokyo’s gray dawn crept through Dee’s window, a sluggish light that barely touched the tangle of sheets around his legs. He sprawled across the bed, braids fanned on the pillow, gold chain pooled on his chest, the weight of last night still heavy in his bones. Hinata’s surrender played on loop, her raw screams, her legs quaking as he sucked her dry, the sloppy gags as he fucked her throat, the way her pussy clenched him when he took her fully. She was his now, shattered under his hands, and the triumph pulsed through him like a second heartbeat.


    He rolled out, muscles flexing as he stretched, the dull ache in his shoulders a badge from pinning her to that desk. The office waited, code to grind, Hinata to toy with but his mind lingered on her hoarse voice, her trembling hands. He smirked, splashing water on his face, plotting how he’d nudge her further, stoke that fire she’d buried so deep. First, though... coffee, black and bitter, a kick to match his mood.


    A sharp knock jolted him mid-pour, coffee sloshing over the mug’s edge. He scowled, setting it down, and padded to the door... shirtless, jeans low, all casual bulk. Through the peephole: a man... mid-thirties, wiry, face twisted tight, eyes skittering like a trapped rat. Dee swung the door open, leaning against the frame, grin lazy and unbothered.


    “Yeah?” he said, voice a deep roll, sizing him up... khakis, faded polo, fists balled like he’d swing and regret it.


    “You’re him,” the man spat, Japanese clipped, English rough. “The bastard fucking my wife.”


    Dee’s grin stiffened, then stretched, slow and predatory. Emi’s husband... had to be. The snoring shadow from next door, the fool he’d drowned out with her muffled moans on that couch. “Wrong guy, man,” he lied, smooth as silk, crossing his arms, chain glinting. “Check your address.”


    “Don’t play me!” The husband stepped up, voice cracking high, a vein throbbing in his neck. “Emi, she’s sneaking out, coming back late, reeks of you. I heard her that night, through the damn wall. You think I’m blind?”


    Dee didn’t blink, letting the silence hang, thick and taunting. “Heard her, huh?” he drawled, voice dipping low, a knife twist. “She sound happy?”


    The man’s face purpled, a strangled choke bursting out as he swung, fist wild and sloppy. Dee snatched it mid-flight, grip like steel, twisting until the guy yelped, staggering back. “Easy now,” Dee said, releasing him, looming large, all muscle and menace. “You don’t want this smoke.”


    “I’ll end you,” the husband hissed, cradling his wrist, eyes darting with desperate rage. “I know people, yakuza, real players. You’ll wish you’d stayed in whatever shithole you crawled from.”


    Dee laughed, dark and rolling, stepping forward until the guy shrank. “Grenada,” he growled. “And I don’t run, little man. Your wife came to me ‘cause you couldn’t handle her. Go cry somewhere else.”


    The husband froze, shame flickering, then bolted, muttering threats down the hall. Dee shut the door, shaking his head, adrenaline a low hum. Trouble was brewing, sure, but he’d faced worse, street scraps in St. George’s, fists and grit his teachers. Let the bastard try.


    NeuroSync was a live wire that day. Hinata slunk in late, her bun a fortress, tighter than ever, but her blouse betrayed her, one button missing, collar askew, a ghost of yesterday’s wreckage. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, setting up at her desk, fingers hesitant on the keys, a far cry from her usual fury. Dee watched, sipping coffee, letting her squirm. The sim ran cleaner now, their fixes meshing, but the space between them thrummed... raw, volatile, a fuse begging for a spark.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    “Morning,” he said, strolling over, voice a lazy tease as he leaned against her desk, close enough to catch her flinch. “Sleep okay?”


    Her gaze flicked up, dark and shadowed, exhaustion bruising her eyes, her throat still raw, he knew why, and it tightened his jeans. “Fine,” she mumbled, voice a rasp, barely there. “Let’s just get this done.”


    He smirked, nudging a stray paper aside, his fingers brushing hers... slow, deliberate, a jolt she couldn’t hide. “Quieter today,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Something tire you out?”


    Her cheeks flared, a sharp hiss escaping, but she didn’t bite, just glared, a wounded beast, hands trembling as she typed. “Fuck off, Dee,” she said, low, the venom drained, leaving only heat. He chuckled, easing back, victory a slow burn in his chest. She was his, shaken and frayed, and he’d unravel her more when the time was right.


    The day slogged on, Tanaka crowing about their progress, blind to the undercurrent. Dee caught her staring once... quick, guarded, her lips parting before she jerked away, burying herself in code. By late afternoon, he was restless, the husband’s threat a distant itch, Hinata’s submission a louder one. His phone buzzed as he packed up, Naoko, her name flashing, a text: ''Can we meet tonight? Please?'' Her need bled through the screen, desperate, hungry.


    He paused, thumb hovering, then typed back: ''Busy tonight, sorry. Got a thing.'' A lame dodge, half-assed, no details but he hit send, smirking. Let her stew, let it build. People wanted what slipped away; he’d learned that young, watching girls chase what he held just out of reach. Naoko’d be back, hungrier, and he’d take her then, when the craving broke her.


    Instead of the streets, he stayed in, craving something solid, something his. The kitchenette hummed as he chopped... carrots diced fine, onions sharp and stinging, chicken thighs browning in a pot with Mama’s spice mix, smuggled from Grenada in his bag. Stew chicken with carrot rice, a taste of home, rich and slow, the scent filling the small space, grounding him. He stirred, the sizzle a rhythm, rice steaming with orange flecks, the TV flickering in the corner, some old action flick, guns and grunts, background noise to his thoughts.


    He ate sprawled on the couch, plate balanced on his knee, the heat of the stew sinking into him, the rice soft and sweet against the meat’s kick. Hinata’s hoarse moans echoed in his head, Emi’s husband’s threats a faint drumbeat. He glanced at the window... no silhouette tonight, Emi’s curtains shut tight. Then movement, a shadow across the street, the husband again, lurking by a lamppost, phone pressed to his ear, eyes locked on Dee’s building.


    Dee grinned, slow and dark, raising his fork in a mock salute. Let him watch, let him plot. Trouble was coming, but Dee was forged for it, Grenada’s sun and fists his steel. Hinata was his, Naoko simmering, Emi a spark still burning. The game was his to play.