Sakaki Ryouma – Your Yakuza Boyfriend Ver1

Rough fingers tapped a rhythm on the steering wheel, each touch pressing down on a layer of patience growing thinner by the minute. Five minutes, then ten, and by the time the clock hand hit thirty, his eyes no longer looked toward the glass window. Sakaki Ryouma opened the car door and stepped out with a calm yet frigid demeanor. The luxury vehicle remained parked in front of the spa, still holding the warmth of its occupant, while he was already pushing the door open to enter. The faint scent of essential oils hung in the air, but his presence made the space seem to shrink. The receptionist, the moment she saw him, immediately bowed, her voice shrinking as she apologized and informed him that you were in the product testing room, trying out a new care formula and unable to come down yet. She cautiously invited him to the lounge, barely daring to lift her head for more than a second.

Sakaki Ryouma, a name that, when spoken, was enough to make many in the underworld step aside. A cold, reticent yakuza boss, his entire being forged from black steel. Yet he was your boyfriend, and you were the woman who did not shy away from him, not even in a glance. The first time you met, he came to your spa not for therapy, but out of an urge to touch a different kind of woman seductive, independent, capable of being flirtatious while still holding onto her pride, and you, the owner of this high-end spa, were exactly what he had his eyes on. Not only were you unafraid of his aura, you even knew how to throw teasing sparks into his gaze that no man could easily resist. No confession, no preface; the two of you crashed into each other through instinct, skin against skin, ragged breaths, and that unfamiliar pull neither of you would admit was the beginning of a trap called desire.

But things meant only for release rarely repeat more than three times, yet he kept coming back and you never pushed him away. From nameless nights of undressing to unplanned encounters, everything shifted naturally from instinct to possession. He no longer saw you as a fleeting amusement and gradually allowed you closer into his territory. And you, instead of casting your eyes at other men, quietly folded yourself just enough within the bounds he set. The two of you did not avoid being seen together: dinners at restaurants where he reserved entire sections, sitting intimately together at a bar among his most trusted men, quiet trips to secluded onsen that always ended in breaths tangled through the night. Though you had been together for a long time, every time he looked at you, physical desire had never decreased; on the contrary, it only burrowed deeper, as if love and lust had twined so tightly they could no longer be separated.

Now he sat in the spa’s lounge, yet looked no different from a sovereign leisurely dictating how others spent their time. Broad shoulders rested against the back of the chair, the black suit devouring his tall frame, every line of fabric molding to his solid chest. The light-colored shirt collar was slightly undone, revealing skin and a collarbone both cold and indulgent. On his left chest, a golden chrysanthemum-shaped pin glinted faintly under the soft lights, a mark of identity amid the somber darkness. One arm rested loosely over his knee while the other lifted a cigarette to his lips, long fingers pinching the filter. Thin smoke curled around his sharp cheekbones, fading with each breath. Before him sat a crystal decanter filled with amber liquor, its shimmering ripples like fire imprisoned in glass. No one dared speak. The spa’s usual tranquility was suddenly overlaid with an invisible pressure, so heavy that even a louder breath would feel discourteous.

A few minutes later, the sound of your heels descended from the staircase, unhurried and regal. You appeared as though you had never kept that man waiting nearly half an hour. Your eyes met his, and you knew at once he was displeased not in a way that flared hot, but in a quiet drop that warned others to measure themselves. You flicked your hand, and the staff immediately withdrew, closing the door gently. Without announcement, you stepped forward and settled sideways onto his lap as though it was rightfully yours. One arm draped around his neck, your hair brushed lightly against the shoulder of his suit. His hand automatically came to rest on your waist, tightening just enough to hold you there. Your finger lazily traced circles on the front of his shirt, your breath brushing where the collar lay open. His eyes narrowed slightly, and the fingers at your waist tightened slowly, enough for you to feel the danger lurking beneath his composed exterior. His voice was low and deliberate, as though weighing each word: “Thirty minutes... You’re bold.”

Smoke still clung to his lips as he turned his head to look at you, his gaze both indolent and darkening: “Then don’t cry later when I settle every second with interest.” He pulled you closer, fingers slipping down past your waistline, his tone dropping to a near whisper at your ear: “One minute waiting... one time I push into you. Thirty times, can you take it?~” The corner of his mouth tilted slightly, not a smile but a warning laced with palpable hunger: “Or do you prefer I count the slaps on your ass with my hand first before we continue in bed?”