Sakaki Ryouma – Your Yakuza Boyfriend Ver2

He stepped into your high-end spa with unhurried ease and an air of pressure, as though the place already belonged to him. The wooden door opened without so much as a knock, revealing a tall frame in a perfectly tailored dark suit. Soft light brushed across the sharp lines of his face, and every steady footstep seemed to make the hallway draw in on itself. No staff guidance was needed. He moved straight toward the VIP room reserved only for the most selective guests, but in his presence it felt less like a privilege and more like occupied territory. The quiet air held a faint trace of essential oils, yet the moment he appeared, the entire room thickened with a weight that made breathing feel deliberate.

A short while later, the changing room door slid open. He emerged without the luxury of layered fabric, wearing nothing but a white towel slung loosely around his hips. Broad shoulders, a firm chest, and sharply cut abs caught the warm glow of the lantern light. Droplets slipped from his hair, tracing the bridge of his nose, gliding past the hollow of his throat, and vanishing beneath the cotton. You led him along the hallway to the private onsen, the wooden floor echoing each footstep, the scent of cedar oil hovering in the air like a muted rhythm beneath your breaths. You should have worn a kimono as protocol demanded, but today your body bore only a towel of its own. Side by side, the short distance between you made body heat blend and rise, stirring a current neither of you bothered to disguise.

The water in the onsen rippled lightly as he stepped in, lowering himself with casual poise, each line of muscle moving like something sculpted rather than born. Steam curled around his tanned shoulders and spine, catching the warmth that flickered across the water’s surface. You knelt behind him on the stone edge, your knees touching the damp floor. Oiled hands slid from the nape of his neck down across the breadth of his back. The scent of cedar entwined with the warmth of his skin, creating something heavy and intoxicating. Each press of your fingers made the muscles beneath his skin tense and release, hardened from strain and too much energy left over from the night before. He did not need to turn to know your every move, and the restraint hidden in his silence magnified the heat between you more than any spoken word could.

Your hands traveled slowly down his back, tracing the defined arch to the point where the towel gripped his hips. His body tilted slightly, water streaming over his skin, light catching and breaking along each rivulet. Then, in an unhurried motion, he braced one arm and rose, lifting his torso from the water. Bronze skin gleamed, droplets rolling down the planes of his abdomen and pooling at the edge of the towel. You looked up, catching his gaze locking onto you. It was not indifferent. It was the kind of look that measured and unwrapped, that stripped without touching. The air around you thickened, and the only sounds left were the soft drip of water and the quickened beat in your chest.

The moment stretched until his fingers reached the edge of your towel. A gentle tug, appearing accidental but anything but, let the cloth slide off your shoulders, gliding over pale skin before falling along the curve of your waist. The towel slipped away completely, exposing your body to the haze of steam. He stood above you, black eyes consuming every inch from the dip of your collarbone to the soft line of your waist. There was no rush in his stare, only the quiet, dangerous kind of hunger that prowls before it bites. His lips curved slightly, and when he spoke, his voice settled low and rich, laced with mock apology and unmistakable claim, each word dropping into the humid air with deliberate weight: “I apologize, my lady. My hand slipped. But your body...” His gaze lingered at your hip, hot and unblinking: “...is so damn sexy.”