Barely two minutes on the dance floor, Takaba's already lost and confused — and feeling slightly claustrophobic and nauseous from the feel and smell of sweat-slicked bodies pressing against her, some more insistently and amorous than most.
When she spots the barely visible neon sign for the bathrooms, she's deeply relieved, and she makes her way there with purposive, no-nonsense steps that spell painful death for anyone who dares stop her. Somehow, her deadly aura pierces through the alcohol- and drug-addled mind of the dancers, and they give way to her.
And then when she does finally reach the bathroom, an oblivious idiot with a ridiculous Mohawk bars her way with his arm, and then reaches out and tries to grope her.
Fuck that.
Moving with surprising deftness for someone in her condition, she sidesteps his grabby hands, and then drops him to his knees with a brutal kick in the groin that surely would result in blunt testicular trauma. The man writhes on the floor, mouth hung open and silently crying, curled up in a fetal position and clutching his hopefully now useless genitals.
Stepping around his pathetic form, she continues to head for her destination, but then a heavy hand falls on her shoulder.
Oh for fuck's sake. Takaba whirls around, ready to punch the daylights out of the asshole, but lands one on a palm instead — one that belonged to a familiar face. "Gor–Suoh-san?"
"Takaba-san," Asami's hulking, stone-faced bodyguard says in his deep, deadpan voice. "Are you all right?"
No, I am not, Takaba thinks, but doesn't say so. She takes a deep breath instead, and manages a thin smile. "I'm fine." She casts a withering glance at her would-be groper, who is still twitching on the floor. "Could you get rid of that, please?" she says, then hastily adds, "Don't hurt him further, just…kick him out, or something." She scans the crowd, trying to spot familiar faces, hoping none of her co-workers saw her, and thankfully finding none. "Nice crowd you have here."
Suoh gestures to someone, and a black-suited guy steps out from the crowd and grabs the man and hauls him away as if he were a sack of potatoes. Takaba inwardly winces at the treatment, but doesn't say anything about it. "Is he still here?" she asks, shifting her attention back Suoh.
"Yes. Asami-sama still has some business to look over, but he asks you to join him in the office."
Takaba rolls her eyes at Suoh's words. Ask. As if Asami ever did. Ordered, more likely. "I would rather go home, actually." Because at this point, after what happened at the Eyrie, Takaba isn't sure how she'll face Asami.
"Asami-sama will go home with you as soon as he's finished with business." Suoh gives that look that tells her that Asami will not be taking no for an answer, and neither will he. "We've ordered some food for you in his office. I believe you haven't eaten yet?"
Takaba sighs. "Fine. Let's go." Then, thinking of the unruly crowd and her editor high in the Eyrie with a good view of the dance floor, she asks, "Is there an alternate route to the office that would bypass these dancing idiots?"
Thankfully, there turned out to be one, and she is led to Asami's office in relative peace and secrecy. By the time they reached the door, though, Takaba's uneasiness returns, as well as her earlier anger. It's too late to back out now, though, and when Suoh opens the door for her, Takaba has straightened her shoulders and put her game face on.
The moment she spots Asami, though, sitting at the desk and serenely going over papers, Takaba has a brief fantasy of picking up the nearest chair and hurling it at him, screaming, "You slept with my boss and didn't tell me, you asshole! And I'm not your fucking pet or property!" like a fucking hormonal pregnant banshee from hell.
Fortunately for Asami, what happened instead is that Takaba got hit with her earlier nausea like a punch in the gut, and, turning quickly to Suoh, demands, "Where's the bathroom?"
She reaches the sink barely in time, throwing up bile for most part. Closing her teary eyes, chest heaving from exertion, she doesn't look up as she rinses her mouth when the door opens, though she starts when a warm hand descends on the nape of her neck and starts rubbing soothingly. "You should have eaten something earlier."
If she weren't wrung out from throwing her guts up, Takaba would have rolled her eyes at Asami, stung by his rebuke. "I did eat a bit. I thought we were going to some restaurant, not a club. Can we please not blame me anymore? I'm feeling guilty as is." She takes a deep, steadying breath. "God, why don't you have food served in here?"
Asami lets out a chuckle. "Because this is a club, not a restaurant. People come here for a different purpose." Asami continues to massage the back of her neck, long, strong fingers slow and steadily stroking the base of her scalp. This time, Takaba's eyes do roll back, it felt so good, and feels a little embarrassed when she gives a little groan. "Do you feel better now?" he asks, sounding amused, teasing her.
"If you keep doing that, I may just fall asleep on your sink," Takaba murmurs. She closes her eyes and bites her lip to hold back a moan when Asami's thumb presses against that sensitive spot behind her ear, and tries to get some semblance of coherency to keep this from escalating further. "I feel much better now, thank you," she says, face flaming at the odd breathlessness of her voice.
"Good." Takaba makes an involuntary noise of protest when Asami removes his fingers, but then shiver when he places a kiss on her nape, his other hand sliding down to the curve of her swollen belly in that infuriating possessive way of his. "Eat your food before it gets cold. And then we'll go home," he tells her, breath warm against the shell of her ear, pressing his body against hers, momentarily filling her sensitive senses with his heat and of his scent — the sharp scent of salt and musk with hints of bergamot from sweat and sex— before stepping away.
Takaba watches silently as Asami leaves the bathroom, her hand touching the spot on her neck where Asami kissed her. She stands there for a while, her mind going back to what happened in the Eyrie. Loathe as she was to admit it, what her editor said raises questions about her place in Asami's life that she couldn't simply ignore.
For most part, her place in Asami's life has been something she'd never been quite sure of, something entirely clarified in clear, concise ways (on her part, at least). To most people, she'd be considered his mistress. His woman. Or his slut or whore, as some of Asami's enemies have told her to her face.
As for Asami himself, he'd called her his lover, his property, with emphasis on his and all the possessive connotations with it. Asami has always been very clear on that. Mine, he'd always say as he imprints himself on her (to the very marrow of her bones, she thinks sometimes), and perhaps to him, that was that. There is no need for anything else.
Don't think you're special. You're not.
Her editor's words echo in her head, and Takaba can't help but mull over them. For the longest time, she's told herself it didn't matter if she wasn't 'special' in Asami's eyes, if she was simply just a passing phrase. It was never a goal for her, or something that she wanted.
Oh, Takaba's thought about it, wondered she had what it would take to capture Asami's heart, but she'd always tried her best to dismiss such thoughts. If Fei Long with all his beauty and power wasn't able to do it, how the hell could she, a mere upstart photographer, even come close?
Why should she even want it in the first place? Asami is a controlling, manipulative pain in the ass, antithesis to everything she believes in. Why the hell would she want someone like that in her life?
Months ago, before all of this, all she wanted was to get Asami out of her life as soon as possible (maybe by catching him in the act of committing nefarious deeds and having him arrested). Being with him was never a goal for her, or something that she wanted. She'd denied all accusations of her being owned by Asami fiercely, resisted every attempt of his to limit her independence, and actively avoided being dependent on Asami. She tried her damned best, too; she'd kill anyone who would say otherwise.
And yet, here she is, pregnant with Asami's child, living with him, and with plans to raise their child with him. How did it come to this, Takaba hasn't quite figured out. Only that in the end, despite everything that's happened and what she knew, she chose this.
Food turned out to be excellent, grilled herbed chicken with baked sweet potatoes and strawberries and cream for dessert. Takaba, famished beyond belief, settles comfortably at the sofa, resolves not to upset herself further with what happened tonight, and tucks into the food, ignoring the amused look Asami gives her every now and then.
(In fact, she's been ignoring pretty much all of the looks Asami's been throwing her the moment she came in — she refuses to be drawn into any further conversation today. She has quite enough of that shit.
In hindsight, she should have known such behavior would only raise red flags and make Asami more curious.)
Too engrossed in polishing off the strawberry and cream (which was fucking delicious), Takaba doesn't notice Asami's approach until he's taken hold of her hand, the one with fingers sticky with cream and strawberry, and slowly licks them clean.
Sparks of heat skitter up her spine as Takaba, mesmerized, watches Asami's tongue peek through the gaps of her fingers, sweeping over slick-sticky cream. Before she could protest, he then takes them into his warm mouth, and instead Takaba bites her lip to ride out the shivers that wrack her body at Asami's touch, the glide of tongue and sweet suction. Flush with sudden want, she offers very little resistance when Asami's lips move to her own, coaxing her mouth open with a lazy lick on her lips, and then kissing her with near bruising force, plundering her mouth thoroughly. When they part, Takaba's a little lightheaded. "Stop distracting me," he says, voice low and amused, "or we'll never get home."
That cuts through the hazy fog in her brain, and she pushes him away. "I'm distracting you? I'm just eating. Don't blame me for your crazy pervert fantasies." Takaba holds up her hand. "No need to describe those fantasies to me, please. I do not want to throw up again."
Asami only offers a wicked smile in reply that tells her she's probably in those fantasies quite often, and goes back to his desk to do his work, and mercifully leaves her alone to finish the rest of her meal.