"You wear this for me?"
"Shut — up."
"Just asking."
"Don't — stop."
"So, don't ask — ," he drags his tongue over the silk triangle of her raspberry de Montparnasse coquette thong, " — or don't stop?"
"Nnh — can't — ,"
He slides his thumb under the delicate lace in the lightest of touches, shivers shot through her spine, bunched skirt of her blush satin dress hiked to her waist. Teases, "Mimi, you're not making sense."
Legs over his shoulders, pink Dior slingback hanging off one ankle, its mate wedged under the backseat. "Since when have we made sense?"
Taichi agrees. On his knees, sinks his teeth high on her inner thigh, making her gasp. Manicured nails scrape through curls still long enough for her to grip at the thick roots. He waits, even when she yanks him closer by a fistful of his hair. "Still need to hear it."
He asks her every time, checks every time. It'd be sweet, if she weren't chewing on the heel of her palm, aching with impatience. "Please — ,"
"Please what?" Another lick over sheer fabric, so slow she's dumb. Humming, knows what he's doing, "Need to hear you say it, Tachikawa."
"I, ah — just — Yagami, just get in me — ,"
"You always this bossy?"
"Taichi — ," and she squeals. Arches her back, held up by his broad hands. Hair mussed from the friction with the leather seats. Can't believe she'd forgotten how good his mouth is between her legs, like he invented it. It'd been years. She's an idiot, thinking she could find better. Still hasn't. Tried, and here she is again, nearly undone, with the car now rolling to a stop. He lifts his chin, swears to himself, breathing hard. They'd lost track of time, or time was the one thing they never could get right. Even now, she scrambles to grab more of it, whines when he draws back from her, "No — stay, stay — ,"
The driver's intercom flips on. Her hands fly to her mouth, wasn't expecting the speaker on the other side of the partition. She feels his wide grin on her thigh, middle and index fingers knuckle deep where his tongue had been, thumb still teasing slow circles, helping her through the comedown. "We've arrived, Minister. Just a moment for the door."
"Perfect, thanks." His voice smooth and professional. The intercom flips off. "You good?"
Mimi wants to kick him, or kiss him. Throws her neck back over the headrest to muffled whimpers instead, riding herself out on his hand.
"You felt good," he sighs, watching her fall still at last, just about floating, full bliss. "Taste, too."
She's blushing, sitting up, tries to ignore how cold it is when he leaves her. Feels like she's been discovered, mapped by him. Jelly-legged, teetering over a known boundary, ready to fall heart-first. Still, she manages a prim tut, "Don't be so embarrassing."
"Okay," he grins, waits for her to fix her hair. Retrieves the lost shoe, slides both straps back on for her. Tugs her skirt down over her lap, keeps his hands on her waist, sitting on the floorboard of the car. Looking up at her so reverently she wants to tell him to stop, but won't, because she likes it, too. His soft glances. This singular ability of his to make everyone, anyone, feel more than themselves. Special.
She nudges his knee with her shoe, checks herself in her compact mirror, returns it to her clutch. "Get up, Taichi."
"You're really pretty when you cu — ,"
"Taichi."
But she's laughing, so he does, too. Hand running down her calf, then up. Higher. Another nudge, another look. "I thought you liked compliments."
"You really think I'm so self-centered?"
"No." There's that reverence again, turning her inside out. He's not supposed to be able to do this to her, and yet. "I think you're kind." Kiss to the outside of her knee. "And funny." Inside. "Smart." Trails higher, and off.
She tries not to make her sigh too needy, catches the beginning of another of his smug smirks at her intake of breath. Oh, he's annoying like this. "Then you keep good company, because you're describing everyone we know."
"What, you thought you were special?"
Mimi smiles. Sweet, yes, but he knows her. Stretches her foot so the sole of her shoe is flat to his chest. Puts him back in his place, and holds him there. "Well. I'm the one who has you on your knees, aren't I?"
Brown eyes flashing, leaning forward, braced against her heel. He'd always been good at matching her dares. Probably how all this started. Neither of them really remember. Something about the ease of it, just letting each other know when the other's in town, see what happens. Ready to try anything, go with the flow. Casual hangs. Late night calls. Maybe even the odd gala or fundraiser, platonic dates to avoid rumors and expectations. They're good at easy. "Yeah. But you're the one who got in my car wearing that for me."
"Oh, Taichi." Singsong. Heeled point pressed over his heart. "I don't wear anything for you."
He mimes a wounded pout, wet sheen to his lips. She's about to tell him to wipe his face when the door unlocks, and they separate at once. Cameras are waiting when he climbs out first, reporters at the ready. It's a big public event, a homecoming for Japan's own young minister-counsellor of the first Digital World Mission, celebrating a late-breaking, worlds-changing resolution no one had imagined possible. She had, though. She can imagine anything with him. One of these days, she might even tell him so.
Taichi steps onto the red carpet, buttons his suit jacket, waves that charismatic, million-watt grin. Turns to help her out, but she's used the other door. Someone's asking him a question, microphone at the ready, then another. He's somehow halfway down the press line before she finally walks past him, feels her slip something into the pocket of his slacks, bends a little to catch her whisper after the chaste kiss to his cheek, for the cameras. "I don't wear anything for you." Press capture the sweet moment between old friends.
At last the interviews are done, but she's long gone by then, swept up with the others who'd started arriving, filing ahead into the hall for the seated dinner. It's almost time for his opening remarks. His minder is motioning him inside, leading him around the candle-lit tables, floral arrangements obscuring faces. He can't find her. Licks his lips. Remembers. The minder notices, offers him chapstick. He declines, winking. "Already got my own."
They have him wait at the side of the stage until the host introduces him. Two screens on either side so the whole room can see the activity at the podium, the rolling camera in the middle following him across the platform to a din of proud applause. One hand closes around her lace panties in his pocket, the other passes over his bottom lip, tongue fleetingly quick as he licks the last trace of her off him. Looks right into the camera when he does, knows she's watching the screens.
"Please, everyone, take your seats." He gratefully motions for silence, humbled by the reception. Takes out his prepared speech. Smiles, like he invented it. "It's going to be a long night."
