WARNING: This chapter contains mature content of a sexual nature. A conscious effort to avoid excess lewdness was made, but reader discretion is nevertheless advised.

Bulma sat at the table, one knee crossed over the other, fidgeting with her cell phone. She hadn't yet noticed Vegeta's presence, and the Saiyan paused before he entered the room, letting his eyes wander over her freely. The sweater-dress she wore halted mid-thigh, exposing much of her legs' length, although the fabric of her opaque stockings shielded her bare skin from the open air. Vegeta wished she was not wearing those stockings, however little they left to the imagination; they obscured her skin's ivory translucence. He remembered from experience how warm and smooth it was.

Vegeta had thought of her often since their breakfast together. Then again, he had thought and fantasized about her often for months now; he could not exactly call the phenomenon new or strange anymore, although it still seemed that way. How often he thought of her struck him every time he saw her. His mind could only replicate her in part, so when she sat before him in the flesh, the stark fullness of her being and her being there would shock him.

If simply imagining her sufficed, Vegeta would not have shown up for tonight's dinner. While the idea of her certainly excited him, enhancing the pleasure he gave himself, the reality of her overwhelmed him entirely. He might have immediately preferred the idea over the reality, for the idea by its very nature offered itself up as an object he could control and manipulate unhindered; but the reality, in spite of or perhaps because of her chaotic subjectivity, captivated him in the same way that the tactics and movements of a skilled opponent might. She was irresistible; she could make an aesthete out of an ascetic if she wished. Not even Vegeta could restrain himself.

When he sat down beside her, she glanced up at him, then stowed her phone away in the purse resting at her feet. "Hey, you," she greeted, smiling softly.

He nodded, acknowledging her.

"I got catering from the best sushi place in West City this time," she said, pointing at the trays set before him. "It's world famous. Tell me if you like it!"

"Food is sustenance," he stated monotonically. He turned a tuna roll over with his chopsticks, examining it.

Bulma cocked an eyebrow, confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You speak of it as if it's something other than sustenance."

"Well, sure. It is that, of course, but it's also something you can enjoy."

Vegeta tasted his tuna roll. Inwardly, he confessed that the flavor appealed to him. "You sound like a wealthy person."

"I am a wealthy person! That's how I could afford all this, and how I could get them to cater for me. Weren't you rich too—selling planets and all? And you were high-ranking."

The Saiyan scowled. "Our rewards, when we got them, were erratic at best." His tone was bitter. "All transactions went through Frieza. Usually, he named his own prices."

Bulma swallowed nervously. "Oh. I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about this anymore."

"Don't give me your pity, woman," he commanded caustically. "Frieza is dead and has no power over me." He paused, breathed deeply, then continued, not once breaking eye-contact with Bulma. "There were times when I knew wealth. Frieza saw to it that I knew riches as well as destitution. As I said, our rewards were erratic—logic didn't govern them, and they were rarely proportional to the task completed, whether in extremities of excess or scarcity. So there were times when I knew wealth. I also knew that it could be taken away. That is the way of things."

The woman sat back in her chair, pondering for a moment. "I suppose so. Nothing lasts forever."

"You understand, then."

"I'm glad you're able to share stuff like that with me." Her sentiment elicited an eye-roll from Vegeta, but she went on before he could respond any further. "So what did you do with extra funds when you had them?"

"I did not squander it on trivialities." He had emphasized the world "trivialities."

Bulma set her chopsticks down testily. "Are you judging me for how I spend my money?"

"I said that I took care not to squander my wealth. I said nothing about you, but you may interpret my meaning as you wish." Dismissing her, he drained a glass of water.

"You're just messing with me."

"Conversation was part of our agreement. I am conversing with you." He smirked. "If this does not please you, then it need not go on any longer."

Bulma sighed. "Don't be an ass, Vegeta. Forget about the cost, and just admit that you like the fucking sushi."

"It is food." He shoved four different kinds of sushi into his mouth with particular irreverence.

"Really?" She glared at him, but the upturn of her lip indicated that his gesture had amused her to some degree. "At least you're talkative this evening, even if you're only talkative in asshole mode. And you're only in asshole mode when you're not feeling especially down. So I'm glad you're happy, Vegeta! I bet you're happy because you're getting laid tonight—typical."

The Saiyan shrugged. Perhaps he was in a good mood.

"That's right. There's that smug look. Just so you know, I don't consider this dinner a waste of money. I thought I'd do something nice for you by getting the best stuff Earth has to offer. I'm not just being extravagant because I can." She paused for a second. "Okay, maybe I am a little, but that's beside the point. So far, my plan seems to be working—you're being an ungrateful prick instead of a nervous wreck. You're welcome."

Vegeta chose to disregard her comment. "The food is decent enough," he mocked.

"Spoiled brat."

"Ironic that you, of all people, should insult me in that way."

"Ironic that a freeloader is lecturing his benefactress."

Vegeta snickered to himself. The woman was easily flustered.

"On second thought, maybe you won't be getting laid tonight." Bulma folded her arms under her breasts, challenging him.

"In that case, neither will you," Vegeta shot back. "But you are weak and self-indulgent—you won't deny yourself."

"I successfully seduced the Prince of All Saiyans. I don't plan on denying myself victory." Playfully, she nudged his foot with her heel. "Does that make me weak? Probably not—you wouldn't like me if I was."

"Don't flatter yourself." The woman could construct a good taunt, Vegeta thought.

"You're only being a dick because you don't know how to flirt."

"Is that so? You're in a state of heightened arousal all the same."

"It's because I can tell that you like being with me no matter how hard you're trying to hide it and piss me off," she stated haughtily. "You're practically crazy about me." Without warning, Bulma stood up, took Vegeta's hand, wrapped his arm around her waist, then sat herself in his lap. Her actions met little resistance. Vegeta had expected her touch; he had agreed to it when he had accepted her arrangement, claiming it as something he desired. If this was how their evening would begin and proceed, then so be it.

"Nonsense." His voice cracked when he spoke. The softness of her sweater's wool startled his fingertips; he ran his hands across Bulma's back and hips without thinking. He barely noticed how her shifting weight in his lap teased him as she threw one arm over his shoulder. Her scent emanated strongly from her neck, and no more than a few inches separated Vegeta's nose from her pulse. Closing his eyes, he let her brush his cheek with her thumb. If he had not shut his eyes, his gaze caught between her full breasts and pretty, barely parted lips, then he might have given in and surrendered everything, utterly at his senses' mercy, and they cried out for indulgence. He sighed.

Bulma tapped the tip of his nose, and his eyes flew back open. "Yeah, you're crazy about me," she teased merrily. "Do you want me to kiss you? Just say the word."

Vegeta had not listened to her. His hands, now hugging her waist just below her ribs, still could not believe how impossibly soft the material of her sweater felt. "This fabric..." he mumbled, beyond fascinated. Why he fixated on the fabric he couldn't tell; he might not have ever noticed it if it clung to the body of someone else.

Bulma beamed at him, and Vegeta had to close his eyes again. "It's cashmere," she explained as she resumed stroking his cheek, "a very special kind of wool. My mom and I can get you some if you like it that much."

"Cashmere," he repeated mindlessly.

"Yeah," she answered before resting a kiss on his mouth.

At first, he hardly reciprocated, so lost to himself that he couldn't even question how lost he was. She was there, there with him and all around him. Her weight pressed into his hips, her chest rose and fell against his own, her hands cradled his face, and her rhythmic exhalation, somewhat irregular and forced, whisked against his upper lip. Heat took hold of him; it registered first in his blood, singing his skin, then tingling his extremities. He opened his mouth and panted a little as if a dose of cold air would relieve some of the burning. Instead, Vegeta received nothing but a steamy moan which he caught and swallowed down before stifling it with his tongue.

Bulma returned his deepened kiss with as much fervor as Vegeta gave it. He had tasted the warmth on her breath, and he knew immediately and intuitively that she felt the very same feverishness. Somehow, that knowledge doubled the sensation as if he could experience it twice, once through himself, once through her. She tugged gently on a fistful of his hair, and when she crushed herself even harder against him, he responded with a firm grip at the widest point of her hips, pulling her closer. The movement and friction fleetingly drew Vegeta's attention to how nearly the strain of his erection against her thigh had come to resemble pain.

Vegeta almost growled when Bulma broke away from him. But rather than by making a sound, he voiced his frustration by scraping his teeth against her throat. She whimpered, then rebuked him with a slight but saucy slap across his cheek. "Vegeta!" she called. "Listen."

He froze for a second and glared at her defiantly.

"Listen—where do you want to go? Nobody's home but us. My parents always go out on Saturday night. We can go anywhere we want."

In passing, Vegeta confirmed her statement when he failed to sense anyone's presence on the premises of the mansion.

"We can even do it here if you want," she whispered right next to his ear.

The kitchen was an open room with plenty of clear space, and a series of expansive windows let the courtyard observe it. Vegeta did not relish the prospect at all. "No," he answered authoritatively.

"Then"—she kissed his forehead—"where do you want to go?"

The choice she threw in front of him forced him back into his thoughts and objectivity, and he hated that. For once, restraint and detachment did not appeal to him. He reconsidered Bulma's suggestion of staying right where they were, but remained uneasy about it. That uneasiness annoyed him, yet he couldn't rid himself of it. Neither did he want to go to Bulma's bedroom; it was filthy. She certainly had no place in his own bedroom. Weighing these options only served to incite his anger. Open-endedness in general angered him. He should have known he couldn't simply enjoy himself; it was not in his nature.

"We could go to that guestroom again. The sheets were washed and everything."

Vegeta supposed he had no other choice, however far from ideal. He had no idea what he considered ideal anyhow. At least he had made a decision, and he no longer had to think. Scooping his arm under Bulma's knees, he stood from his chair with her still clinging to him. He did not want to let go of her. Bulma did not complain and instead rewarded him with a series of kisses. She hugged him tightly around his neck, and her scent, magnified by desire, steadily obscured his former frustration from his consciousness.

Once he locked the door behind them, Vegeta dropped Bulma onto the bed in a silent command for both of them to undress. The woman made an elaborate show of removing her stockings, giving Vegeta something to watch while he folded his clothes. Watch he did with ferocious interest.

"You're crazy about me," she stated cockily as she took hold of the bottom of her dress, preparing to pull it off over her head.

"No," the Saiyan rasped. "Remove the stockings only."

"Somebody really likes cashmere!" Bulma lilted. "I'm going to get really hot, though."

"Not my concern."

"Didn't think so." She pulled him on top of her, and the Saiyan obliged. "But you've been good tonight, so—" A kiss silenced her.

"On your side," Vegeta ordered frantically once he came up for air. He figured he could please her quickly if he repeated the technique of the previous week; it was simple enough, and he had no patience for the unknown or unfamiliar.

"Yes, Your Highness," Bulma mocked, obeying him nevertheless and even helping him slide the skirt of her dress up over her hip's dramatic curve. "Now hurry up and get inside me." She too could give orders, it seemed.

Lust alone allowed Vegeta to excuse her impertinence. Presently, he rubbed his face along the sleeve of her dress, enthralled by it and how thoroughly her distinctive fragrance saturated it. Creeping upward and inward, his hand skimmed her ivory thigh. Between the wool and her silken skin, she drove him wild. This was why Vegeta had accepted her terms, of course. In retrospect, his initial ambivalence seemed downright stupid. Bulma groaned loudly when his fingers met her desire's center.

"Vegeta—please." She sneaked one hand under his and, reaching behind her, took hold of him with the other. "No—I'll take care of that."

He swatted her hand away recklessly and replaced it with his own. He couldn't keep from stroking himself a few times as he positioned his tip at her entrance. She was more than ready for him, he knew.

"Come on, you bastard!" Bulma cursed hoarsely.

Vegeta snarled at the insult, then drove into her as if it would spite her. In spite of himself, though, a cry escaped his throat before he could restrain it. Immediately upon hearing his own voice, he became self-conscious and glanced down at the woman, hoping that she hadn't noticed and that he'd imagined it. She paid him no special attention, so he tried to forget about it. At least she could not watch him from her position, and he could hide.

The forgetting came easier than ever he could have anticipated. Heedlessly, he had assumed a slow rhythm, and the sensation of her warmth tightening all around him lured him out of himself straightaway. The slow pace hastily shifted into a fast one. Everything would be over quickly.

Sweat vaguely moistened the cashmere blanketing her back, and Vegeta felt it hot against his pectorals. Holding her close, she trembled beneath his touch, arching her whole body backward into him. She was swearing incoherently and burying sharp, manicured nails into the hand that clutched her breast. The intensity of the moment washed over the Saiyan all at once, and he muffled a moan against her now relaxing shoulder as he raced to completion then relaxed alongside her, dazed and spent.

They lay together quietly for a few moments before Bulma sat up suddenly, pulling her sweater-dress off over her head and tossing it clumsily to the floor. "Oh my God," she sighed thickly, "I'm burning up." After fanning herself, she reclined again, turning to face Vegeta, who had shut his eyes to passively soak in the rare instance of peacefulness. She tapped his nose to gain his attention. "That was great, and I'm glad you enjoyed it, but don't you ever, ever make me wear a goddamn sweater again while we're fucking."

He peered at her listlessly out of one eye and said nothing. Her cheeks blazed red, and little curls of blue hair clung to her gleaming neck and forehead. She was beautiful and fiery.

She poked him again. "Can I ask you a question before you head off to the shower?"

"Hm?" he grunted apathetically.

"Where the hell did you learn to kiss like you do? No wonder you like it—you're fucking amazing at it."

Before he could check his response, he answered her with a single word: "Raditz."

A long silence. "Really? Care to elaborate on that one?" Bulma inquired with supreme interest.

Vegeta realized his mistake in saying anything. "No," he muttered with finality, hoping she would drop the subject.

Thankfully, she did. "Cashmere is expensive stuff, you know. You've got a self-indulgent wealthy person hiding behind that facade of yours. You are a prince, after all."

"Cheeky, insufferable woman."