The days were long, hazy and soft around the edges. Ichigo barely touched her at school. He only carried her books and smiled at her jokes while she felt a coil of need tighten in her stomach with each passing hour. Orihime would stare up at him, at the thoughtless ease of his movements, and wonder if she had imagined the desperate way his hands and lips and teeth could seek out every inch of her exposed skin.
And then school would end. She would leave class and feel him besides her, stepping seamlessly into the rhythm of her walk. As she made her way home, Orihime would tell him about her day, her assignments and books and plans to bake in the evening. Ichigo would let her speak, meeting her eye every few moments so she knew he was listening.
"Croissants," She might say to him "with sweet potato jam."
"Ah. Of course," amusement in his voice, "sweet potato jam."
"It'll work! Buttery pastry, warm spiced sweet potatoes reduced into sticky sugar."
She would pretend not to notice the way his body moved in closer as they neared her small house. By the time she was unlocking her door, he would be pressed up behind her, hands on her waist, lips in her hair.
Alone in her living room, he would ease her schoolbag off her shoulders, place it gently on the floor, and press her firmly against the wall.
"Orihime." He might say, a slight furrow in his brow as he appraised her, "Fuck. Look at you."
Orihime discovered things with him. Despite the generous swell of her breasts and hips, she had never thought of herself as a sensual person. Ichigo brought this out in her. A capacity to luxuriate in physical touch. With him she did not merely have a body, she was a body. A body that was pliable to him, attuned to every shift of his hands. Ichigo need only to press his knuckles lightly beneath her chin and she would expose her throat to him with complete vulnerable compliance.
It was not so much that she had decided to trust him completely. She simply could not stop herself. The feeling of his teeth against her jugular could leave her whimpering despite her usual reservation. A fact that horrified her as much as it pleased him.
He did not remove her clothes. Not yet. It was clear that he did not want to frighten her.
Ichigo had a good heart. She had believed it for years. But Orihime would have let him touch her with unrestrained malice if it meant his hands stayed on her body. This realization unsettled her sometimes when she was alone with her thoughts at night.
It was pleasurable to touch him too. To feel the broad expanse of his shoulders or kiss, finally, the mesmerizing angle of his jawline. His face and body were endlessly fascinating, and she found herself being gentle with him, as if handling a delicate piece of art. Orihime knew that she was likely incapable of hurting him. Still, it seemed only right to press her lips softly beneath his ear and leave slow deliberate kisses down to his collarbone. Or slip her hands under and up his faded shirt to trace the smooth, cool skin of his stomach with her thumbs. The sounds he made when she did these things gave her a heady sense of power.
"God yes." He had said once. "Anything you want Hime."
This statement had struck her as strange, even at the time. Orihime felt so much in his power, so utterly deferential to his will. The idea that she had the capacity to take anything from him was almost funny.
Ichigo could never stay long. It was unclear to Orihime what he did in the evenings. She only knew that there would come a time when he would exhale roughly into her skin and push himself away. The absence of his touch leaving her drained and wilted, like she might sink to the floor.
"Tomorrow." He always said, "If that's ok."
She could only nod mutely and watch him leave.