Dahlia

"If I consume you all at once I may lose sight of myself. I need to take you apart slowly."

He whispers that, mainly to himself. He's hesitant, to touch me, and yet, so reverent when he does. I imagine he's innocent, a virgin even, despite his looks.

There's an righteousness in the way his fingers softly stroke my skin, in the way he partakes of me.

"You're what...20? Maybe 22?"

He paused, looking up at me with a crooked smile. "Actually I'm 33."

"Wait seriously?" I sit up. His hair falls into his face a bit as he cocks his head and chuckles, deep and resounding in the almost empty room.

"I'm flattered you think I look so young," he puts his finger in front of his mouth, as he laughed.

33. Why hadn't I seen that? He speaks so maturely, carries himself with grace. He lays down next to me, his hair sprawled against the white sheets.

"And you?" He looks over at me. "26 aren't you?"

I nod numbly. He leans over, pressing a kiss to my temple. His eyes close, as he inhaled deeply.

His lashes are long and thick, brushing his cheeks gently. This is a man I took care of for months. But he's...somehow...someone different.

"Did you eat?" He asks softly, brushing my hair back behind my ear.

I shake my head. Briefly, I'm brought to reality. This haze he's created is intoxicating, the room like a finely crafted illusion. Here we are a couple. Here he is in love with me.

But reality knocks at the door. I'm on a work trip that ends in week. I don't know this man, not well, and the version of him I knew, that lamb, was only so because he didn't know who he was.

This Akira is a stranger.

A butcher. Or so his friends say.

"What do you want to eat?" He slips out of bed, loose sweatpants around his waist, his tattoo illuminated by the bathroom light. It's so colorful.

I get up, brushing my fingers against it. Koi fish, surrounding the face of lion. It's beautiful. Intricate and vibrant. It must've taken days.

"What is this for?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment, shivering as my fingertips drag down his back gently.

The muscles in his body are all so prominent. Does he work out?

"What did you say you did for a living?" I ask quietly.

"I didn't. How's onigiri? I think I have some left over."

He leaves me, walking away. I follow him, on his heels, as he treks through the house, into the kitchen. He stops, opening the fridge.

"Ah...if I'd known you were coming I would've stocked my fridge. Nevertheless, you must eat."

I stand behind him, my fingers resting on his back again. He freezes. I take the opportunity to brush my lips against his back, tenderly, barely there.

"Dahlia—"

He turns around, shutting the fridge behind him as he leans against the door. His gaze in analytical, but it heats me up nonetheless. What is he hoping to find?

He reached out, his large hand wrapped around my throat gently, his finger stroking my pulse.

"You're blushing,"

Blushing? I swallow roughly. His lips quirk up in amusement. I think I've started something here.

"Blush? I'm black." I choke out. He's not restricting my air, not with his grip. But with his cocksure gaze, his smirk, his scent—I'm drowning.

"And you're blushing," he rubs my cheek. "It's so cute, Dahlia. Every time you make such an adorable expression...I want to eat you up."

My thighs clench. I know how good he is at eating.

And then he's gone, the fragile open again as he rummaged through it.

"You're too sexy for your own good. And you dodge my questions too damn much," I mutter.

He just chuckled, the refrigerator light over his shoulder.

"There's the candid woman I remember."