The trouble is Lord Mitsuhide doesn’t feel sensible around you. Not when you’re pouring his tea and leaning over him, the smell of fresh green leaves in spring tickling his nose. Why Lord Nobunaga would think this a good idea, he’ll never know, only that he’s now stuck between a rock and a hard place working in close proximity with you. A thrill courses through him, but that’s to be expected after five consecutive days together.
“Milord, may I start collating these files?”
When you both look up he feels himself slipping. His gaze sinks to the papers in his hands. He can’t let you know. He’s a gentleman. The perfect gentleman.
“Of course. Thank you.”
But he’s not privy to your thoughts, and if he could comprehend the state you’re in, he would drop those files and run out the door. Or drop those files and run to you. A buzzing under your skin races along your nerves, slithering and swirling through your system, to make an odd, tingling warmth in your stomach. Watching him melts your brain to soup.
You want to slip your sandal off and trail your socked toes up and down his thigh, where his hands perch lazily atop, drumming absentmindedly. You want to slide your fingers under the crisp fabric of his kimono and run your fingers across the muscle and veins and feel the beating pulse under your thumb. But most of all, you want to drag his mouth down and kiss that soft, dissolute mouth senseless.
He doesn’t have time. There’s never enough time. Mitsunari will be the one to find him, and he will hear his feet plodding down the hall, each step a clanging reminder that he needs to draw his hands away, look professional, and leave. He’ll do it too, because it’s his duty. But each time will feel like knives cutting into his skin, so painful will the separation be, until there’s only red sliding down and down and down from his arms and oozing onto the floor.
You won’t be much help either, with the way you slide your kimono back into place and run shaky fingers through your hair. What a shame to have to cover up all that skin, he’ll think, and a heat will begin a slow liquid dissolve into his loins. It won’t quite banish the sudden weariness he feels from being away from you, but he will take pleasure in imagination when he finally settles in for Nobunaga’s war council.
He has time in his mind. You are his wife. Anytime and anyplace he wants. Here, if he liked. His imagination runs wild and torrid, and from his place in the hall among important men he will picture himself smiling as he comes across you writing at your table. A curious attachment will seep in while watching the flick of your wrist translating into cautious penmanship, until the desire in his heart and the heat in his gut overflows his senses. He will go to you then, taking down that amazing hair, and watch your hedonistic lashes quiver as your locks shuffle in a cascade to the floor.