After changing Kaoru Hoshitani’s clothes and drying his hair, Rika Kawasaki carried him out of the hotel.
The doorman had already parked that bright blue supercar at the hotel entrance.
The streamlined body of the car refracted dazzling light under the afternoon sun, like a dormant predator lying quietly there, attracting the gazes of passersby.
Rika Kawasaki paid it no mind. Carrying the small man in her arms, she walked straight to the front passenger seat, pulled open the door, and placed him inside.
Kaoru Hoshitani’s body was still soft. When he leaned into the seat, he was like a crumpled piece of paper, taking a while to find a comfortable position.
His head tilted to one side, his eyes half-open and half-closed, his eyelashes lowered. He looked as if he had just been fished out of water—damp and pliant.
Although Rika Kawasaki traveled between Tokyo and Osaka by plane, she had this supercar specially towed from Tokyo by a dedicated transport truck.
She leaned half her body into the passenger seat, one hand braced on the seat back, the other pulling the seatbelt over his shoulder and clicking it into the buckle. Click—a crisp, clean sound.
She didn’t pull back immediately.
Her face was close to his, so close she could see the water droplets still clinging to his eyelashes, so close she could smell the familiar scent of hotel shampoo in his hair.
Her gaze fell on his pink, slightly dehydrated lips, which were slightly parted, revealing a hint of pearly teeth, as if in a silent invitation.
She lowered her head and bit them—not hard, but with a sense of declaring sovereignty, a possessiveness that felt entirely natural.
Only then did she pull back, satisfied, close the car door, walk around the front of the car, and get into the driver’s seat.
The moment the engine started, the supercar emitted a low roar, like a beast awakened, rumbling a growl deep in its throat.
Rika Kawasaki pressed the accelerator, and the car shot forward, leaving the hotel, the street, the pedestrians all behind, shrinking into tiny, blurry dots in the rearview mirror.
First, she took him to a high-end private kitchen.
The restaurant was hidden in an unremarkable old building. No sign, no doorman, just a dark wooden door, so low-key it seemed afraid of being discovered.
A cluster of slender bamboo was planted by the entrance. When the wind blew, the bamboo leaves rustled, casting dappled shadows in the afternoon sunlight.
The private room had tatami flooring. The air was filled with a faint scent of sandalwood, mixed with the clean, slightly bitter aroma of bamboo mats.
A ink-wash painting hung on the wall, depicting Mount Fuji, its brushstrokes simple and sparse, its mood serene and distant.
Rika Kawasaki sat cross-legged, scooped Kaoru Hoshitani into her arms, and sat him on her lap.
He struggled a little, lightly, almost symbolically, and was soon immobilized by her arm tightening around his waist.
Her arm encircled his waist, her palm pressed against his soft abdomen. She could feel his breathing rise and fall, slow and shallow.
She picked up the menu on the table—a hand-bound booklet with a washi paper cover that felt slightly textured to the touch.
She flipped through a few pages and ordered various Osaka-style takoyaki: original, sauced, sprinkled with seaweed powder, drizzled with mayonnaise, and a few pieces of sushi that looked very expensive—sea urchin, fatty tuna, and botan shrimp.
The server knelt at the doorway of the private room, took notes with a bow, and retreated.
While waiting for the food, she wasn’t idle either.
One arm around his waist, her other hand cupped his chin, turning his face towards her, and she lowered her head to kiss him.
It wasn’t a stormy, plundering kiss, but a slow, tantalizing one, like a cat licking its paw—one lick at a time, unhurried.
She kissed his brow, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth, his earlobe, the red marks she had left on his neck that hadn’t yet faded.
Her lips were hot against his skin, like a small, red-hot branding iron, leaving behind searing imprints.
His body trembled slightly in her embrace. Not from cold, nor from fear, but from a subtle reaction she couldn’t name, and he couldn’t either.
His fingers unconsciously clutched the hem of her clothes, gripping tightly, his knuckles turning white, as if holding onto something lifesaving.
His breathing became rapid, his chest rising and falling, each inhalation carrying a faint, almost inaudible tremor.
By the time the server knocked on the private room door to serve the food, poor Kaoru Hoshitani’s delicate face was already flushed crimson.
The blush spread from his cheekbones to his ears, from his ears down his neck.
He looked like a peach blossom dyed pink by the spring breeze, from petals to pistil, all a delicate, dewy pink.
His lips were slightly parted, breathing in small gasps. Those little deer eyes were misted over, damp, like a lake surface after rain, shimmering and hazy.
“Come in.”
Rika Kawasaki’s voice was as calm as if nothing had just happened.
The door was pushed open.
A waitress in a yukata entered carrying a tray, her movements gentle and practiced, placing the exquisite dishes on the table one by one.
Her gaze swept the room, pausing for a moment on Kaoru Hoshitani’s face—that face, those eyes, that dazed, kissed look, those slightly swollen lips that hadn’t had time to recover.
She paused, then quickly lowered her head, not daring to look anymore.
Her ears were slightly red. Her fingers trembled a little as she set down a dish, causing it to clink lightly against the table, a sound that was particularly clear in the quiet room.
She thought to herself:
‘Indeed, the men of the wealthy are just unbelievably beautiful.’
She had worked here for three years, seen many rich people bring their young lovers, but never one who looked like this.
She bowed and retreated, gently pulling the door closed.
After the food was served, Rika Kawasaki didn’t get handsy again.
She picked up her chopsticks and picked up a piece of takoyaki.
The round little ball trembled on the tip of the chopsticks, steaming hot, its surface fried to a golden brown, drizzled with dark sauce and white mayonnaise, sprinkled with green seaweed powder and red pickled ginger.
She blew on it by her mouth, steam escaping between her lips, blurring her features.
Then she brought it to Kaoru Hoshitani’s lips, gently tapping his lower lip with the tip of the chopsticks.
“Open your mouth.”
She said, her voice not loud, but carrying a certainty that was hard to refuse.
Kaoru Hoshitani looked at the takoyaki, then at her, hesitated for a second—then opened his mouth.
He took a bite.
The outer shell was crispy, making a faint crunch sound. The inside was soft and tender, the scalding filling bursting out.
The sweet freshness of the octopus and the savory saltiness of the sauce exploded on his tongue.
Heat surged up his throat, making him flinch slightly, but his eyes widened uncontrollably.
“Heh heh.”
Rika Kawasaki watched his expression, watched those sparkling little deer eyes, and a strange sense of accomplishment welled up in her heart.
She smiled. There was no mockery, no smugness in that smile, just a simple, pure satisfaction.
“Good, right? Eat more if it’s good.”
She stuffed the entire piece of takoyaki, already bitten, into his mouth, then picked up a piece of salmon sushi.
She dipped it in a bit of soy sauce and wasabi and brought it to his mouth.
Kaoru Hoshitani ate like this, one piece after another. Whatever she fed him, he ate, like a child being perfectly cared for.
Her chopsticks had never fed anyone else before, she rarely had this much patience even feeding herself, but at this moment, she did it with utter naturalness and skill, as if she was born to do this.
Kaoru Hoshitani, who couldn’t eat much to begin with, was soon full.
He shook his head, indicating he didn’t want more, a bit of sauce still gleaming on his lips.
Rika Kawasaki didn’t force him. She picked up a damp towel, pinched his chin, and carefully wiped his mouth.
The motion was gentle and meticulous, from the corners of his mouth to his cheeks, from his cheeks to his chin, as if polishing a precious piece of porcelain.
Then she quickly ate a few bites herself, put down her chopsticks, paid the bill, and carried him out.
The commercial street in the afternoon was bustling with people.
In Osaka’s most famous shopping district, tall buildings stood in rows, their glass facades reflecting the harsh afternoon sun.
On both sides of the street were flagship stores of major luxury brands. Huge logos flashed overhead.
The display windows showcased the latest fashions, handbags, and jewelry, each item tagged with a price equivalent to several months or even a year’s salary for an ordinary person.
Rika Kawasaki carried Kaoru Hoshitani in and out of various high-end luxury boutiques.
She walked fast, with long strides. Carrying someone in her arms didn’t affect her speed at all, as if she were carrying a kitten.
She entered a store, and the clerk immediately came forward, bowing and smiling.
She glanced at the mannequins in the window, raised a finger.
“This one, this one, and this one. Get his size.”
The clerk hurried to fetch them. She sat on the sofa holding Kaoru Hoshitani, waiting as piece after piece of haute couture clothing was brought down and hung on a nearby rack.
Dark colors, light colors, fitted, loose, silk, wool—each piece was impeccably tailored, made from exquisite fabrics that felt smooth and soft to the touch, like a second skin.
One exquisite accessory after another was taken from glass cases: rings, bracelets, necklaces, cufflinks.
Diamonds refracted blinding light under the lamps, cold, yet so beautiful it was hard to look away.
There were also various cosmetics, bottles and jars covering a table.
Rika Kawasaki didn’t even blink. Her finger lightly swiped on the POS machine, and millions of yen flew out.
Kaoru Hoshitani sat in her arms, watching all this.
Although this wasn’t the first time he had witnessed such a scene—back in Tokyo, Rika Kawasaki had taken him to similar stores and bought similar things.
But coming from an ordinary family, seeing clothes that his parents, or even Aina, might not be able to afford with a month’s salary, being bought for him one by one by this woman without a second thought—how could his sense of money and his worldview not be shaken?
And he did nothing. He just sat here, being held by her, fed by her, dressed by her, like a finely kept, exquisite pet.
A complex emotion welled up in his heart, like a tangled mess, impossible to sort out or cut through.
So this was why many boys, after having relationships with wealthy women in their youth, found it hard to accept ordinary, mundane lives after breaking up.
It wasn’t because they were greedy or materialistic, not because they were ungrateful, but because that feeling of being held in the palm of someone’s hand, that sense of satisfaction of having whatever you wanted, those days of not worrying about money, not having to budget meticulously, not fretting about next month’s rent.
It was like a drug. Once tasted, it became impossible to quit.