before you and nanami started dating, you thought you had him all figured out.
quiet. composed. polite to a fault. the kind of man who holds the door open for strangers and tips too well. the kind of man who never interrupts, never forgets birthdays, never texts past ten unless itās an emergency.
you thought you knew what kind of lover heād be. careful. respectful. maybe even a little restrained.
you were so wrong.
because nanami kento is the definition of āgentleman in the streets and freak in the sheets.ā
not the loud kind. not the messy, aggressive kind. he doesnāt degrade. doesnāt spit unless you ask. doesnāt choke unless you beg. and even then, he makes you say please.
but he knows how to ruin you. with quiet control. with devastating precision.
he learns you like a language. reads you like scripture.
he notices the smallest things. the shift in your breathing when his hand rests on your thigh, the way your hips tilt slightly when you want more. he catalogs it all. stores it away. and when youāre under him, you feel it. every inch of that studied, focused attention.
he fucks like heās solving a problem he already knows the answer to.
his fingers are experts. his mouth is lethal.
and the worst part? he says the filthiest things in the gentlest tone, like heās giving a lecture. like itās all just matter-of-fact.
āyouāre soaking,ā heāll murmur, two fingers teasing your entrance. āiāve barely touched you.ā
āthere it is,ā heāll say when he finds that spot inside you, the one that makes your back arch and your thighs tremble. āi thought so.ā
āyou can take more, canāt you? i know you can.ā
he never loses composure. he doesnāt need to. heās in control, always.
heāll have you shaking, begging, gripping the sheets like youāre drowning, and heāll still be fully clothed, sleeves rolled up, watch ticking on his wrist.
he praises you like itās a prayer.
āgood girl. just like that.ā
āyouāre being so patient for me.ā
ālook at you. youāre so gorgeous when you fall apart.ā
and when he finally fucks you, itās deep and slow and ruthless in its restraint. like heās savoring every drag, every clench, every sound you make.
he doesnāt just chase his own pleasure. he chases yours. insists on it.
heāll edge you until youāre crying, then kiss the tears from your cheeks and ask, softly,
ādo you want to cum now?ā
as if he hasnāt earned the right to decide for you. as if itās still your choice.
heāll hold your face in one hand while he pushes into you, thumb resting at your jaw. not to grip. not to control. just to feel you. to anchor you.
youāve never been so exposed. so undone.
and he never rushes. never gets sloppy. even when heās close, even when heās quiet and tense and thrusting just a little harder, a little deeper. he still holds your gaze. still whispers,
ābreathe.ā
āyouāre okay.ā
āiāve got you.ā
and when itās over, when youāre limp and dazed and boneless beneath him, he pulls you into his chest and strokes your spine like youāre something delicate. something treasured.
he doesnāt gloat. doesnāt tease. he just kisses your forehead and says,
āyou needed that.ā
like he planned it. like heās known for days.
you thought you knew him.
but the truth is, nanamiās the kind of man who thanks you after eating you out for half an hour, who ruins you with his hands and then helps you into the shower.
heāll say āmay i?ā like heās asking permission to wreck your entire evening.
and when you say yes, he will.
completely.
beautifully.
quietly.a freak.
but always polite.
always in control.
always him.
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