"It’s perfect," he corrected. He turned the chair around so I was facing him, trapped between his arms. He reached for a bottle of finishing oil, rubbing a few drops into his palms until they were warm.
He stopped.
I opened my eyes to find him hovering inches away, his dark hair falling over his brow, his gaze intense and focused. He pulled his hands from the water, his wet fingers trailing slowly down my jawline, leaving a path of fire in their wake. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over my ear. "It’s perfect," he corrected
: Fumi genuinely admires Sousuke's talent. Her struggle is balancing that respect with the overwhelming physical response he triggers in her. He stopped
Saki stood behind her, but he wasn't looking at her hair. His gaze was fixed on her nape, exposed and vulnerable. He leaned in close, the scent of shampoo and his own distinct cologne filling her senses, making her dizzy. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over my ear
Three cultural currents have pushed “ore no yubi de midarero” from niche manga dialogue to viral keyword: