Ken Sato, son of Hayao Sato and Emiko Sato, is among the most Famous Baseball players globally.
He is leaving a ton of reporters to chase and want to know everything about him and his position as a baseball player.
When you Y/N L/N, a famous repor...
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The couch, a stark white contrast to the darkened room, groans under your weight as you move in a rhythm as old as time. The fabric is smooth and cool against your skin, starkly contrasting the heat between you. Your limbs tangle, a dance of passion that speaks volumes without a single word.
His hand finds the back of your neck, gently but firmly guiding you to where he wants you, and you obey willingly, and eagerly. but as he touches you, you forget the paparazzi that saw you.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your neck, the words a fierce whisper. You moan in response, your breath hot and damp against his skin. He traces his fingertips down your spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You arch into him, the curve of your body fitting perfectly against his, a puzzle piece finding its match most intimately.
The word "friend" echoes in his mind, hearing what you said in the interview, it taunts him, fueling his desire to claim you in every way possible. His voice grows gruffer, his words more explicit as he whispers in your ear, "You're not just a friend, are you? You're mine."
Your eyes snap open, locking onto his, and you can see the jealousy in his gaze, the possessiveness that makes your heart race even faster. You bite your bottom lip, trying to hold back the moan that bubbles up from your chest.
"Say it," he demands, his voice a mix of passion and challenge. "Tell me you're not just a friend, tell me you're mine."
Your voice is barely a whisper, lost in the haze of pleasure, but he hears it. "I'm not just a friend," you murmur, and the words are like a drug, spurring him on.
He leans in, his breath hot against your cheek, and whispers, "Then tell me you like this, tell me you want me to be rougher."
Your eyes widen, the idea sending a thrill down your spine. You nod, and the word slips from your mouth. "Yes."
He takes that as his cue, his movements becoming more forceful, his kisses more demanding. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him on, your nails digging into his back.
"Then tell me," he says, his voice a demand, "tell me what you want."
Your breath hitches, but you find the words. "I want you to fuck me like you own me," you gasp out, and the raw carnality of your words only serves to excite him further.
