Hana's entire body trembled as she perched on Minato's lap, the firm muscle of his thighs unyielding beneath her.
His palms rested possessively at her waist, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate arcs that sent shivers racing across her skin.
The thin silk of her yukata felt suddenly too hot, too thin, as though it might dissolve under the heat radiating from him.
"I see where Hinata learned such exquisite beauty," Minato murmured, voice a low, dangerous purr. His hand lifted, fingertips ghosting along the curve of her cheek, then lower—brushing the frantic pulse at her throat. "So soft… so perfectly ripe."
A helpless flush surged across her cheeks. "Th-thank you, Lord Fourth…" The honorific trembled out of her, small and dazed.
Minato's smile deepened, wicked and tender at once. "Your heart is racing." His palm slid from her waist, gliding upward between the soft weight of her breasts until it rested directly over the frantic drum of her pulse. "I can feel it trying to leap straight into my hand."
Hana's spine arched without permission. The thin silk of her yukata did nothing to dull the heat of his skin; if anything, it made every sensation sharper. She should pull away.
She should protest. Her husband sat only a few paces across the room, watching in silence. And yet… Hiashi had not moved. Had not spoken. Had not saved her.
"I—I know you won't hurt me," she whispered, voice cracking. "But sitting like this… in a man's lap… I've never—"
"Never?" Minato's brows lifted in mock surprise. His gaze flicked to Hiashi, amusement glittering. "Not even your husband's?"
She shook her head, mortified. "Only… only my mother's, when I was small."
A soft, sympathetic sound rumbled in his chest. "Then let me correct that oversight." His hand slipped beneath the hem of her yukata, warm fingers gliding up the trembling length of her calf, over the sensitive back of her knee, then higher—slow, deliberate, claiming every inch.
When he reached the plush give of her inner thigh, he paused, letting the heat of his palm soak through the last fragile barrier of silk.
Hana's breath hitched on a whimper. Her legs parted without conscious permission—just enough for his hand to slide fully between them.
He stopped a mere whisper from her core, close enough that she could feel the throb of her own pulse echoing against his fingertips.
"Hiashi," Minato called, conversational, as though he weren't currently stroking maddening circles along skin no man but her husband had ever touched. "Stand."
Hiashi rose instantly, spine straight, face carved from ice.
"Now cut your hair."
The kunai flashed. Long, midnight strands—each one a testament to Hyūga pride, to centuries of unbowed lineage—fell in heavy ropes to the tatami. Hana's stomach lurched.
She had brushed that hair herself on quiet nights, had seen Hiashi's fingers linger over it with something close to reverence. Watching it severed at another man's command felt like watching her marriage bleed out onto the floor.
"Kneel."
Hiashi dropped to his knees without hesitation.
Minato's fingers pressed higher, nudging damp silk aside until the pads of two fingertips finally grazed her bare, swollen folds. Hana cried out—soft, broken—hips jerking forward into the touch before shame could stop her.
"Shh," Minato soothed against her ear, lips brushing the sensitive lobe. "Look at him, Hana. See how perfectly he obeys."
Hiashi's head remained bowed, shoulders rigid.
Minato's thumb swept upward, parting her, spreading slick heat until it circled her clit with devastating precision.
Hana's nails dug into his shoulders through his cloak. Pleasure—sharp, humiliating, exquisite—stabbed through her core.
She hated how instantly her body responded, how her thighs trembled to open wider, how wetness flooded his fingers as though she'd been starving for this touch her entire life.
She shouldn't want this. She was a married woman, a Hyūga matriarch, yet every slow stroke of his thumb sent liquid fire pouring through her veins.
Her clit throbbed beneath his touch, swollen and aching, and still he kept the pressure feather-light—just enough to torment, never enough to satisfy.
"Tell me, Hiashi," Minato said pleasantly, sinking one finger inside her with deliberate slowness. Hana's back bowed; a strangled moan tore free. "How does it feel, watching another man open your wife on his lap? Watching her drip for someone who isn't you?"
Hiashi's voice, when it came, was perfectly steady. "It is… an honor, my Lord Fourth. That my wife may serve the village in this way—that she may bring pleasure to the man who protects us all—is the highest privilege the Hyūga can offer."
The words struck Hana like a slap. She stared at her husband, kneeling shorn and broken, and felt something inside her chest fracture cleanly in two.
All these years she had told herself his coldness was duty, his distance was discipline. She had never imagined he would trade her body so calmly, so completely.
Minato added a second finger, curling them until they pressed against a spot that made white sparks explode behind her eyes.
Hana's head fell back against his shoulder, a helpless cry spilling from her lips. Her hips rolled forward shamelessly, chasing the pressure, even as tears slipped hot down her temples.
"Listen to him," Minato whispered, lips brushing the tears from her skin. "He gives you to me. Freely. Eagerly." His fingers pumped once, twice—slow, wet sounds loud in the silence. "And your body, sweet Hana… your body is singing for it."
Hana's entire world narrowed to the slow, deliberate glide of Minato's fingers.
When his thumb first settled over her clit, feather-light, the shock of pleasure was so acute it felt like lightning striking the base of her spine.
A violent shudder ripped through her; her thighs jerked open wider without permission, as though her body had already surrendered to him completely.
Heat exploded outward from that single point of contact, molten and unstoppable, flooding her belly, her breasts, the tips of her fingers until every nerve ending sang with it.
He circled once, slow, and Hana's vision whited out.
A broken cry tore from her throat, high and helpless. Her clit had never felt this swollen, this sensitive; each lazy swirl of his thumb dragged raw, exquisite fire across the bundle of nerves, sending pulse after pulse of liquid ecstasy throbbing through her core.
She could feel herself growing impossibly wetter, slick coating his fingers, dripping down the inside of her thigh in shameful evidence of how desperately she craved more.
Then he slid two fingers inside her.
The stretch was perfect, devastating. Her inner walls clamped down instantly, fluttering around the intrusion, trying to pull him deeper even as her mind screamed that this was wrong.
Minato crooked his fingers, pressing upward, and found that secret spot with merciless accuracy.
Pleasure detonated.
Hana's back arched so violently her head fell against his shoulder, mouth open on a silent scream. White-hot bliss poured through her in relentless waves, each one stronger than the last, coiling tighter and tighter low in her belly.
Her hips rolled forward of their own accord, grinding shamelessly against his hand, chasing the pressure that made her feel like she was coming apart at the seams.
Every thrust of his fingers sent a fresh surge of ecstasy crashing over her. She could feel herself clenching rhythmically, inner muscles rippling around him in helpless, greedy pulses.
Her clit throbbed beneath the slow, maddening drag of his thumb, swollen to the point of pain, each circle drawing a raw sob from her throat. Her entire body trembled on the knife-edge of climax, suspended there by his cruel, perfect control.
She was burning alive.
Tears streamed down her face, not from sorrow now but from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it. Her nipples ached against the silk of her yukata, tight and straining. Her thighs shook uncontrollably, spread wide and trembling, offering herself up to him like a sacrifice.
Every breath came in ragged, desperate gasps; every heartbeat echoed in her clit, in the slick clutch of her core, in the frantic drum beneath his palm where it still rested over her heart.
She had never known pleasure could feel like this: like dying, like being reborn, like every nerve in her body had been stripped raw and set alight. She was nothing but heat and need and the relentless, ruinous stroke of his fingers inside her.
And still he kept her teetering on the brink, never quite letting her fall.
"Look at you," Minato whispered against her tear-soaked temple, voice rough with satisfaction.
"Soaked and shaking, coming undone on my hand while your husband kneels and watches. You've never been touched properly before, have you? Not once."
Hana could only whimper, hips jerking helplessly, chasing the orgasm he refused to grant.
Her entire existence had become the slick drag of his fingers, the slow torture of his thumb, the unbearable, exquisite ache building and building inside her until she thought she might shatter into a thousand pieces.
She was lost to it, completely, utterly lost, and the worst part was how much she never wanted it to end.
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