InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Fragments ❯ Finding Beauty in Negative Spaces ( Chapter 7 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Title: Finding Beauty in Negative Spaces
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Alternate
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Rating: X
Warnings: Language, explicit sex
Word Length: 7468
Summary: “You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.” – Henry David Thoreau

Disclaimer: The Inuyasha concept, story, and characters are copyright Rumiko Takahashi and Viz Media.

She had no sense of time passing; it seemed scarcely a moment had passed since landing in his arms, and now she was being dragged away, hands gripping her shoulders from behind and extracting her from the embrace.

“What happened?!” Akiko cried, her voice unusually shrill to Sango’s ears. The words sounded distant, fading, as if moving through a long tunnel.

Sango appeared to pay her no need, her eyes still focused on Miroku. She was running on sheer adrenaline now, cloaked in a strange sort of aching numbness. Those four horrible words were etched in her mind, taunting her, mocking her – but they wouldn’t come out. She swallowed hard. They were lodged in her throat, choking her.

Akiko’s hands were trembling now, her fingers slick against Sango’s skin, twisting and pulling as her friend turned to Miroku. “What happened?” she tried again. “What did she tell you?”

Please, don’t, Sango pleaded silently, fresh waves of tears pooling in her eyes. She hadn’t meant to tell even him, but something had shifted within her when she’d spotted him, just standing there – open, beckoning, somehow knowing – and it had all come pouring out: the truth of her brother’s fate; the lies of her current existence.

Time seemed to stand still as their gazes locked, and all she wanted to do was hold him, and be held by him. Instinctively, she knew – no words would be necessary.

That’s why she’d come here, why she’d sought him out.

“It’s not for me to say,” he said, the words a mere murmur to her ears, though in reality, they were nearly shouted over the blast of music and crush of bodies that surrounded them.

Before she realized it, his arm was around her shoulders and they were moving, pushing through the pulsating crowd toward the back of the bar. He was saying something, the words lost but the tone soothing, striking just that right note of comfort. After what felt like hours, they trudged to a halt, and Sango found herself in a small, dimly lit office. Lightning streaked across the sky and rain pelted against the window as her eyes roved around the room, taking stock of her surroundings, instinctively, even as her conscious mind was stuck in neutral.

“I keep some extra clothes in the second drawer,” he was saying, indicating an old bureau lodged in the corner of the room. “I sent your friend for a towel. You can change in here, if you want…so you can have some privacy.”

She nodded wordlessly, her eyes trained to the floor, trying not to feel the absence of warmth as he let her go. Instead, she focused on the heaviness of her wet clothes, the way her hair hung limply over her shoulders, the cold clamminess of her own skin. A deep shiver slid down her back as a roll of thunder boomed nearby, and for the first time all evening, she realized she was soaked to the bone.

Something soft and light landed on her shoulders, accompanied by a reassuring squeeze. “I have to go, but I’ll be back,” he promised. “Just – don’t go anywhere, okay? We should talk about this.”

“Okay,” she murmured, surprised at the gravel in her voice.

And then he was gone again, the door meeting the frame with a firm click…but she wasn’t alone.

Sango turned, clutching the towel over her shoulders, and looked at her dearest friend in the world. She knew in her mind that this was the person she should be grieving with; they had shared all their secrets for the last three years, celebrating and mourning and everything in between. No one knew her better than Akiko, save her parents.

And yet, just like them – she was the last person Sango wanted to see at that moment.

“Could you give me a minute?” she asked. “Alone?”

Akiko was crestfallen, unable to keep her concern from showing plainly. “I’m worried about you, Sango,” she said. “I’ve never seen you like this. Please, tell me what happened.”

“I will,” Sango promised, wiping her face with a corner of the towel. “In a minute.”

Akiko opened her mouth, as if in protest, but abruptly closed it, sensing the dismissive quality of the command. “Okay.”

Sango turned again, unable to watch her friend leave, waiting until the door latched again before exhaling sharply. Tears splashed down her cheeks, unheeded, unabated; sobs welled and broke from her chest, drowning in the roars of thunder as the storm moved overhead. How long she stood there, she didn’t know; whether she was shivering from cold or anguish (or both…), she wasn’t aware. She cried until she couldn’t cry anymore, until her knees folded beneath her, the pain raw and ravaging and piercing –

– and then her world was silent again, the only sound meeting her ears that of the rain tapping against the window.

She sat for a moment, leaning on her haunches, her arms curled around her legs, a keen sense of numbness enveloping her at long last. She slowly stood, unfurling her limbs, her gaze never leaving the same spot on the floor. Methodically, she toweled herself off, paying special heed to her hair, drying every single last strand. She slipped out of her shoes, the floor cool beneath her socking feet, and disrobed, her dress sliding around her ankles in a damp pool of ruined silk. As she approached the old bureau, she noticed the mirror propped haphazardly on top of it, leaning back against the wall. Vanity, thy name is Miroku, she mused, the fleeting, silly thought pulling at the corners of her lips.

She rummaged through the middle drawer, finding a nondescript pair of pants and an old t-shirt, just as he’d promised. The clothes were well-worn, but also well-cared for; somehow, even just holding them warmed her on the inside. This was what she was used to – familiar, comforting, worn-to-rags clothes, just like she had at home, in Osaka, before she’d stepped into the glamorous world of her future husband and suddenly had more outfits than she knew what to do with.

She put on the pants first, surprised – and somehow, not – at the way they fit: a size too big, yet still sitting securely on the curve of her hips. For a moment, she just stared down, running her hand over the material, trying to remember the last time she’d worn pants. She always used to wear pants…

…she’d been wearing jeans the day her brother disappeared, and sometimes, could still feel the tug of wet denim against her knees…

She lifted her head abruptly, startled to see the reflection in the mirror. The face and shoulders staring back at her were unrecognizable for a moment: the wide, puffy, red-rimmed eyes, the ashen skin, the stringy hair. Then she saw herself – and the features shifted into a mask: a stoic, if tired, expression, so tightly pronounced and controlled. She swept her hair over one shoulder and combed through it with shaking fingers, all too aware of the last time she’d appeared so disheveled, wanting to banish the memories once more, lest they recall the accompanying pain.

A soft brush of knuckles against wood brought her back to the present; she clutched the shirt to her chest as the door opened slightly. “Sango?”

A flush stole across her cheeks as she fidgeted with the fabric in her hands, gathering it at the hem to pull over her head, but she wasn’t quite fast enough. He’d already stepped back into the room, lips formed into another question – until he caught sight of her bare back.

Or, more likely, the star-shaped scar that bloomed across it.

They always stared, the first time they saw it.

Then they usually turned away in silent horror or disgust, not that she blamed them – it was big and ugly and completely un-ignorable.

But he didn’t turn away.

Miroku hung back wordlessly, but she could feel his eyes tracing the scar, the way the wound cut deep into her flesh, leaving a jagged mark that had never healed properly.

She shoved her arms through the sleeves of the shirt, but something stilled her motions, compelling her to stop, as if to allow him to take it all in, every hideous inch.

“What happened?” he finally asked, his voice slicing through the heavy silence of the room.

She quickly pulled the shirt over her head, reassured as it fluttered down around her waist, hiding her imperfection from view. “It’s an old knife wound,” she informed him, glancing over her shoulder.

His brow furrowed as he searched for the right words. “On your back?” he inquired, pushing up from his spot against the wall, drawing closer to her.

She turned slightly, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I was following a lead on my brother,” she said simply. “I’d heard a rumor he was in the custody of a yakuza gang, but unfortunately, it was just that – a rumor.” She shrugged. “They lured me into a fight and tried to kidnap me, but when I fought back, they decided to kill me instead.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, abruptly, as if the words were spoken automatically, thoughtlessly.

“So am I,” she sighed in response. “Sometimes I wish they’d succeeded.” She bit her lip, unable to meet his concerned gaze. “Although never more so than now.”

“You don’t mean that,” he replied, his tone light, airy. He gathered her close, and she felt herself melting into the welcome warmth of his embrace. She closed her eyes as she laid her head upon his shoulder, breathing deeply. The scent of alcohol permeated his clothes, but his skin smelled like fresh rain and soap, and even that mixture took her back – her parents had indulged their vices when Kohaku disappeared; her father drank Japanese beer while her mother preferred to sip sake in the dark.

She lifted her head, turning inward, unfolding her arms and hugging him back, finding great comfort in the solid wall of his chest against hers, the way it rose and fell in steady rhythm under his breath. His hold on her tightened, just a little, one hand floating up to cup the base of her neck. Warmth flowed from his fingertips, spreading over her shoulder, rising up into the roots of her hair, and she concentrated on the sensation. There were no more tears left to cry, no more angry sobs lodged deep in her core – there was only numbness, and now his warmth, his comfort, his strength.

Time flowed around them unmarked; it was all she could to do hang on to him, to keep her mind from shutting down completely and floating away. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips, and she heard – and felt – his sharp intake of breath; it was only then that she realized how close her mouth was to his. Her eyes slipped shut as she bridged the gap, lifting her chin to kiss him fully. He stiffened momentarily, then relaxed, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, sending tendrils of heat curling though her skin in response.

He eased her mouth open a little more, tilting his head to find the better angle, and she followed his lead, pressing herself closer. It was as if a whole other channel between them had opened; her heart fluttered and her abdomen constricted but she held herself open, receiving, desiring consolation and reassurance even more directly than before. The kiss was slow, cautious, almost embarrassingly virginal, but it wasn’t the way their mouths slanted together that drew her in; no, more than anything, she wanted to crawl inside him, to bury herself in his strength until she recovered her own, to hide from the shattered remains of her own wrecked life.

If she could live in that moment for the rest of her life, she vowed, she would. It was quite perfect…

…until the hand at her waist drifted north, meeting and smothering the scar on her back, bringing her crashing back down to reality.

She pulled away from him tersely, but he wouldn’t let her leave the circle of his arms completely.

“I thought you came here to talk,” he murmured after a moment.

She crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to look him in the eye. “Don’t you have to go check on your bar?” she snapped defensively as a hot flame of embarrassment flushed her cheeks. This is what happens when you lose yourself, she silently berated. You have to stay in control. Truth be told, she felt a bit horrified that she’d started kissing him in the midst of such grief and tragedy.

He frowned as he regarded her. “It’s 2 am, Sango,” he replied gently, patiently. “One of my waitresses is closing down for me up front –that’s why I came back here, to check on you.”

Sango opened her mouth to respond, only to hear another, frantic series of knocks on the door. She looked over Miroku’s shoulder just in time to see Akiko burst into the room, tears streaking down her cheeks in complement to the wild concern marring her expression.

“God, Sango, please,” she begged, “please, tell me what happened! I’ve been beating myself up trying to think of explanations, and all I can think of is – ” She choked up, taking the moment to wipe away her tears. “All I can think is, something happened to your brother.”

Sango tightened the brace of her arms, again attempting to leave Miroku’s embrace, but he pulled her close instead, close enough to whisper in her ear: “You can talk to me, or you can talk to her, but either way – you’re not leaving until you talk to one of us about this. You can’t keep this all bottled up inside. It’s enough to break even you, and you know it.”

Sango bit her lips, her resistance rising high, wishing he would just realize why she came here, why she sought him out: words weren’t supposed to be necessary. He understood her. He didn’t judge her. He reminded her of the way she used to be, and she wanted to be that person again.

He released her and turned, placing one arm around her waist as if in support as they faced the shaking Akiko. “Sango?” she tried again. “Talk to me.”

Finally, she relented, realizing there was no other way out. She just wanted this all to be over anyway. “My brother is dead,” she said, preternaturally calm, each word enunciated carefully, perfectly.

“Oh, God, are you sure?!” Akiko gasped, moving closer, arms poised to reach out to her friend.

“I’m sure,” Sango shot back, her fingers digging into her palms as she clenched her fists under her breasts. She heaved a deep, albeit shaky, breath. “They…showed me pictures.” A blur of memory swirled behind her eyes and she turned away, even from Miroku, squeezing her eyes shut, blocking the dark shadows from her mind.

Akiko threw her arms around Sango, not caring that her friend didn’t reciprocate, and hugged her as tightly as she could. “I’m so sorry, Sango,” she whispered. “I’m just…so damn sorry.”

Sango found she couldn’t resist her friend’s sorrow, knowing it to be deep and genuine, even beneath the dramatics. Akiko knew her inside and out, and her visible pain reflected Sango’s own inner anguish. It was almost a relief, to allow her friend to cry these tears for her, to feel the despair and distress on her behalf.

“Is this why you came here?” Miroku asked softly, brushing Sango’s hair from her brow, tilting his head to indicate Akiko’s reaction as she clung to her friend and sobbed.

She nodded slightly, hooking her arms around her friend at long last, acknowledging her reaction and accepting it for what it was. “I feel safe with you,” she said simply in return.

She was surprised to see the small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “See?” he breathed, leaning closer, his mouth on level with her ear. “Those aren’t the words of someone who wishes to die.”

“Dammit, Sango,” Akiko cut in, heedless of the whispered words flowing over her head, “we should probably go home. I mean – fuck, does Karanousuke know?” She straightened, rubbing the corners of her eyes in a vain attempt to stop her tears. “He should know, you know.”

“He knows,” Sango said shortly, drawing a look of surprise from both Akiko and Miroku. Her eyes were steady on her friend as she dredged up the nerve to say the rest. “Who the hell do you think told me?”

Akiko’s jaw dropped, a look of absolute disbelief searing her features. “That prick,” she swore. “How long has he known?”

Sango shrugged. “Long enough to know that telling me would ultimately hurt me,” she intoned bitterly.

Akiko drew herself up to her full height, stomping across the small space to pick up the remnants of Sango’s dress. “That bastard,” she vowed, balling the ruined silk between her fists. She turned back to her friend. “You should give him a piece of your mind!”

Sango shuddered where she should. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Like hell!” Akiko cried. She marched back to her friend, grabbing her hand and attempting to pull her from the spot at which she was rooted. “That’s the least of what he deserves for putting you through this!”

“I agree,” Miroku cut in, drawing both girls’ attention to him, “but maybe right now isn’t the time for it.” He reached out, breaching the grip Akiko held, allowing Sango’s hand to fall back to her side. “I think she should sleep on it, and confront him after she’s gathered her thoughts on the matter.”

Sango looked at him swiftly, taking in his determined expression, shooting him a small, grateful smile in response.

“Come on,” he said, sending Akiko ahead of them out the door before curling his hand over Sango’s shoulder. “Let me take you home.”

I’m just fulfilling my promise, Miroku told himself, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he surreptitiously glanced around, taking in his surroundings. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve seen a patron home, or to their door, even. This is just me, being a responsible and friendly barkeep.

The elevator chimed, indicating it had reached its final destination, and the elegant double doors opened into the most opulent hallway he’d ever seen. “It’s this way,” murmured the woman at his side, stepping out in front of him and turning left.

Miroku’s throat was suddenly dry as he followed her. Oh, who the hell am I kidding, he thought. This is nothing like those other times. He drew to a halt at the end of the corridor, glancing down at Sango as she fumbled for her key. I’ve never wanted to stay any other time.

The door swung open. “Would you like to come in?” she asked, looking up at him. “Stay for a drink?”

No, no, no, no, his inner voice chanted, clanging against his brain with ever-more-alarming force.

“Sure,” he said, relieved to hear his voice calm, the tone easy in his ears.

She looked as relieved as he felt. “Right this way,” she replied, ushering him into the room and turning on the light.

His breath caught in his chest as the room was illuminated – it was a luxurious expanse, stretching as far and wide as the eye could see. A sliding glass door leading out to the balcony was straight ahead, with another door leading off the immediate room situated to the right. Before him sat two large sofas, covered in dark leather, and a dining room table and chairs the color of rich bamboo. Sango moved off to his left and he peeked around the corner after her, eyeing a kitchen full of stainless steel cookware and cabinetry, surrounded on all sides by marble countertops. The entirety of his little apartment downtown could fit in this one space, and dimly, he realized, he hadn’t seen the half of it.

Sango was standing in front of the full-size refrigerator, staring at its contents listlessly. Silently, Miroku padded over, startled by the feel of cool tile beneath his feet. “Can I help you with anything?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder. His stomach twisted a little at the sight of so much fresh foliage and gourmet offerings, but he kept his mouth shut. He’d been around the block enough to know how to keep a firm grip on his sometimes desperate appetites.

“Pick your poison,” she replied, gesturing to the bottom shelf. “Vodka, gin, rum…? I appear to have quite the variety.”

He quirked his brow at that last comment, but deign let it pass. “Vodka?” he suggested, glancing through the rest of the fridge. He pointed up. “We can mix it with anything and pretend it isn’t there.”

She chuckled, pulling out the liter of orange juice he indicated along with the bottle of liquor. “I like the way you think,” she mused, setting them on the counter and pulling out two short, fat breakfast glasses.

“Allow me,” he suggested, reaching for the bottles. She complied silently, crossing her arms lightly over her midsection as she watched him mix the drinks. He felt better handling the measuring, knowing how to pour perfectly blended drinks by feel, all while creating the illusion he was using more alcohol than strictly necessary. She was a girl who drank to drown her sorrows, and considering how deep they were running tonight…

“Here you are,” he said with a flourish, handing her one of the glasses. She appeared amused by his antics, and secretly he was glad, for he was unsure how to handle the situation at the moment. He’d seen the wild swings in her emotions already that night, and the last thing he wanted was to leave under the strain of anger or duress. No doubt she had been worn thin by the events of the day already; the last thing she needed was to go to bed upset.

He downed his own drink, ignoring the telltale tightening of his chest at the idea of her, in bed. She probably had a huge, soft, down-feather-sinking-into-the-bed mattress, covered with silk sheets and a big, warm comforter, wide enough to roll over two or three times before meeting either end…or big enough for two to lay comfortably together in the middle…

He choked a bit as air suddenly filled his mouth, and he realized he’d finished the cocktail all in one sweep. His heart was beating wildly in his chest as he righted himself, pushing back the reckless images all too familiar in his mind. Get a grip, he admonished himself. This is hardly the time to be thinking about sex. She’s feeling lower than low already – she hardly needs to be objectified on top of that.

But he found himself lucky, as he spiraled back down to the present, that she wasn’t paying attention to the war he fought within himself. Instead, she had wandered back out into the living room area of the suite, dallying with her drink as she stared out into the cityscape. Her expression had softened in the meanwhile, and she looked so forlorn – her eyes were filmy, her mouth slightly pouty, one of the muscles in her jaw ticking as she chewed on her lower lip. He wondered how she felt in that moment, if she was reliving some past memory or pang of anguish, or if she was silently berating herself for ‘letting her brother get away’, as she so often seemed to do, or if she was plotting her fiance’s death – hopefully in slow, torturous fashion.

She felt something, at least, even if he couldn’t quite decipher what, and that was a good thing. Nothing was quite so scary as listening to her admit a bitter death wish, one that bloomed not from pain, but from bleak numbness. He’d known exactly the well from which she was drawing, and that’s why he’d merely embraced her in response, pulling her close, trying to imbue her with warmth and vitality and remind her that she had something to live for, even in the wake of such tragedy. It was what he’d needed when he’d faced the same terror…only he hadn’t received it, being completely alone in the world.

Maybe he didn’t have a place in hers, but dammit, he couldn’t bear to see those same scars surface in another person – especially not one as bright and fiery and willful as her. She’d been through a hell of a lot already, and he knew, deep in his gut, that if she could hang on for these first few days, she would find a way to dig herself out of even this.

He also knew, deep in his gut, that he was going to suffer right along with her – even if she pushed him away. His first impression – of not knowing, and yet somehow knowing her all the same – had only strengthened over the course of their long conversations; in her, he found something worthy of investment…for the first time since his father’s death. He’d never allowed himself to grow close to anyone after losing the last vestige of his natural family, knowing all too well the pain associated with that, but there was something about her – something innate, primal – that drew him to her. It was, by pure chance, that they’d met, but he knew better than to let such an opportunity go squandered.

He looked down, shifting his weight from one leg to another. He also realized that, to do this right – to keep her friendship, her loyalty, her trust – meant putting aside his own needs. His experience with women and their emotions led him to his next thought, however reluctant he was to voice it.

“Do you think you’ll be okay tonight?” he asked, approaching her on quiet feet, forcing himself to relax and adopt a calm expression.

Slowly, her eyes drifted over to him, and she shifted, ever so slightly, almost folding into herself. He studied her for a moment, reading the signs of her face as well as those of her body, before reaching out, touching her in a way most familiar, sliding his hand over the back of her neck and dipping his fingers over her shoulder.

She closed her eyes, leaning into the caress, and smiled faintly. “Yes,” she replied, and his heart skipped a beat, relief settling into his chest as he gave her a reassuring squeeze.

“But only if you stay.”

His heart suddenly lodged in his throat. “Sango, I – ”

But his objection was cut off as she pressed herself close, wrapping her arms around him and tucking her head into the hollow of his neck. “Please, don’t leave,” she pleaded in a whisper, her breath warm against his ear. “I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Not…after…”

Her words trailed into the night air as he returned her embrace, closing his arms around her waist. After a moment, he allowed a hand to drift up her back, inching nearer to the scar he knew was there, one that had fascinated and horrified him all at the same time…one that she hadn’t allowed him to touch before, wrenching away at the barest stroke of broken skin. It was almost a test, to his mind: could things really have shifted so much in the space of a few hours?

She inhaled sharply as his hand came to rest over it, her fingernails digging into the backs of his shoulders, but she didn’t flinch as he expected. Tentatively, he smoothed a circle over the spot, gently, like a masseur, his fingers finding and tracing the edges of unevenly healed flesh. She let loose a deep, jagged breath, warm tears pooling on his shoulder, but she held herself still under his exploration.

He furrowed his brow at her reaction, stilling his hand over her back. “Why do you wish me to stay?” he asked, genuinely curious, when it was obvious he had upset her by touching her in this way.

She sniffled. “I’m so tired of feeling alone,” she replied. “My world has crumbled all around me, and I don’t know what to do, except be numb.” She sighed. “But when I’m with you…I can feel again. Something besides sorrow and anger.”

She lifted her head, pressing her tear-stained cheek to his. “I feel comfortable with you, because you accept me for who I am – not who I used to be, or who I could be.”

His heart was pounding furiously in his chest; it was all he could to do hear her over the roar of blood in his ears. “That’s because I know you right now,” he whispered in response. “And I want to stay with you.”

She stiffened and shuddered, and he felt fresh tears roll down her cheeks. Her emotional barriers were falling, and she was letting him in – and he knew he had to tread carefully, even in the face of his own eagerness. He lifted his hand away from the scar on her back, touching her cheek, using the pad of his thumb to wipe away her tears. She shifted closer, pressing her lips to his, and he took the opportunity to lay his own heart bare, inviting her to stay, and take, and find within him what he sought in her.

The kiss was slow, reminiscent of the few shared back at the bar, more in the vein of seeking comfort and solace than a declaration of pleasure or anticipation. He was patient, however, letting her take the lead, waiting for her to relax. It seemed so odd to him that the tears kept coming, even as the kisses began to lengthen and deepen. After a few long, tense moments, he pulled away slightly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I can make you feel better,” he murmured.

“Better?” she echoed, frowning slightly, two more tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Yes,” he said. “You just have to trust me, open yourself up with me, more than you did with your last lover.”

She shivered in response, and he stopped breathing for a moment as surprise rocked through him. Surely she understood the implications of her plea for him to stay the night…?

“I trust you,” she replied after a moment, leaning in to kiss him again, curling her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I trust the way I feel with you.”

Good, he surmised silently, surprised but pleased when she opened her mouth to him, inviting the advances of his tongue.

Heat began to build between them, a steady rise in body temperature as well as the first tendrils of passion flaring forth. Their kisses grew hungrier, more urgent, more exciting as tongues met, touched, laved together. Their mutual embrace intensified – chest to chest, breath for breath, heartbeat racing against heartbeat. Fingers and hands began to explore, drifting through hair, over shoulders, along sides. His heart skipped a beat as his hand found the curve of her bottom, copping an appreciative squeeze through very familiar clothing.

She pulled away first, her breath rising hard and fast in her chest as she grabbed his hand and led him out of the living room, pushing through the door he’d seen earlier on the right. She tried to lead him into the room, but he stopped her at the door, his eyes wide as he took in the beauty and breathtaking expanse of it all.

There was not one large bed, as he’d suspected, but two slightly smaller ones, set far enough apart for separate nightstands but still filling the space. The glass wall with the sliding door leading to the balcony extended into this room, and the first pink rays of dawn were beginning to lighten across the cityscape. Sango glanced back at him, questions gathering in her expression, and he brought her close once again, tracing his lips down the column of her throat.

“Sit on the bed near the window,” he instructed softly as his lips found her earlobe.

She furrowed her brow as she gazed down at him. “Why?”

“It’ll be better over there,” he replied, nuzzling her ear. “Just trust me.”

She shrugged, and sighed under his ministrations, and led him to his preferred destination, sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the curtained glass wall. As she tried to move over the mattress, he stopped her, drawing her upright and keeping her on the edge, kneeling at the bedside.

She giggled nervously as his mouth moved away from hers, his tongue blazing a lazy, yet sensuous trail down the side of her neck. His right hand stole underneath the too-large shirt, sliding up and down her side with gentle, teasing strokes, his fingers splaying over her back and his thumb tracing patterns over her belly, her ribs, and under the curve of her breast.

“What are you doing?” she sputtered between breaths as he pulled at the collar of the t-shirt, stretching it wide with his free hand so that he could kiss the skin of her shoulder.

He smiled as he made his way back to her mouth. “Why don’t we play a little game?” he suggested coyly, between kisses.

She stiffened. “A game?” she repeated skeptically.

He stilled his roving hands, curving both around her waist as he kissed her softly. “You’ll like it, I promise,” he said, pressing himself close to her, matching the reassuring embraces they had started with. “You’ll be in complete control.”

She didn’t appear convinced. “And if I don’t like it, we can stop?”

He kissed her again, long and sweet. “Of course.”

She tightened the brace of her arms across his back before replying. “Okay,” she finally relented, and he wondered just what had happened to her in the past to elicit such a reaction.

He gave her another sweet kiss, just for good measure, before continuing. “The rules of the game are very simple,” he explained. “All you have to do is keep both hands on my shoulders, and stay upright.”

He positioned her hands on his shoulders as she looked at him curiously. “And what are you going to do?”

“This,” he replied, kissing her. He lingered at her lips but for a moment before moving on, nipping at her chin, her neck, and her shoulder. She gasped slightly as his mouth continued moving south, pressing light kisses to her chest over the shirt. His hand drifted up from its place at the base of her spine, moving under the shirt along the same general path. As he came to her breasts, he began to use his teeth, grazing them across the smooth, sensitive skin, using the friction of the fabric to his advantage in this teasing manner. As he finished with one and moved on to the other, he cupped her in his hand, earning another gasp of surprise and pleasure. He took his time, tracing his fingers across the fast-warming skin, delighting in the shivers of anticipation that floated down her spine when he found her nipple and tweaked it into a perfect pearl.

His second hand soon joined the first, and he surprised her by switching directions, leaning back up to kiss her again as he took his own pleasure in caressing her breasts. They were beautiful – he could tell without even looking – the shape and size a perfect fit to his hand. She relaxed under his attentions, her body sinking into the mattress, her legs opening before him.

He continued along the path he’d previously forged, moving down the valley between her breasts, still kissing her through the thin cloth of the shirt, landing home on the flat planes of her belly. He earned a small giggle as he planted a kiss in her belly button, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over her sides, under her ribs. Gently, he steered her closer to the edge of the bed, pulling away slightly when he found the waistband of the pants she wore.

Her fingers began to dig into his shoulders as he worked open the clasp, pulling down the zipper. “Do you think you can stand up for a second?” he murmured, taking fistfuls of the loosened fabric.

She did as asked, using him as leverage to lift herself off the mattress, and he tugged the pants down. They gave way easily, sliding down the length of her long, slim legs, and he motioned for her to sit again. He could sense the anxiety that crept into her posture, straightening her back and bringing her legs together in deference to modesty. He assented, simply stroking the backs of her calves at first, allowing her to grow comfortable with the position. A bit more natural light had crept into the room, just enough to tease his senses.

He pressed a kiss just inside her knee. “Are you okay?” he asked, caressing the top of her thigh.

Immediately, the pressure lifted from his shoulders. “Yes,” she replied, taking a deep breath.

He smiled against her skin. “I promise, I don’t bite,” he teased. “Unless, of course, you want me to.”

She laughed, but it sounded forced, so he stayed by her knee, pressing another soft kiss next to the joint. Incrementally, she began to relax into his touch, and he moved forward, leaving quick, fiery kisses along the line of her inner thigh. She tensed as he drew nearer to his ultimate destination, so he moved on, continuing along the other leg, taking the time to learn each secret sweet spot with his hands and his mouth. Her skin was fragrant, a mix of warm vanilla and lemon, probably the result of some special soap or lotion, but to him, it fit perfectly – comfortable, sweet, a hint of tart lurking just beneath the surface.

Finally, finally, after what seemed like hours of sweet torture, he moved back to her core, gently pushing her legs farther apart as he zeroed in. Here was the evidence of her arousal, the product of all his prior practice, and the first, tentative taste sent a jolt straight to his groin.

She was wet, so beautifully, gorgeously wet already – he could practically taste her through the fabric of her panties. Wasting no time, he reached up, hooking his fingers at the waistband on her hips and tugging them down, revealing to him the prize he’d worked so hard for. She was breathing heavily, her nails digging deep into his shoulders, but that hardly registered as he leaned close, inhaling the very scent of her.

He touched her first, anticipating the tremors that shook her spine, using the faint light of breaking day to guide his hand in its exploration, moving through the mound of brown curls, stroking the length of her before finding and rubbing her clit. He loved the way she shivered as he licked and kissed, the way her hips began to move, splitting her legs open even further, almost begging for his touch. He opened her innermost folds and plunged in with his tongue, and she almost lost the plot, arching her back as she mewled with pleasure, clutching with her fingertips at the seams of his shirt. He steadied her somewhat with his hands, lacing her legs over his arms as he held onto her waist, and continued his steady movements. His tongue moved all along the length of her, teasing and tasting and tempting, and he was impressed with her endurance, at adhering to the rules of their game, at holding herself upright and fighting the natural desire to lay back and allow him free reign.

When he flicked his tongue on her clit, she finally gave way, releasing him and falling back on the bed, lifting her hips to meet his thrusts. He couldn’t resist suckling at it, for just a moment, before breaking away, rocking back on his hands as he fought to catch his breath.

“Oh,” she mumbled, almost desperately, “don’t stop!”

He laughed, reaching up to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. “You let go,” he informed her. “Rules of the game.”

She bolted upright, surprise and even a hint of distress crossing her features. “Fuck,” she whispered, and he couldn’t help himself from laughing – the foul word dropped from her mouth just as dainty as you please!

She slapped her hand over her mouth and looked ready to weep, so he quickly pushed himself up and took her into his arms. “None of that, now,” he whispered in her ear. “We’ve only just begun.”

She made some sound of approval as he kissed her again, a rocket of surprise shooting down his spine (and straight to his ever-tightening groin) as she opened her mouth to him. There was something wicked about tasting her, all of her, like this, but he took what she was willing to give.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him as they continued to kiss, and then it was her turn to give a command. “Under the covers,” she directed him. “I like to be surrounded and warm when I make love.”

His heart pounded just a little faster in his chest as he reached for the exquisitely appointed sheets, pulling them all way in one decidedly ungraceful move. She laughed anyway, climbing into the bed, and he followed shortly thereafter, only pausing to shed his clothing. She tossed away his old t-shirt as he sank into the luxurious softness of the bed, and he responded by pulling her close as he warmed under the layers of bedclothes, enjoying the slickness of the heat he’d worked up within her.

For a moment, they merely lay together, indulging in the welcome wonder of skin against skin, hands treading over now familiar territory. He took the opportunity to properly adore her breasts, touching and tasting and teasing with his lips and tongue and teeth, until she was breathing deep and hard and fast, heating pouring from her core. She had her turn to explore as well, her hand finding and teasing his now rock-hard length. She stroked him several times before rolling over until she sat astride him, her long hair falling over her back and curtaining him.

She knew how to tease as well, rocking over just enough to guide the tip into her warmth before backing away, even managing to resist his urgings to allow him entrance. She smiled and laughed and nuzzled him even as she taunted him, which only served to make him want her more, more, more; when he finally reached his breaking point she capitulated, sliding down over the length of him, and he wondered if, in that moment, he’d managed to touch the edge of heaven.

She began to move against him, but he stilled her, splaying his hands over her hips, exploring the sensation. She leaned down, touching his face, kissing his lips, but never asking the obvious question – and that made him wonder if she felt it too: the way their bodies connected, the way he felt inside her, the way she could still embrace him so fully even from such a position of power. It was as if they were two perfect circles entwined.

Neither spoke as they began to move, both with and against each other, spirals of heat and desire and need circulating around them, through them. She never sat up more than was absolutely necessary, preferring to stay as close to him as possible – kissing, if possible – sweet, long kisses of comfort and want and reassurance. It was such a strange experience for Miroku, as if his heart was breaking and healing all at once.

He opened his eyes when he felt tears splash down on his cheeks, and Sango broke away at that moment, shuddering through her climax, clinging to him, her muscles spasming around him, triggering his own fall from the cliff. White hot need burst through him as he felt himself empty inside her, and he knew –

– He knew, no doubt in his mind –

– that they would be forever entangled after this moment.

Sango curled beside him in the aftermath, her skin flushed and radiant, and she looked at him with large, rounded eyes. “Did you feel that?” she whispered, as if fearful of his answer, that it would be no.

He pulled her close, his arms encircling her waist, his hands twining through the glossy strands of her hair. “Yeah,” he replied in a hushed tone.

She burrowed a bit closer, worrying the edge of her lower lip as she rested her head against his chest. “Have you ever felt it before?” she wondered aloud.

He swallowed hard, hoping her answer would be the same. “No.”