My Strict Boss Is the Secret Artist Drawing Spicy Comics of Us novel · Chapter 6 of 24

Chapter 6: Nakano

The door shut behind Sota, and the report hit the floor, and he had not even seen the room yet.

The chief had him against the wood with a forearm across his chest and a mouth on his neck.

"You held it," the chief said.

"Four days."

"All four?"

"I filed a log, Chief. I can show you."

The chief made a noise that was nearly a laugh and bit him under the ear instead.

Sota's knees went.

He had climbed three flights of bare concrete stairs with a pulse of two hundred.

Now he was breathing the air of his chief's actual apartment.

It smelled of ink and coffee and clean laundry.

Over the chief's shoulder, past the heat of his body, Sota could see a standing monitor, three drawing tablets and a wall.

The wall was covered in paper.

Sketches. A hundred of them, taped edge to edge.

A man asleep on his folded arms at a desk.

A man holding a rice ball in both hands.

A man looking back over his shoulder, with a crooked tuft of hair and pink ears.

Sota looked at them for one second.

He decided, with great firmness, that he had not looked.

"Eyes on me, Ichinose."

"Yes, Chief."

"Jacket."

Sota shrugged out of it and let it fall.

The chief undid his tie with two sharp tugs, and slid it out from under the collar, and dropped it on the pile.

Then the shirt, one button at a time, the cool backs of his fingers dragging down Sota's chest.

He was not slow because he was gentle.

He was slow because he was reading him.

When the shirt came off, he put his palm flat over Sota's racing heart and held it there.

"You're shaking."

"It's cold."

"It's twenty-six degrees."

"It's a cold twenty-six, Chief."

The hand moved down his ribs, over the ridge of muscle at his stomach, and flicked open his belt.

"Against the desk," the chief said.

Sota walked backwards until the edge of the drawing desk hit the back of his thighs.

The chief dropped to his knees in front of him.

Sota stopped being able to think.

"Chief, you don't have to."

"I am aware of what I don't have to do." The chief took the waistband in both hands. "Hold the desk."

Sota gripped the edge of the desk with both fists.

His trousers and briefs went down to his ankles in one tug.

His cock was so hard that it pointed straight at the man's mouth, wet at the tip, jerking with every breath.

The chief looked at it for a long moment with his glasses on.

"It's accurate," he said, to himself, in a dazed voice.

"What?"

"Nothing. Ichinose. Look at the ceiling."

Sota looked at the ceiling, and the hot mouth closed over him.

He cried out.

It was nothing like a manga panel.

It was slick and tight and wet, the flat of a tongue, the soft drag of lips, a hand around the base twisting in time.

The chief took him deep, much deeper than he should have been able to, and held there with his nose against Sota's stomach.

Sota's hips jerked.

He grabbed the desk so hard that a stylus rolled off and clattered to the floor.

"Chief," he said, and swore. "Chief, I'm going to."

The mouth pulled off.

"No," said the chief.

His lips were red and wet, and his glasses had slid down his nose.

"You'll come when I say, and not before."

"That's cruel."

"It's procedure."

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