One day, Raidou was going to ask why ANBU ever bothered classifying anything when they made a point of tattooing their agents for all the world to see.

Ryouma had his own artwork: a bright, vicious-looking dragon coiling on his chest, surrounding the silver gleam of a nipple ring, and an abstract black design stretching from elbow to wrist on the outside of his right arm. Both designs flexed in interesting ways when Raidou caught Ryouma’s wrists and stretched them above his head, locking them together with one hand.

He put his mouth against Ryouma’s ear. “I’ll give you orders,” he said, softly. “When I’m ready.”

Ryouma’s hips bucked, denim rasping in good ways. He strained against the wrist hold—just enough to make Raidou put a little more pressure on, not nearly enough to break free. “What do I have to do to get you in the mood?”

“You could try begging,” Raidou suggested, and set his mouth to Ryouma’s throat, raising a dark red mark against the pulse point. They hadn’t negotiated bruises, but Ryouma’s long shiver said he didn’t seem to mind. Raidou left another mark on the hard arch of Ryouma’s collarbone and kept moving down. He had to let go of Ryouma’s wrists. “Keep your hands there.”

First order. Ryouma obeyed it.

Raidou slid all the way down, freeing himself from the cage of Ryouma’s legs, and turned his attention to Ryouma’s waistband. Belt, button fly, and black trunks underneath. He took the belt, considered it, put it aside—too much for a first time, for bondage or otherwise. Jeans and trunks slid down easily, assisted by Ryouma willingly lifting his hips. Raidou folded them and tucked them under the edge of the bed, out of the way.

Slightly incredulous eyebrows greeted him when he returned his attention to the bed.

“Really?” Ryouma said.

Raidou cupped a palm over one lifted knee, tracing gentle fingertips over the edge of the joint. Muscles twitched. “You have a problem with neatness?”

“Not so long as you pay as much attention to me as to my pants,” Ryouma drawled.

Guy was a brat.

Actually, Ryouma was a little younger than him, Raidou thought, though not much—he had all his height, but there was still room to add muscle. Not that much was needed. Ryouma was any medic’s anatomical lesson, laid out on his back for Raidou to admire. Broad shoulders, lean-cut hips, arms stretched up and fingers laced together, legs sprawled with no hint of shame—and why should there be? Ryouma was pretty everywhere.

Though only half-interested in proceedings. Raidou intended to fix that.

He slid his hand around to the inside of Ryouma’s thigh, grazing sensitive skin with short nails. “I was thinking of getting my knees dirty,” he said. “But then you got snarky, so maybe not.”