Page 20 of The Dragon 1 (Tokyo Empire #1)

Chapter fourteen

Skin, Wood, and Memory

Kenji

When I first entered the garden and spotted Nyomi, I lingered in the shadows.

It was uncharacteristic of me—this hesitation. But the moment I saw her, my breath stilled, and for once in my life, I let it.

She stood at the center of the garden like she had bloomed there. Her dark brown skin glowed under the moonlight. And that dress—white, strapless, clinging—was blasphemy on a curvy body like hers.

The contrast was divine.

Innocence in color.

Sin in shape.

The way her hips curved told me that the universe had made them for only me.

One would have thought that I would have walked forward then, but I couldn’t.

I was a predator trying not to pounce.

Instead, my eyes traveled to the slope of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts, and then—finally, mercifully—her legs.

Last night, she’d worn jeans in my office so I’d been forced to imagine the sexy possibilities.

But tonight, she gave me a vision I could not unsee.

Those legs will be the death of me.

They were made to be wrapped around my waist.

Made to shudder in surrender as I thrust my cock into her.

I wanted them hooked behind my neck, heels digging into my spine when I claimed every inch of her.

She didn’t know it yet… that and more was written in her future.

I should’ve walked to her then.

Still. . .I waited.

Studied her.

Tried to cage the feral thing inside me that whispered… This one isn’t your usual fling. This one is prophecy.

Because something was happening to me.

Something I didn’t trust.

Love?

The word fluttered to the surface like an ember carried on the wind. Though, I didn’t know if it was possible to fall this fast.

To look at a woman and know; She’ll either save me or burn me to ash.

Maybe that’s what love was.

Not slow.

Not safe.

Something that scorched you alive instead and you said thank you for the privilege.

I stepped forward at last, the moment her eyes found mine, I knew I’d never recover. She smiled—nervous, cautious—but it didn’t dim her beauty.

It sharpened it.

She rose from her chair, I almost lowered to my knees.

It was a ridiculous impulse.

A man like me didn’t kneel.

Not for gods.

Not for kings.

But for her?

I would kneel in worship and in ruin.

Because the moment she rose, the night itself responded. The wind shifted. The blossoms trembled. Even the moon tilted forward, greedy to see her better.

She didn't know what she'd done—simply standing, brushing her hands along the silk of her dress—but my cock twitched with want so sharp it bordered on pain.

I clenched my jaw. Tried to think of numbers, war strategies, men I’d buried.

Nothing worked.

All I could think of was how easily she could unmake me.

And the worst part?

I wanted it.

There was something dangerous about a woman who didn’t even realize the power she held. Nyomi wasn’t playing coy. She wasn’t baiting me. She was just. . . existing.

And her existence?

It destroyed me.

Because. . .I would bleed to be the thing she wore.

And now. . .I took the seat across from her. The table between us was small and intimate. The waitress returned and poured me sake.

The scent hit me first— dry and elegant, but Nyomi smelled even better.

Black amber and ripe plum.

It saturated the air between us.

She didn’t even know she was haunting me.

I leaned forward. “Can I order for you?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

I turned to the waitress and spoke in Japanese.

“Bring us everything on the tasting menu. The best dishes. All reserved ingredients. Make sure it’s an exceptional presentation.

If the chef, the rest of the staff, and you help me impress this beautiful woman tonight, all of your bank accounts will reflect it by morning. ”

The waitress’s eyes widened with excitement. She bowed and hurried off.

“She looked really happy just now,” Nyomi tilted her head. “What did you say to her?”

“I simply ordered for us.”

She smiled. “Hmmm.”

The sound of the shamisen echoed through the air—a dance of three strings, plucked with aching precision. The man playing it sat on the stage, lost in the music, his fingers a blur of disciplined devotion.

Nyomi turned her head toward the sound and sighed softly. “I love this music so much. I’ve never heard it before.”

I studied her profile. Her jawline. Her full lips. The curve of her neck.

It was all poetry.

She put her view back on me. “What is this instrument called?”

“It’s a shamisen . An old instrument. What you’re hearing is skin, wood, and memory.”

She quirked her brows.

“The samurai used to carry them on the road when they traveled. My mother used to say that. . .after a battle, the samurai would sit beneath a tree—tired, bruised, and bloody—and they would mourn the men they’d lost and sing to the few ghosts that were watching.”

Nyomi looked at me like I’d cast a spell. “Were you close to your mother?”

“When I was a boy, we were inseparable. I was damned near her shadow. I loved everything about her and hated any moment I was away from her.”

“And when you got older?”

“My father kept me close to him, claiming that I was getting too soft because of my devotion to my mother.”

“And what did you think about that?”

“In my household, when my father spoke, that was law. It was not a moment to think or question.” I sighed, shocked that I’d said this much. “But in retrospect, I wish I had fought against it.”

“Why?”

“Those are years lost to me that I can never reclaim because now she’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“No. It’s okay. Grief is a strange thing,” I lowered my gaze to the table. “It’s like a void that never truly leaves you. It merely gets quieter over time.”

I stared down at my sake for a moment, unsure when the fuck I’d started monologuing like some grieving priest.

Why did I say all of that?

I never talked about my mother. I damned sure didn’t talk about my grief. I sure as hell didn’t talk about what my father stole from me.

There she was—across the table, her face tender and open—I’d cracked like a man who didn’t know better.

“Anyway,” I lifted my view up to her. “Are you close to your mother?”

“Well. . .no, I. . .stomach her. No. That’s not nice. What I’m trying to say is that we have a very complicated relationship.”

“Why?”

“My father sounds kind of like yours. Being a judge, he would bring that sort of stuff home with him,” she rolled her eyes. “When I was in trouble, I would have to address him with ‘Your Honor.’”

I parted my lips in shock.

“It was such bullshit. Especially when I came to find that my father had been less than honorable his entire career as a judge, taking bribes and other illegal things,” she tapped her finger on her cup of sake in a way that told me that this was a highly uncomfortable topic.

Still, I was glad she was sharing this with me.

Nyomi cleared her throat. “But my mother. . .she enabled my father and believed that the man was damn near Jesus. It was always his way, even if it hurt me. What he said was the only thing that mattered. Honestly, even after the court cases and clear evidence of his wrongdoings, you still can’t tell her that he isn’t a good man. She would argue about it.”

“She treated him like a king?”

“She did and it made her seem so weak to me,” Nyomi looked away. “That’s not nice to say, but. . .”

“I understand what you mean. Due to my father, I saw my mother the same way. The only problem was that as a soon to be adult man myself. . .I just assumed that was a woman’s place.”

She stared at me. “That’s interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s why I’ve always resented my mother. Because. . .as a daughter. . .I didn’t want to end up like her. . .being weak and spending my entire life serving a man. If I was her son. . .I may not have resented her at all.”

“I believe you’re correct.”

I let that thought linger between us, the kind of raw truth that asked not to be fixed but simply seen.

The shamisen’s mournful notes drifted around us like silk, softening the edges of our pain.

We were two children of strong fathers and silenced mothers, trying to decide what kind of adults we wanted to be.

My fingers brushed the rim of my sake cup. “Thank you for telling me that. There aren’t many people who would.”

“I don’t usually talk about my mother,” she admitted.

“Then, I feel special. Thank you even more.” I picked up my cup of sake and lifted it between us. “To music and memory.”

She mirrored me. “And to mothers.”

Stunned, I smiled. “Yes, and to mothers.”

We drank.

For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to drink with her every night. To tell her things I’d never shared with anyone else. To let her sit across from me for the rest of my life, fire in her eyes and strength in her bones.

The shamisen shifted tempo and his hands danced faster along the strings making the sound rise within the wind and along the blossoms.

I watched Nyomi watch him. Her mouth slightly parted. Her expression soft and thoughtful.

She didn’t understand how devastating she was.

That’s what undid me the most.

Not just her beauty.

But her unawareness of her power over me.

The purity of her confidence.

The way she walked into this garden like she didn’t know she would wreck me for other women.

Maybe she didn’t.

But I did.

She lifted her cup and took another sip of the sake. Her throat moved with a quiet grace that made my hands twitch. Then, she set the cup down, leaned slightly closer, and for a breathless second, the scent of plum intensified—warm, ripe, and devastating.

I told myself not to move.

I didn’t listen.

I reached my hand out and my fingers found hers on the table—just a brush, the faintest graze of knuckle to knuckle.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

So I kept going.

I let my fingertips trail along the back of her hand—slow. . .as if I were tracing a path across something sacred.

Her skin was warm silk.

The shamisen player shifted to another new rhythm. The melody climbed the night air, twining with the wind, as if the strings knew what I was doing and had decided to score it.

She looked down at our hands.

Then up into my eyes.

I licked my lips. “In your letter, you said you would meet me tonight but not for a date.”

She arched one brow. “I did.”

I smiled darkly.

“Let’s make one thing clear right now, little tiger.” My voice lowered. “This is a date. On this subject, there won’t be any compromises.”

She tilted her head slightly but said nothing.

“How long will you be in Tokyo?”

“Three and a half weeks.”

I frowned. “That’s not enough time.”

She grinned. “Time for what?”

“For everything I want to do to you.”

Her eyes widened a little, I swore heat bloomed beneath her lashes.

I pierced her with my gaze. “Extend your stay.”

“I wish I could but my budget is set for that specified amount of time.”

“You’re going to be with me now. So there is no budget.”

She chuckled.

I frowned. “Do you think that was a joke?”

“Kenji, I am only staying for three and a half weeks. That is final.”

I didn’t argue.

In my mind, I was already setting the wheels in motion.

I would have Reo find out her exact return flight and buy out the airline. The entire route from Tokyo to New York City would cease to exist—at least for her.

She would stay until she understood her place.

Next to me.

She sipped more of her saké. “So. . .speaking of my time in Tokyo.”

Here it comes.

I moved my hand from hers and picked up my cup of sake.

“Kenji. . .I would like to discuss a compromise about visiting other soaplands in Tokyo or even other cities.”

The very idea sent a jolt of rage through me.

I nearly crushed the cup in my hand.

Is she trying to start a war in Japan?

I had to calm myself.

She didn’t know who she was playing with.

Not yet.

I didn’t even lift my cup to drink. “You won’t go to any other soaplands.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Look. I came to Tokyo to write a book about the underground sex industry.”

I stayed silent.

“How am I going to do that if you’re banning me from all of Japan’s red-light districts?”

“Your research is dangerous.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

Her chin lifted. “You don’t get to be as successful as I am from being afraid to do things.”

Mmmm.

The way she said it. Like a woman who had already walked through fire and would do it again with no hesitation. It all made my cock stir in my pants.

Then—she smiled. “However. . .if you think it would be so dangerous. . .maybe you can be next to me when I do my research.”

A hum of desire pulsed through me—low and deep, centered between my ribs and my cock.

She’s very good.

I imagined it all in one blinding flash.

Standing beside her in a red-lit corridor while shadows danced behind paper screens. The scent of sweat, perfume, incense. Watching her gaze linger as a woman in a latex suit moaned on a rotating stage.

Seeing Nyomi’s pupils dilate, her breath hitch, her thighs clench.

Knowing she was turned on.

Knowing I would be the one to deal with all that heat later.

I grinned slowly. “Naughty Tora, I believe you’re starting to understand your power.”

“Sounds like you want to be my research assistant,” she tilted her head. “Do we have a deal, Kenji?”

“We do.”

The surprise in her eyes made my chest thrum. She hadn’t fully expected my quick agreement. She probably thought it would have been more of a verbal battle. Perhaps, she had even more counters to raise spinning around in her head.

Either way, I liked that I surprised her.

“Well. . .” She blinked. “Then. . .thank you.”

I nodded and took a skip of my saké.

She watched me. “I know you’re probably busy, but. . .could we begin the research in a few days? When would be good for you?”

I thought of how wet her pussy would get during that supposed research. “We’ll start tomorrow night, Tora.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes.”

“You sound eager.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a research assistant. It’s been a dream of mine.”

She chuckled.

I turned to her presents for me. “What's inside of those?”

“If I wanted you to know, I wouldn’t have wrapped them.”

“Naughty Tora,” I grabbed the biggest gift and pulled it over to me—gold paper and brilliant bows. I loved her attention to detail and also wondered how she knew gold and black were my favorite colors.

Right as I began to tear through the paper, she spoke. “Stop. Kenji, you’re supposed to wait until after you leave me to open the gift. At least, that’s what my friend says.”

“I don't like waiting.”

“Clearly.”

What did she get me?