Page 24 of The Dragon 1 (Tokyo Empire #1)

She exhaled as the nawashi tied another knot at the small of her back.

The waitress appeared at our side like a wisp of fog. She poured the sake delicately, bowing slightly, then vanished.

When she left, Kenji picked his cup back up. “In Shibari, the rope doesn’t just restrain—it reveals. It brings you into your body. Into the present. Some people fear that kind of closeness. . .”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because closeness requires a vulnerability that everyone is not ready to face. The rope doesn’t bind. It reveals. It demands presence. Surrender. Control.”

I stared at him, completely transfixed by his words.

I took a sip of my sake.

Warm.

Silken.

Slightly sweet.

The heat of it slid down my throat.

He watched me the whole time. “When you’re ready, Tora. . .I would love to show you what the rope can really do.”

I swallowed and set the cup down.

Me tied up by a dangerous man that happened to have a group of killers that he called fangs.

Honestly, the idea of my being tied up by anyone didn’t sound correct in any situation, but with a Yakuza mafia boss named the Dragon?

Well. . .that just sounded suicidal.

Then there was the other part. . .

I leaned back in my chair. “There’s this fear that comes from my imagining this.”

“That is understandable.”

“But there’s also this odd guilt or. . .I don’t know, warning from my ancestors,” I let out a nervous chuckle. “I don’t know if I’m even making sense. I’ve had a good bit of sake.”

Amusement hit Kenji’s gaze, “warning from ancestors. Are you sure you’re not Japanese?”

I grinned. “Oh, trust me. African Americans are all about the ancestors too.”

He chuckled. “Then you understand that voice inside you that isn’t quite yours. . .but still sacred.”

“Exactly, sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s more of a. . .feeling. A pressure in my chest or a whisper in my ear. It tells me to protect myself before I even know why.”

His eyes lingered on mine. “What is it telling you now?”

“No, I don’t want to take the fun and sexy out of this conversation.”

“Yet, I want to know what’s on your mind…”

I sighed. “Ropes and Black women. There’s a murky history there.”

Silent, Kenji studied me.

My heart ached. “Black women being tied. Restrained. Silenced for centuries.”

His expression softened. “Your fear is sacred and your hesitation is holy. Even on a cellular level.”

I grinned. “Cellular level?”

“Our DNA knows more than our minds do. It keeps the score of all that was done to our ancestors. Their experiences. Their traumas.”

“You’re saying my DNA might carry the memory of shackles and struggle?”

“And definitely survival.”

“Yes,” I let out a long breath. “And definitely survival.”

Kenji nodded. “Which means. . .if the idea of being tied feels dangerous to your body and even your memory. Even if it’s not unsafe now. Your body doesn’t forget.”

I stared into my cup. The golden sake caught the moonlight like liquid fire.

Then he said something that made the world tilt again. “Tora. . .would you feel more comfortable tying me ?”

I looked up, completely startled. “What?”

His expression went neutral. “If the idea of surrendering feels like too much—maybe you should be the one holding the rope.”

My lips parted yet no words came out.

My brain tripped over itself.

Him tied up?

The Dragon?

A man that could probably order someone’s death like he was ordering a dinner course?

Him tied. . .by me.

I couldn’t help it. My mind immediately painted the image.

Kenji, kneeling. Muscular and tattooed. Naked. Ropes hugging the breadth of his rippling chest. Those thick arms roped behind him.

Hands bound.

Head tilted back—not in submission but in offering.

God.

My making him eat my pussy like a good little dragon.

Heat rose between my thighs so fast I thought I might shatter.

The idea wasn’t just erotic.

It was earth-shaking.

Because it meant this powerful, deadly man would let me have him.

That he would be the one vulnerable.

Exposed.

Beautifully surrendering.

Tied not by force—but by choice.

And then I looked up—and saw it.

His pupils.

Dilated.

His jaw was relaxed but something dark and hungry pulsed beneath it.

The quiet thrum of want.

He wanted it too.

He wanted me to imagine it.

In fact, he liked that I was imagining it.

Then it struck me hard. He hadn’t put this performance in front of me, so I would get excited about being tied up.

He wanted me to accept the idea of tying him .

Holy fucking shit.

I could bind him?

Direct him?

Tell him how, when, and where to ache?

I could tether him to me —to my body, my scent, my commands?

And he would give himself willingly?

He would relish it?

The idea lit a fuse inside me. Not the frantic kind of heat I’d felt with men in the past—the sort that flared and vanished.

This was slow fire .

It burned down in my belly and licked up my spine. It gathered in my chest, blooming with a power I hadn’t felt in years—maybe ever .

Beneath that heat, beneath the rush of arousal was something quieter.

A deep hum of. . .permission.

To want this.

To hold someone else’s vulnerability and still be safe in my own.

To rewrite what bondage could mean.

A Black woman tying a dragon to the earth, knot by knot and hearing him purr for it.

Wow.

I blinked, trying to swallow the intensity of that image. Of the desire suddenly rooted so deep I could feel it in my teeth.

I knew he saw it all.

Kenji’s gaze was still on me, sharp and unmoving. Watching every twitch of my mouth. Every flicker of emotion in my eyes.

His nostrils flared, just slightly. His grip on his own cup tightened.

The silence between us didn’t grow awkward. It grew thick —like velvet and smoke, like the space right before lightning strikes.

And I realized something else.

That this was the performance too.

Not just what was happening on the stage.

Not the celloist or the woman spinning.

But this—me and him, imagining a thousand shifts in power between us.

Naughty dragon.