Page 25 of The Dragon 1 (Tokyo Empire #1)

Chapter eighteen

Submission and Domination

Kenji

The waitress arrived with soft footsteps and a gentle bow.

She set porcelain dishes onto the table. Steam curled upward from lacquered trays and glass domes.

Somewhere behind her, the chef began describing each course—ingredients sourced from distant mountains, fish aged to exacting degrees, smoke infused with cherry bark.

I didn’t hear all the words.

My attention was fixed on her.

Nyomi was still holding her cup of sake, but her grip had changed— fingers more deliberate now, thumb brushing the rim in slow, absent circles.

Her breathing had changed, too.

Shallow.

Hitched.

Her chest rose with more urgency.

I watched the pulse at her throat flutter and the tip of her tongue sweep across her bottom lip.

She was aroused.

Mmmm.

She’d imagined making me submit.

Me.

Kneeling.

Tied.

Hers.

And now, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I’d planted a seed with a whisper—and already, it was blooming inside her like fire twisting through velvet.

The chef set down another plate, then carefully removed a bell-shaped glass cover, releasing the scent of cedar smoke and fatty tuna belly.

The sound of his voice was calm and practiced.

Still, my attention remained on Nyomi.

Because I would kneel for her and was desperate to do so once I stepped into this garden.

Did she understand the concept of my surrender?

Power was a currency I’d mastered.

I could wield it, withhold it, snap it in half and pass it around to my men like communion.

But Nyomi?

She made me want to offer it.

To give her the rope and let her decide whether to bind or bless.

My cock was hard beneath the table, the arousal sharp and controlled.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t need to.

Just watching her process her own desire was enough. Her eyes had turned slightly glassy, her focus distant— fixed on an image only she could see.

Me, perhaps.

Stripped of armor.

Laid bare at her feet.

She still hadn’t responded to my offer.

She didn’t have to.

Not yet.

But I could feel the war happening inside her.

The woman on stage continued to spin, slower now.

The cello murmured something aching and low.

The air smelled of grilled eel, charred yuzu, and citrus blossoms steeped in broth.

I didn’t care.

I only wanted to know one thing.

Will she say yes? Or would the voice of fear rise again—ancestral, earned, and loud?

She blinked slowly and looked at me.

I saw the struggle in her eyes. That flicker of doubt. The echo of every time her body had been guarded without wanting to be.

But, I also saw something else.

Hunger.

For control.

For power that didn’t require hardness.

For softness that didn’t mean surrendering everything.

She bit her lip, just barely.

I almost groaned.

The waitress bowed again and stepped away.

The chef left too.

The food was exquisite—perfectly plated, warm, ephemeral—but I didn’t lift my chopsticks.

Not yet.

Instead, I leaned in slightly and let my voice dip low, just for her. "You don't have to decide tonight, Tora."

Her gaze sharpened.

"But when you do. . .”

She said nothing but her breath hitched.

I will wait.

For as long as she needed.

Because when she said yes—not if—but when—I already knew I would fall to my knees without hesitation.

And I would thank her for the privilege with my mouth, my tongue, my cock.

Nyomi finally picked up her chopsticks.

She didn’t look at me. Just leaned forward and pinched a delicate slice of tuna belly. Its fat shimmered under a drizzle of citrus ponzu.

She brought it to her mouth, paused, then took the bite.

A low moan escaped her lips.

She closed her eyes.

Chewed slowly.

Swallowed.

Then gave the softest, breathiest exhale—like the food had touched something holy inside her.

My cock pulsed again.

I still hadn’t touched my plate.

She licked her lips and picked up another bite, this time from a bowl filled with barely seared uni , resting in a pool of smoky dashi and garnished with edible gold leaf.

Her pleasure was honest.

Unaffected.

Unperformed.

She didn’t eat like she was trying to impress anyone.

She ate like a woman who knew how to enjoy herself.

And right now, every delicate groan, every flutter of her lashes, every tilt of her head was slowly unmaking me.

Then. . .she set her chopsticks down and looked across the table. “I have a question. . .”

I raised my eyebrows.

“But this question. . .it’s a bit much for a first date.”

I chuckled. “You still think our moments together will be normal? Similar to regular people going out?”

“Aww. Good point.”

I tilted my head. “Ask the question, Tora.”

She cleared her throat. “Have you ever been tied up before?”

My smile curled slow. “No. . .but I’ve been dominated with a rope.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Dominated?”

“I would say so.”

“Why only once?”

I sipped my sake before I answered, letting the warmth spread through my chest. “Not many women would have the balls to think they could dominate me. Similar to. . .not many women having the guts to knee me in my balls.”

She blinked.

I didn’t laugh.

Just let the truth hang there.

What is going through your mind?

She leaned forward again. “Tell me about it.”

“Tell you?”

“Tell me about when you were. . .dominated.”

I didn’t smile or smirk. Instead, I leaned back in my seat and let the truth rise slowly—like smoke through my chest.

I stared at her.

Tell her?

That story?

That night?

It wasn’t just a memory—it was a brand. Something etched onto the underside of my ribs. One of the few moments in my life where I hadn’t been the one in control, where I’d let someone peel back the dragon’s skin and touch the trembling man beneath it.

Not many knew about Lya.

None of my men.

Not even Reo.

It was my little secret.

Private.

Sacred.

Sharp-edged.

Yet, Nyomi was looking at me like she deserved to hear it. Like she could hold something that raw and not flinch.

Not mock.

Not weaponize it.

I’d already said so much for us to not know each other well but my heart said it didn’t matter.

Nyomi’s gaze held curiosity yet was laced with desire.

Could I give her this? Should I?

I glanced away for a brief second, jaw flexing.

She probably should hear the story. It would help her better understand the offer I made. And if she was going to hold the rope—she probably should know about the last person who had.

I looked back at her.

Nyomi was still watching me. Waiting. Her body soft, open, lips parted just slightly as if she were already tasting the answer.

Something in my chest cracked open.

Fine.

She would hear it.

She would know.

I reached for my sake, lifted it and took another sip—slow and deliberate. Let the heat roll down my throat and anchor me in the now. “I’ll tell you the story.”

What will she think about it?