Page 101 of The Dragon 2

And me?

I’d be on my knees, sucking him off before the entrees showed up. Not because he demanded it, but because I alreadywantedto.

That’s how good he was.

In that moment, my thighs pressed together on instinct. A slow, hot ache curled low in my belly as I imagined him again—tongue out, voice hoarse, needing me. I brushed a hand down my side. It was the lightest graze over my hip. I shivered.

Kenji is so damn smooth; I would trip over my own morals if I weren’t careful.

So, I needed control.

Not to play games.

But tounderstandhim.

I wanted to learn the man behind the rose-pierced cock, the one who whispered death in one sentence and poetry in the next. Because the truth was—I wanted to fuck him so bad it made myteeth ache. But if I was going to surrender to that kind of hunger, I had to know what kind of cage I was stepping into.

More than that... I wanted to explore the power between us.

The image of him begging still glowed behind my eyelids.

Kenji—kneeling.

Kenji—tied.

Kenji—licking me because his soul depended on it.

My body hummed with the possibility. My nipples tightened under the fabric of my shirt.

I craved to touch his power and then—I wanted to make it tremble.

That’s what tomorrow night would be.

Our second date.

A trap I would build with honey and hunger.

But first, I needed help.

I climbed off the futon, still buzzing from our call. My laptop sat on the table next to the fantasy book Kenji had given me. The cover shimmered in the morning light.

I called out. “Zo, are you finished dressing yet?!”

“You think it takes minutes to turn myself into a fashion immortal?”

I rolled my eyes. “Is that a yes or no?”

“Give me five minutes.”

Zo was going to show me Tokyo and help me brainstorm the second date. He would be a big help because he knew people around here. He’d laughed with Tokyo legends and danced with divas. He could get us in almost anywhere.

Ever since Kenji’s personal chef showed up to make us lobster benedict and matcha mimosas, Zo had been floating through the building like royalty.

Word had gotten out.

Neighbors were whispering.

The building’s elite—artists, celebrities, influencers, gallery owners, and gossip columnists—had seen the Dragon’s chef exit our apartment in his custom-embroidered jacket. It didn’t help that the chef won a televised cooking competition just last year. One that had ended with him beingsnatchedup by Kenji himself.