Page 21 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter eighteen

Fluid-Fluid

Nyomi

I hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling.

My whole body throbbed with the echo of his voice—smooth, dangerous, and addictive.

God, I wanted to fuck him.

Not date.

Not talk.

Not flirt.

Not even breathe.

Just fuck.

We barely knew each other. I had been in his space only two times and spoken to him across countries, across phone lines soaked in lust.

But even then, I knew. The Dragon wasn’t safe. He wasn’t sane. He was terrifying in a way that made my blood sing.

And I wanted him.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

I wanted to fuck Kenji Sato like I was trying to steal power from a god.

And that right there—that was why I had to be in charge of our second date.

Because if he planned it?

Oh, it would be flawless. Devastating. Silk-and-gold perfection. There would be a chauffeured car, a floor-to-ceiling suite view of Tokyo, wine from some forbidden vineyard, and probably a nude violinist plucking my hormones apart before the appetizers were served.

And me?

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

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 to understand him.

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 my teeth 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 being snatched up by Kenji himself.

Apparently, the Dragon didn’t just kill for power. He hunted talent like treasure.

The chef now had a driver, a black card, and two homes paid for by Kenji’s empire.

Regardless, once he was spotted coming from Zo’s place, Zo had gotten four new invitations to Tokyo art elite events.

Additionally, he’d been offered to co-host a top fashion podcast next weekend, and he’d received a scandalous brunch invite from a gallery owner who normally wouldn’t blink in his direction.

Kenji’s power didn’t just ripple.

It created tsunamis.

And Zo?

He was happily swimming in the tide.

“Alright. Alright. I am finished.” Zo emerged from his room dressed and humming—tight black jeans, gold-framed glasses, and a vintage Prince tee.

On the front, Prince stood in high heeled boots.

His guitar was slung across his chest. He had one gloved hand reaching toward the sky.

Purple lightning cracked behind him, and a single lyric curved under his hips: Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today.

Zo strutted forward like the shirt had given him divine permission to be iconic. “Did I disappoint?”

I grinned. “You did not.”

“So. . .” He looked my outfit over—blue jeans, old sneakers, and a faded gray shirt with a towering, weathered building printed across the front. My earrings were tiny, leather hardcovers that actually opened, revealing microscopic pages inside.

I did a turn. “And did I disappoint?”

“Oh.” He blinked. “You’re dressed.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you wanted me to give you time to get dressed.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m already dressed.”

“Still. . .we have time if you want to change.”

“I’m about to kick your ass.”

He pointed to my ears. “Why are you doing the ugly book earrings? What’s that about?”

“It’s the theme.”

“What theme?”

I gestured to my shirt. “This is a library. You see where I was going with that.”

He leaned closer to my chest, squinting at the shirt. “That’s a library? It just looks like an old gray building.”

“It is the famous Trinity College Library in Dublin.”

“No one knows that but nerds.”

“Eh, nerds are the only people I’m ever trying to impress. I don’t care about you fashion maniacs.”

“Well. . .” Zo stepped back dramatically, hand to his heart like I’d just confessed a felony. “I’ll give you a minute to get dressed. For real . I’ll wait.”

I tugged my shirt down. “I am dressed.”

He gave me a look so pityingly I nearly took off my book earrings and threw them at him. “Nyomi. . .you are not going out with me looking like that.”

Huffing, I twisted my hips as I walked past him, adding an extra sway just to spite his fashion-policing ass. “Watch me.”

He groaned.

“Whatever.” I grabbed my purse off the table, shoved my phone inside, and slipped on my old, paint-splattered sneakers by the door. A wicked laugh bubbled out of me. “Come on.”

He followed after me, slipping on his shoes by the door. “The sacrifices I make for our friendship.”

“Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river.”

We stepped into the hallway, and it smelled like expensive incense—amberwood and smoke drifting from somewhere unseen. Morning light filtered through the frosted glass at the end, painting the floor in soft gold and pale pink.

Even far off and around the corner, the elevator chimed like a majestic temple bell.

I sighed. “This building is too pretty for my sneakers.”

On my side, Zo spun like a runway model. “It’s Tokyo, darling. Ugly shoes are your sin to bear.”

I snorted.

Next, Zo immediately launched into a story like he’d been waiting all morning to drop it. “So last night, I was at that rooftop party I told you about—the one with the crystal sushi and the man playing harp with his teeth—”

I squinted. “Excuse me, what?”

“Not the point. Anyway, I’m sipping this lavender lychee cocktail when he walks up.”

“Who?”

He clutched his chest like he’d just been shot in a telenovela. “Takeshi fucking Mori.”

My jaw dropped. “Your archnemesis. The fashion editor you hate?”

“Yes! The same one who shredded Yuta’s fall collection in that viral column. The same one I collaborated with. And then—he wears the centerpiece jacket on his next cover shoot like a damn hypocrite.”

“I told you he was a hating-ass troll.”

“You never lie. Anytime I’m involved in something, he goes out of his way to shit on it in that damned magazine.”

“Listen, trolls stay pressed because deep down, they’re fans who hate that they’re fans. That man doesn’t despise you—he just wants to be you. That column? That was just a tantrum. With excessive punctuation.”

Zo snapped his fingers. “See! Now that makes sense with what happened last night.”

“Oh shit, Zo. What happened?”

He leaned in, eyes gleaming behind his gold frames. “Takeshi slid up next to me and said. ‘I find your aesthetic... unapologetic.’”

“Unapologetic?”

“I hope you gave him the side-eye.”

“Nyomi, when you do side-eye, it’s a full exorcism. When I do it, people think I’m constipated.”

I chuckled. “Maybe it’s a DNA thing. White guys just can’t side-eye.”

“Here we go with your borderline racist theories.”

“I’m just saying! What if side-eye is generational? Something passed down like cheekbones and trauma. You can’t just learn it. You got to survive it.”

“This is like your theory that white people can’t season food.”

“I didn’t say all white people can’t season food. It’s mainly all you English folk.”

“Anglo-Saxon, thank you very much, or at least say Brits.”

“Whatever. Italians can season. Greeks too.”

“Oh my God, I’m not doing this with you.”

“It’s true!”

“The Brits can season.”

“Then why did y’all get on boats and colonize the entire damn planet just to steal spices?”

“You are fucking insane.”

“I am. Now back to the tea. Takeshi is up in your face like he hasn’t been hating on you for a whole year. Then, what?”

He grinned. “Oh yeah. So, he has this gift bag with him and hands it to me.”

“Gifts? Alright. What was in it?”

“Limited-edition sake. With gold flakes. And even crazier. . .it had my name engraved on the label.”

I covered my mouth. “Stop it!”

“And THEN—” Zo held up a finger, milking the drama. “He pulls a silk kimono out of the bag. A real one. Not fast fashion. Hand-dyed . And he says, ‘This is how I imagine you. . .in candlelight.’”

I shrieked. “You better stop lying to me! What kind of odd shit is this?”

“I know, but I was drunk so. . .you know what happened next?”

“No.” I stared at him in disbelief. “What the fuck happened next?”

“I let him suck me off in the bathroom.”

I stopped walking. “What?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t bad.”

“So. . .you’re bi now?”

Zo shrugged. “I’m fluid.”

“Alright.” I nodded. “So fluid as in. . .queer fluid? Sexually fluid? Emotionally fluid? Gender-fluid? Which boxes are you checking here?”

“Oh no. You’re being too mature and informative.” He shook his head with a grin. “I’m fluid-fluid.”

I started back walking. “What the hell is that, Zo?”

“Fluid-fluid is more like. . .if there’s liquid in me, and something wet and willing nearby, I’m down. If I’m drunk enough, I would fuck a plant.”

I slapped his arm. “Zo!”

“If I’m drunk and in someone’s living room and the ficus is thriving and giving me those bedroom leaves? Who am I to deny it my cock?”

“Wow.”

“Cumming is cumming in my book. And if a man can make me reach the mountaintop like a woman, then congratulations to him and his lineage.”

“You’re out of your damn mind.”

“And yet you love me.”

“Reluctantly.”

We rounded the corner and that was when we both stopped short at the sight.

Uh. . .what is going on?