Page 29 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter twenty-six

Before the World Gets Cruel

Kenji

Once the doors opened, light spilled out and I followed Hiroko.

We stepped deeper inside, and to my shock, the sound of jazz rode the air—lazy, sultry brass weaving through the space like smoke.

Okay. Very interesting.

I hadn’t been expecting that music at all.

Surely, this wasn’t what they usually played here.

With Hiroko’s geisha roots—the way she carried herself with such traditional grace—I assumed I’d be greeted by the melancholic strings of a shamisen or the slow ceremonial rhythm of taiko drums.

But this was a saxophone dripping honey. An upright bass rumbling foreplay. The kind of sounds that didn’t bow.

Very American.

This had my Tiger’s fingerprints all over it.

Did Nyomi pick the music?

The jazz was so intimate and the melody was unfamiliar, but it stirred desire within me.

Why had she chosen this music?

I didn’t have time to dwell as the hallway unfurled into a large room, and it was like stepping into an altar built for power and pleasure.

Tora. . .

It was intimate—but not small. The walls felt close, but the ceiling soared. Like being inside a cathedral of sin, drenched in desire.

The lighting was low and poured like honey.

Candle flames shimmered inside crystal sconces.

The air was fragrant and rich. Leather and wine, yet the smell of yummy cooking lingered beneath—warm, rich, and soulful.

Fuck. I’m about. . .99% sure she cooked for me.

Everywhere I turned, the room exhaled dark, feminine power.

On my left, various whips stood in tall, cut-crystal vases like fucking blooming roses.Their handles were braided in thick Japanese leather, some tipped with gold, others with sapphires.

And I knew without a doubt that they were not props.

They were weapons of worship.

Further in, red, black, and white ropes descended from the ceiling in elaborate shibari configurations—knots so precise, they looked like silken calligraphy. Some hung loose. Others spiraled around ivory statues.

I turned to the right and froze as my eyes landed on the Saint Andrew’s Cross. Carved from cherry wood so dark, it must have been soaked in centuries. Its iron bolts gleamed in the candlelight. A black leather cuff still dangled from one arm.

It wasn’t placed against a wall.

It stood centered like a monument.

My cock jumped in my pants.

Now. . .Tora. . .I thought you wanted to go slow?

My heartbeat picked up.

Because frankly. . .if I have my way tonight. . .we are about to go very fucking fast.

We continued forward, deeper into the space and I spotted a wall framed with erotic art. All ink drawings, capturing various dominatrix from different cultures—Japanese, African, Roman, Indian. Some wore corsets. Others were draped in silk or wore nothing at all. But each one had a man at her feet.

Kneeling.

Kissing.

Offering himself.

Hands bound.

Backs arched.

Mouths open.

It wasn’t pornographic.

It was spiritual.

My mouth went dry.

The jazz music rose higher in the air, and that was when I noticed the band.

Oh. Tora, how did you get them without my knowing? I’m getting you new guards.

Tucked into a velvet alcove along the far wall, the band played in near-shadow.

An upright bass stood at the center, plucked by a man in a silk vest with gloves on.

Beside him, a saxophonist with long silver braids breathed a moaning line into his instrument, slow and aching.

And at the back, the pianist traced his fingers over the ivory.

A drummer tapped rhythmically, and a trumpet player waited for his part and bobbed his head to the beat.

They played and the notes curled along my senses.

I swallowed hard.

This is wonderful. Absolutely. Fucking. Wonderful.

We continued ten feet more and stopped at a single table—round, low, draped in black silk, and beneath an amber chandelier shaped like a bleeding rose.

Hiroko pointed. “This is your seat, Mr. Sato.”

I nodded, but I didn’t sit. “Where is Nyomi?”

Hiroko bowed slightly—regal even in her retreat—and turned without another word.

Damn it. I want answers.

My legs were steady, but my heart was not. I stood there, still clutching the gift box like a boy waiting outside a woman’s door for the first time.

I dared to let my gaze roam the space once more, taking in the thrumming intimacy of the area. The band's rhythmic, sensual jazz continued to pour into my senses, evaporating any semblance of patience I had been clinging onto.

Awaiting Nyomi's arrival felt akin to slow torture.

Please, Tora. . .I’m close to begging. . .

The staff appeared, emerging from hidden panels in the wall, silent and graceful.

Two women. Each was seductively clothed—midnight waistcoats unbuttoned just enough to reveal glints of gold bondage harnesses. Their trousers were tailored sharp, and makeup was minimal.

Tora? Where are you? Do not keep me waiting anymore.

I remained standing with the gift in my hand.

The one waitress rolled out a cart lined with gold plates and began placing them on the table.

The other set obsidian-rimmed wine glasses next to the plates.

Neither spoke.

Then, they began to put the silverware on the table. All polished and weighted. Knives with curves. Large spoons. Forks flared with claws.

Whatever meal they were serving, it wasn’t going to be traditional.

Goddamn it.

They continued and I put my gift down on the floor next to my chair, but still, I did not sit.

I turned to the waitresses. “Hey.”

As she finished, one of the waitresses glanced my way. “Sir?”

I leaned in and whispered, “Did she cook for me?”

The woman’s breath caught.

“Did she?”

The waitress trembled and then nodded.

Ahhh. I knew it!

A slow, wide, mad grin spread across my face.

She cooked for me! How did she know I needed that. . .right before war? Right before all of this?

As the waitresses scurried away and the scent of Nyomi’s cooking curled deeper into the space, I closed my eyes for half a second.

And I was a boy again—maybe nine or ten—sitting at a low wooden table while my mother hummed a lullaby in a language I no longer remembered. She wore a cotton apron stained with sesame oil, and her hands moved gently, over a pot that steamed with something rich and simple.

Tamago.

Rice.

Miso with extra seaweed because I hated it plain.

She smiled without turning. “You’ll need strength, Kenji. Always eat before the world gets cruel.”

I blinked it away and opened my eyes.

Now I was a man with blood on his hands and a war at his feet. But somehow, through the silence, through the jazz and the heat, a woman had cooked for me again, before the world got too cruel.

My Tiger.

The jazz band played, but a sound came from behind me. It was subtle, but I was too on guard to miss it. My Tiger’s scent came next—black amber and ripe plum.

There you go, Tora.

I turned and then stepped back just from the cock-hardening shock of it all.

Oh, Tora.

Candlelight caught her first—her dark brown skin glowed. Her gown was blood-red leather, molded to her body.

I loudly groaned.

The bodice was a corset, sleeveless and sculpted, pushing her breasts high and proud, the swell of them visible and luring me to take her.

On her side was this black boning laced in crisscross patterns, drawing attention to the narrowness of her waist.

From the hips down, the dress exploded into a sweeping train, rich and dramatic against the floor.

A savage slit carved high up one thigh, baring her leg. And that leg was sin on display. Long. Smooth. Flexed due to shimmering black stilettos laced up to the knee.

Her earrings were gold snakes that curled around her lobes and swayed as she moved, slowly toward me.

I nearly came in my fucking pants.

I nearly rushed to her and dropped to my fucking knees.

Yet, it was her eyes that made me stay right there because she didn’t blink.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t rush.

She walked into that room like it belonged to her and like I did too.

My cock went rock hard, pressing against my pants.

As she came closer, her body moved in that red leather gown as if the fabric had been stitched by lust itself.

You are mine and nobody else’s.

My pulse beat in my throat.

When she got within arm’s reach, I didn’t wait for her to speak.

Fast, I seized her, gripping that waist and pulling her against me.

I was a starved man.

Her breasts pressed to my chest.

Our mouths collided.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was pure possession. I groaned into her mouth and she moaned into mine, her nails digging lightly into my jacket.

My tongue pressed between her lips, tasting her, claiming her.

The leather of her corset creaked as I drew her tighter.

She kissed me back like a woman ready to be fucked hard and right now.

Jazz played around us.

Groaning and tasting that sweet mouth, my hand slid lower.

I found the slit in her gown and slipped my fingers through the parting. The skin of her thigh was warm and smooth.

A growl rumbled from deep in my chest. "Fuck."

She tilted her hips, and just as I was about to shove all the plates off the table and put her on there to slam my cock into her wet pussy, a loud “AHEM!" cracked across the room like a whip.

What the fuck was that?

Nyomi pulled back.

Panting, I raised my eyebrows.

She got out of my grip with a subtle shift of her hips and a firm press of her palm to my chest.

I gritted my teeth. “Come back here, Tora.”

“No.” She twisted just enough to slide out of my grasp, a slow, sensual denial that felt like silk slipping through my fingers. Her eyes glimmered with heat. “Sit.”

What?

I didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

My cock throbbed against the constraint of my pants. I was hard enough to bruise. My pulse drummed in my ears. I needed her. Not later. Not after courses and conversation.

I needed her NOW!

“Tora,” I reached for her hand again. “I’ve waited too long. Let me at least taste you.”

Her brow arched.

I stepped in. “Let me eat your pussy for my pleasure and just for a few minutes. Licks here and there.”

That earned a moan from her.

Her lips parted, and those beautiful eyes went heavy with lust. For a moment, I thought she’d give in—let me fall to my knees, bury my tongue between her thighs, and devour her like the sacred feast she was.

Then. . .that interruption came again.

“AHEM!” That fucking cough snapped through the room like a blade.

Hiroko.

In the room.

Silent.

Watching.

Nyomi smiled wickedly and slapped my hand away. “Please, sit.”

“After I lick your clit and make you moan—”

“I put a lot of effort into this date, let me feed you first.”

“But I want to eat your pussy, and then I will eat food.”

“First food, then maybe. . .pussy.”

“Maybe.” My smile turned cruel. “Tora, we are fucking whether you are ready for it or not.”

She grinned. “If you keep this up, then I will end this date.”

“And you will find yourself bound and headed to my mansion.”

She chuckled.

Unfortunately, for her. . .I was not joking.

Not at all.

She gave me a sweet smile. “I cooked for you.”

That softened me.

“And I’m nervous about it.” She gestured to the seat. “Everything is warm and at the perfect temperature. I want you to like it.”

That melted me, and I was not the sort of man to melt, yet here I was. . .turning liquid and warm right before her yes.

I cleared my throat. “I’m excited. I already think your food is delicious.”

“You haven’t even tried it.”

“No one has ever cooked for me. You’ve now put yourself in a dangerous position within my heart.”

She blinked but stood strong in her power. “Kenji. . .sit.”

I’ll sit now, but later you’ll be bouncing on my cock.

My fists clenched at my sides. I looked down at her—my Tiger standing tall in red leather and power.

Slowly, I dragged myself to the chair like a punished man with a hard-on. My cock throbbed painfully against the seam of my pants.

But I sat.

Because she’d asked and she’d proved that this night was truly hers.

I glanced to the right, and there I spotted Hiroko lingering within the shadows.

Now I understand your position in this. You two think you can uncrown me? We’ll see.

I grinned.

Nyomi lowered into her chair. “Are you ready to eat?”

“Yes, Tora.”

“Then, let’s begin.” She held up a delicate finger.

The staff entered and with them came dishes I’d never seen and scents that made my head spin.

Oh my. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Does she?