Page 31 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter twenty-eight

Bite by Bite

Kenji

I didn’t mean to kiss my Tiger.

Not then.

Not yet.

But something in the way she tilted her chin at me—so sure, so smug—called to the part of me that refused to kneel. . .and the deeper part that secretly craved the fall.

I took her mouth.

No warning.

My fingers gripped her jaw and I devoured.

So soft. So fucking mine.

Startled, yet just as horny as me, Nyomi moaned into my mouth.

Her lips were wet velvet.

Sweet heat.

Her tongue met my rhythm.

Groaning, my hands slid down to her waist, over that blood-red leather, and tugged her closer.

She didn’t stop me.

She leaned in, meeting me with fire.

The kiss turned molten—open-mouthed, breath-stealing, dangerous.

Fuck yes, Tora.

I dragged my lips across her cheek, then down to her neck, tasting her skin.

She arched.

My tongue slid down the curve of her throat.

Lower.

Then to where the red leather dipped.

The swell of her breasts glimmered close to my mouth, and I kissed along the top of one.

Soft.

Slow.

Worship turned into hunger.

And just as my mouth lowered to pull down that dress and suck in her nipples, a throat cleared.

I didn’t even lift my head right away. Instead, I smirked against her skin and let my lips linger on that soft curve.

Nyomi began to raise her hands.

Yes. Yes. I know. Let’s take it slow.

I lifted my view and brushed my mouth along her collarbone.

Satisfied with my little bit of obeying, Nyomi lowered her hands.

I didn’t look toward the shadows where Hiroko stood, watching. Didn’t need to. I could feel her quiet satisfaction humming across the walls louder than the jazz band.

“Hmmm.” I leaned in my mouth grazing Nyomi’s ear. “Tora, let me ask you a question.”

Her voice was shaky. “Go ahead.”

“Are you going to be comfortable with me fucking you in front of your little mentor?”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t falter.

Instead, she turned her face toward mine with the calm of a crowned queen. “Are you going to be comfortable with getting on your knees in front of her. . .and licking my pussy until I cum?”

My lips parted without my doing.

My heart stuttered.

My cock pulsed so hard, it hurt.

Fuccccckkkk.

The heat that washed through me was violent. Shattering. So sudden it bordered on pain.

I clenched my jaw to keep from groaning. Every part of me went tight, needy, trembling on the edge of something dark and fucking devastating.

A broken part of me—twisted and long-restrained— wanted it .

Wanted her splayed on this table, thighs spread, with Hiroko watching.

Wanted the ritual of it.

The humiliation of it.

The crown stripped from my head by the woman I chose to kneel for.

And Nyomi saw it in my eyes as she smiled like she hadn’t just detonated hunger inside me and shattered my control.

I sat there—flushed, hard, and trembling.

Tora. . .

She had said that to me.

The Dragon.

I was orchestrating a war under all of Japan’s eyes. At this very moment, my men were putting my plans in motion. Bombs would detonate by my command. The Fox’s empire would bend. Blood would flow, and the shadows would shift. I was dismantling it all bone by bone.

And yet. . .this woman—this Tiger—sat beside me with her thighs crossed and her gaze soft, and she had more sway over my body, my mind, my fucking soul, than any weapon I’d ever held.

She wasn’t kneeling.

She wasn’t afraid.

She was smiling.

Watching.

Mastering me with silence.

And I. . .wanted her to tighten her grip and make me ache.

The war outside was mine.

But the war inside?

She may have already won it.

Alright. You win this round too. But that will be it.

Nyomi quirked her brows. “Are you ready for us to begin?”

I cleared my throat and damn near groaned out my next words. "Yes. Now we may begin, Tora."

She smiled—fuck me, she smiled—and tilted her head just enough to let the curls brush over her shoulder. "Why thank you, Dragon."

My body thrummed at her saying Dragon . I couldn’t explain how I knew it, but I was certain that she said it differently tonight. The way she spoke that one word. . .not like she was impressed, but like she already owned me.

Did Hiroko teach her how to say my name that way? Or was she always doing this?

I shook my head but couldn’t get out of the daze.

“So. . .” Nyomi rested one hand close to the first heart-shaped tray. "My grandmother used to say that before our people could read or write, we told stories through food. Tonight. . .I thought I would tell you my story."

"I’m honored."

“Great. I’m so glad to. . .share this part of me with you.” She gestured to all the trays. “So. . .I’m calling this first course, Four Bites of Home.”

And. . .it was embarrassing to say but. . .I nodded like a good little Dragon.

"This one—" she pointed to the tiny stacks of golden bread nestled inside the cast iron spoon and drenched in amber liquid. "This is my family’s secret cornbread recipe. I’ve drizzled something called. . .hot honey on it.”

I studied it. “Hot honey. Is this different from regular honey?"

“Yes.” She grinned. “My grandmother said that it’s hot honey because it sneaks up on you like good trouble.”

“You grandmother has an awesome way with words.”

“She does. She almost didn’t give me the cornbread recipe today.”

“Really?”

“I’ve wanted it for years, but she said that she would only give it to me when I met someone important enough to make it for.” Nyomi shook her head. “Therefore, on the phone today she drilled me about you for a good thirty minutes and. . .after several answers. . .she finally gave it to me.”

“So, your grandmother approves of the Dragon?”

“I wouldn’t say that just yet.” Nyomi raised one finger. “I would say she approves of my cooking for you tonight.”

“I can’t wait to meet her.”

She widened her eyes in shock. “Well. . .that would be a crazy trip indeed, but anyway. I have to give you a fair warning. Hot honey is sweet at first—just like honey. But then the spice comes in slow, catches you at the back of your throat, and lingers.”

I picked up my fork, reached for the cast iron spoon, and broke off a piece of the cornbread.

The crust cracked gently under the tines.

Steam rose from the soft center—fluffy, warm, yellow as sunshine.

Nyomi spoke. “This recipe was passed down from my great-great-great-grandmother. She made it in a wood-burning stove in Charleston before anyone knew what convection even meant.”

Hot honey dripped over the broken piece and clung to it.

This is going to be so good.

“The honey is my twist,” she continued. “Cayenne, red pepper, brown sugar, a dash of apple cider vinegar with some Black girl gold.”

I lifted the fork. “Black girl gold?”

“It’s not an ingredient. It’s a vibe.”

I brought the bite to my mouth and took a careful first taste.

Mmmm.

The crust broke first—crisp and buttery. Then the inside melted—warm, soft, and rich. The honey hit next. First the sweet. Then the kick—slow and seductive. That cayenne honey crawled along the back of my tongue, curled heat along the edges, and settled into a low flame in my chest.

Crunchy.

Spicy.

Sticky.

Tangy from the vinegar.

A loud groan left me.

One bite, and I was already undone.

My eyes fluttered halfway closed. “Fuck. . .Tora. . .”

She chuckled.

Opening my eyes, I grabbed more of the cornbread, and she joined me with taking a piece herself.

When I took the next bite, I thought I was already prepared, but I wasn’t. Somehow, the second one was even better.

“This is. . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t find words that could compete with what was happening in my mouth. “This is illegal.”

She laughed in between munching. “Good.”

I stared at her, completely dazed and with that honey fire still blooming across my tongue. My fork remained still in my hand; my heart was now thoroughly compromised. “You’re going to have to teach my chef how to make this—”

“Kenji, I just sat here and told you that the recipe is a secret.”

“Your grandmother would not mind.”

“She would kill me, and while you are scary. . .sorry, but my grandmother is way more terrifying.”

Frowning, I grabbed a third bite and growled. “This cornbread is dangerously delicious.”

“I spent almost all my summers with my grandmother down in Charleston, South Carolina which is a massive difference from New York.” She sighed as if seeing old memories playing on the projector in her mind.

“When I was a little kid, I used to sneak squares of cornbread out of the kitchen, run into the backyard, and munch on them. Then, I would go right back in the kitchen later and with the sweetest expression, I would say, ‘Grandma, can I have some cornbread. I never got any.’”

“Would that work?”

“Never. I was too young to know that honey and crumbs were always on my bottom lip and hands.”

I laughed.

She pointed to the oddly shaped green vegetables next to what I assumed was some sort of aioli. "Alright. This one is a bit more adventurous.”

“How so?”

“It’s fried okra. I hated okra at first—slimy and green. But then one summer, my grandmother fried it for me, and I became a true believer."

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had this before.”

I dipped it in the aioli and then brought it to my mouth.

The first crunch stopped everything. Sharp and light. The okra inside was warm and savory.

I chewed slowly, letting it bloom on my tongue. The aioli pulled it all together—smoky, creamy, with the faintest ghost of garlic. It reminded me—strangely—of a street snack I would eat in Osaka as a child. Deep-fried lotus root slices dipped in soy-chili paste.

Same crunch.

Same unexpected elegance.

Perfect.

I opened my eyes and looked at her. “Did you enjoy spending all those summers with your grandmother?”

Nyomi picked up her own piece of okra and bit into it before answering. Her lashes lowered, gaze softening with a kind of glow that no spotlight could create. “I loved those summers with her.”

“Why?”

“Her home was the one place where I felt like I was allowed to fully exist. I could be loud, barefoot, and greedy with my laughter.” She swallowed, then set her fork down.

“Sometimes, when I was with my parents, I felt more like a prop than a person. An accessory for the family portrait or some décor for an important senator that came over for dinner. The politicians were always White. My father had no respect for Black ones. He struggled with self-hate for his skin, our people. Anyway. . .”

I watched her absolutely fascinated.

She sighed. “I was expected to keep my dress clean with no wrinkles which meant not too much movement. When the adults came around, I had to keep my mouth closed and have that well-placed smile so our White guests could say, ‘Look at this successful Black family. They’re some of the good ones.’”

My heart tightened.

“Once the cameras were gone and the White politicians left the dinner table, I was always told to go to my room. To be quiet. To basically disappear.” She gave a soft, bitter chuckle.

“I used to spend more time with my nanny than my mother or father. And after they let her go—because I had turned thirteen—I hung out with the cook. Vanessa took care of me. Braided my hair. Taught me how to sear a steak. Told me I was beautiful before I knew how to really believe it.”

I watched her, understanding that feeling more than she could know.

“My mother was always busy being my father’s wife.

And my father. . .” She exhaled. “He was a federal judge, rising fast. Wanted to be the next Black Supreme Court justice. Thought he had something to prove to the world. There were always events. Always donors. The right forks. The right phrases. The right people in the right rooms.”

While we had grown up in different cities and very different industries, we still had been in the same cold, curated rooms filled with the same aching silence behind closed doors.

She was raised in a palace of politics, and I was raised in an empire of blood. But it appeared neither of us ever really had true childhoods.

I ate another piece of fried okra and swallowed.

“My father used to hold meetings in our garden. Big ones. Men with knives in their coats and blood under their fingernails. Sometimes he would torture the men. Do things. . .to the women. My mom never wanted me there, but he always insisted I witness it all to learn. So. . .”

Nyomi pursed her lips.

“I would sit by the Sakura trees and watch things so horrifying most adults would have nightmares from seeing. I was never allowed to scream or flinch during those moments.”

Nyomi’s expression shifted to wonder. “Even in a criminal underworld, people still have to keep up appearances?”

“Especially in the underworld. I was taught that emotions made you weak. My father stressed burying them, while my mother. . .she was the true example of never showing her emotion no matter what my father did to her.”

“Did she ever try to stop him from letting you be down there to witness all of that stuff?”

“My mother would never come out. She stayed upstairs and pretended our empire wasn’t built with death and blood.”

“That would have been so difficult for me to not scream while he tortured someone. I would have failed.”

“No. I believe you would have done what needed to be done.”

“No way. I would have failed. I was too bad. That’s why my parents kept sending me down south.”

I grinned. “Naughty Tiger.”

“But am I really naughty?” She reached for the sun-gold cornbread, broke off a piece with her fingers, and dipped it into honey.

When she moved her hand, I couldn’t move my eyes away from the honey dripping and glistening down her fingers. A second later, I thought she would pop the piece of honey-coated bread into her mouth, but instead she brought it to me. "Open."

I kept my gaze locked on hers. “Is that how you ask the Dragon?”

“You’re not the only one who gives commands.” She slid the piece past my lips.

I took the delicious morsal, but once I swallowed, I caught her hand before she could lower it to the napkin.

Fast, I had that honey coated finger in my mouth.

Mmmhmm.

Slowly, I sucked off the honey and circled my tongue along her finger. A deep groaned vibrated from my chest.

And she moaned. It was a small, involuntary sound that shattered my last thread of restraint.

I pulled back with a wet pop, licking my bottom lip like she was still there. “Are we still taking it slow, Tora?”