Page 41 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter thirty-seven

Nirvana

Kenji

The band’s melody swirled around us into this indulgent jazz, suspending time and making the piano notes ripple.

My Tiger made me sit down.

If Hiro had seen it, he’d be cackling through his lollipop and would never let me live it down.

Most women would've strutted after that—cocky with victory, drunk on the power of making the Dragon obey. They would’ve smirked, flaunted it, twisted the moment into a crown.

But not Nyomi.

She didn’t gloat.

She remained humble.

I couldn’t understand why, but her calm response pushed me into a sense of awe. It wrecked me more than any swagger ever could.

But why?

Most people used respect like currency. They took it to get something.

Most women didn’t just crawl into my bed for cock. They came for the kingdom. They wanted power by proximity, wanted to sit beside me on the throne and feel the burn of my fire without getting scorched.

Even Kiko—my most trusted Ear and the one who might be carrying my twins—had delivered that news like she wanted more than a father for her children. It was clear she would expect a crown.

However, Nyomi’s attention wasn’t a transaction. No manipulation or tit-for-tat love. She wasn’t playing at true dominance either. She was offering me something more sacred.

Safety in surrender.

Fuck me, that made me want to fall to my knees and worship her. My legs actually fucking throbbed from the possibility.

Heat spread down my spine, coiling in my thighs.

What is this. . .feeling?

I thought back to those men I would see in BDSM films, on their knees in dark leather rooms, licking the sharp heels of a woman who barely looked at them.

I used to think they were weak and pathetic.

But now. . .I knew exactly what they were worshipping.

It wasn’t the shoe.

It was her mercy.

Her attention.

The fact that she could destroy them and didn’t.

Tora. . .

Something dangerous lodged in my chest—some truth I couldn’t spit out. . .just yet. I steadied myself as she studied me. “Well. . .Tora. I am sitting.”

And then she did something that unraveled me completely.

Nyomi licked her lips.

Slow.

Intentional.

Like she already knew the ruin it would cause.

It wasn’t just a casual swipe.

No.

It was mind-numbingly sensual.

Fuckkkk. . .

That wet, pink tongue slipped out of those plump lips—and inch by inch—traced the full bow of her lips.

Caught in her daze, I leaned forward.

Then to my utter shock, that tongue even dragged over her bottom lip, glistening it in slick shine, then curled up to catch the corner, teasing the skin.

What are you doing to me?

My cock throbbed so hard it pulsed at the tip, a thick ache curling deep in my stomach. Pre-cum spilled out, warm and slick inside my boxer briefs, and I had the sudden, humiliating urge to rub against the seat like a fucking animal.

Because in that moment, I didn’t just want her mouth on me.

I wanted to live on her tongue.

I blinked, but the vision hit me fast and hard. Nyomi on her knees. My cock, flushed and straining, brushing against her lips. That perfect mouth slightly parted, eyes gleaming. Then the tip of my cock, glistening, sliding across her bottom lip.

Marking her.

Branding her.

And when I came, it would be hard, shooting all over her face.

White streaks painting that beautiful dark brown skin.

My hips twitched in real time—under the table—just from the image alone. My jaw tightened.

And then she shocked me again and practically purred, “Good, little Dragon.”

Mmmm.

I shifted in my seat. The front of my briefs definitely wet around the tip as my cock ached and spurt.

And all she did was lick her lips.

Fuck. She might kill me.

Out of my control, a dark groan left me. That shouldn’t have happened, but it did.That sound—I hadn’t even meant to give it to her. But it rolled from my chest, deep and hoarse, like it’d been dragged out on a leash.

I swallowed.

Again, she didn’t smirk. All she did was give me a warm smile and tilt her head. “Are you ready to eat, Kenji?”

“Eat what? Your pussy? Yes. Right now.”

She gestured to the table. “Are you ready to eat the food?”

Stunned, I looked down. “Oh. . .yes. . .the food. . .”

She could have laughed, but instead she kept that sweet smile on her face.

I cleared my throat. “I am more than ready, Tora.”

“So. . .” She moved her hand to the first tray and removed the lid. “Tonight’s entrée is braised oxtails in their own reduction.”

I looked down.

Steam rose, fragrant and dark, and I inhaled. “It smells good.”

The dark, rich brown of the oxtails glistened. The dish was garnished with bright green herbs, adding a splash of color to the deep hues of the meat.

I got a fork and cut into the oxtail but there was barely any need. The meat slid off the bone like it had been waiting its whole life to give in. The braised flesh trembled at the edge of my fork, dark and glistening, streaked with its own reduction.

So eager, I took the first bite, and fucking froze.

Flavor burst on my tongue—bold, smoky, rich. The reduction had this deep, sticky darkness to it. There was the salt of bone marrow, the whisper of heat from the paprika, and something else—maybe the vinegar pulling it forward—but perfectly restrained.

I closed my eyes. “Now I get it.”

“Now you get what?”

I opened my eyes. “Mother used to quote this old philosopher and say, ‘sometimes nirvana can be found not in temples or silence, but in a dish prepared by the hands of one who loves you.’”

“That’s beautiful.”

“That’s this moment right here.”

She blushed.

I took another bite, slower this time, letting it linger on my tongue. When I swallowed, I sank into this blissful daze. “We have something called niku jaga —meat and potatoes stewed in dashi, soy sauce, mirin, and sometimes sake. It’s comfort food. When I miss my mom, I have my chef make it.”

“Your mother made it a lot?”

“Yes. It was one of my favorite dishes from her.”

I gathered up more of the tender meat. “But this. . .is just as special. I don’t think I will be able to taste this dish again and not think of you.”

“You’ve got me over here beaming.”

“You should be beaming.” I forked another portion. “You know the only woman who ever cooked for me like this was my mother?”

Nyomi said nothing, just held my gaze.

“We had chefs, but. . .it was always special when my mother cooked, especially when it was just for me.”

Nyomi watched me as if she was trying to imagine a younger version of the Dragon eating with his mother. “I know it’s probably obvious to you but. . .tell me. . .why did you feel so special when she did it?”

“Because. . .” I set my fork down. “Every time my mother cooked for me it wasn’t just food—it was her love. Her time. Her care. I felt. . . chosen like. . .I was the most important boy in Japan.”

“That’s so sweet.” Her smile warmed.

I gestured to the tray of delicious oxtails. “Since she died, this is the first time I’ve felt that way.”

Nyomi’s eyes shimmered.

So greedy, I looked at the other trays. “What else did you cook for me, Tora?”

She chuckled and lifted the next tray. “It took me years to get these collard greens just right, so. . .you have to let me know if you like them.”

Steam curled upward.

Bits of smoked meat shimmered in the folds and there was a scent—tangy, sharp, deep. Vinegar, garlic, and something peppery.

“Okay. Now these, I have had before.” I went straight for them, spooning a lot onto my plate.

“Where did you have some?”

“My brother, Hiro, had a boyfriend from Kingston, Jamaica who used to make them. I came over one day and tried them.”

“Your thoughts?”

“I fell in love immediately. I was pretty upset when he broke up with the guy a month later. Hiro’s life was too much for him.” I brought the fork to my mouth, already knowing I’d love it.

The greens hit my tongue with a perfect balance.

“Wow,” I muttered through a bite. “This might be better than the oxtails and I thought that would be impossible.”

Her smile widened. “I told you I worked on those for years.”

I went back for more. “I can taste the dedication.”

She chuckled.

“Don’t laugh at the Dragon.”

“Oh yes.” She cleared her throat. “I must respect the Dragon. What was I thinking?”

I shoved way too many greens into my mouth and didn’t feel embarrassed about it at all.

She raised her brows. “So. . .”

“What?”

“Your brother Hiro is gay? You don’t have to answer of course and it doesn’t matter to me who he loves. . .I’m just intrigued.”

“Is Hiro gay?” I snickered. “Hiro is Hiro.”

“Which means?”

“My brother will fuck anything that breathes and is of proper age. If aliens landed in Tokyo tomorrow, Hiro would be the first in line at the welcome party with his cock out, a box of condoms, and lube. Meanwhile, his heart is the same way too. He loves who he wants, whenever and however he wants.”

Nyomi widened her eyes. “I need to meet this man.”

I grabbed more greens and ate. “You’ve already kind of met him.”

“When?”

“When you kneed me in my office.”

“He was in there?”

“Yes. The scarry idiot sucking on a lollipop.”

“Aww. Long hair, cover model gorgeous, yet looking very dangerous.”

I laughed. “Please don’t tell him the cover model part.”

“Okay. I promise I won’t.” She began eating some of the greens too. “So, another question and you don’t have to answer this one either.”

“Go ahead.”

“Is Hiro’s love style accepted in the Yakuza? I always imagined you all would be. . .hyper-masculine and anti-queer.”

I nodded slowly, chewing. “You’re correct. It is that way too. Lots of old, ignorant ideas. But no one could come close to killing Hiro but me so. . .”

“Everyone keeps their mouths shut.”

“Exactly.”

She tilted her head. “Still. That’s kind of powerful. Your brother’s out here breaking binaries in the most dangerous rooms.”

I gave a proud nod. “He doesn’t care about rules—never has. He loves what he loves. Fucks what he fucks. And somehow, in a world built on obedience, he’s completely free.”

Nyomi’s gaze softened. “So are you.”

I met her eyes. “No. I want to be. But I’m not, although. . .”

“What?”

“You make me believe it might be possible.”

She blinked.

The saxophone moaned behind us.

I pointed to the other trays. “What else do we have?”

“You are horrible with surprises.”

“Everyone says so but tonight even I can see it. You have me too excited.”

And with that she began lifting the other trays and I would eat while she let me know what I was lovingly devouring. “Here are candied yams glazed in warm bourbon butter and dusted with cinnamon sugar.”

Fuck me.

I was already salivating and I hadn’t even fully swallowed them. Just when I thought I had a favorite dish, she kept blowing my mind more and more.

“And then,” she said like it was the climax of a symphony. “Five-cheese mac and cheese. Cheddar. Gouda. Mozzarella. Jack. Cream cheese.”

I stared at the tray.

It was a fucking painting. Burnished golds—glistening, bubbly, and textured with crisped edges. “This is what Reo needed to check for poison. Isn’t it?”

She chuckled. “Yes. He had to get a second helping just to make sure the poison wasn’t in there.”

“I bet he did.” I frowned.

The jazz hummed.

I forked a portion of the mac and cheese onto my plate, the cheesy strands pulling apart in an intoxicating display of decadence. My mouth watered with anticipation.

Nyomi watched me, and for a moment, I forgot everything I was.

The heir.

The predator.

The Dragon.

All that fell away, one molten layer at a time.

Groaning, I took a spoonful of the macaroni and cheese and the moment it hit my tongue. Creamy didn’t even begin to describe it. Cheddar hit first. Sharp. Then smoky gouda. Then mellow cream cheese. The top? Crisped like it’d been kissed by fire.

I closed my eyes and let it melt on my tongue, chewing slowly, savoring every bite. “Tora. . .I don’t know whether to thank you or propose.”

“Saying thank you is enough.”

“I am not sure it is.”

“Well. . .then keeping on being a good little Dragon.”

That possessive fire roared inside me.

I sat there stunned, fork still in hand, the taste of the five cheeses coating my tongue like a benediction.

Good, little Dragon. . .

The words pulsed in my chest.

I licked my lips. "Say that again."

“I will only say it when you’ve earned it.”

My cock twitched. My throat went dry. I set my fork down. "What do I have to do to keep being your good little Dragon?"

"Stay over there. Keep your hands to yourself. Finish your plate. Compliment the chef and don’t growl unless I tell you to."

"And if I do all that?"

"Maybe, I’ll give you a reward."

"What kind of reward?"

"A surprise."

"What kind of surprise?"

"The kind you’ve been dreaming about since I licked my lips."

A low groan escaped me again—uncontrollable, filthy, and raw. I gripped the edge of the table so hard the wood creaked.

Tora. Tora. Tora.

I sank deeper into the chair, chewing all but stopped, breath heavier than it should’ve been.

A faint laugh broke through the jazz behind us—someone in the band must have missed a note, the sax player chuckled it off like an inside joke.

Still, the room had no idea what was happening at our table. No idea that a man like me was falling—hard—with a fork in one hand and his soul in the other.

I blinked and looked back at her.

And she lowered her view to where I was gripping the table. “We should discuss something.”

“What?”

“We need a safe word.”

Shock rocked me to my core.

A fucking safe word?! Tora. . .what are you doing to me?