Page 5 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter four

The Response

Nyomi

Licking my lips, I stared at the image of his cock a moment longer—at that gold rose blooming at the tip like a weapon dipped in poetry—and I knew I couldn’t just sit here.

Not after that.

Not after him .

My body was still humming, still warm between the thighs, and something in me—something bold, reckless, newly awakened—whispered: Give him something to remember, too.

A wicked smirk spread across my face.

It couldn’t be a thank-you.

That would be too calm and a bit. . .lame.

It damn sure would not be a heart emoji or some cute little GIF.

Whatever I replied with. . .it had to be real, raw, and intimate.

Okay. . .be bold. . .

I lowered the phone beside me and with my other hand, I lifted my shirt and slowly reached down between my thighs.

My panties were soaked—drenched white cotton molded to the folds of my pussy, soft and ruined with the evidence of what he’d done to me.

Nervous, I pulled my phone to my pussy and angled the camera.

No face.

No flash.

Just my thighs spread slightly on Zo’s futon, the new morning sunlight bleeding in through the blinds like honey—and those white panties.

Still clinging.

Still wet.

I tugged the fabric just a little to the side, enough to make sure he could see the stain.

Nothing more.

The outline of heat and hunger, captured like art.

When I was satisfied enough with the picture, I typed a message back and sent him both—the image and text.

Me: Your rose did this. What will your tongue do?

Oh fuck. I hope that doesn’t sound too corny.

My heart punched the inside of my chest as the message disappeared into the abyss of signal and risk.

I bit my bottom lip.

Too much? No. Not with Kenji. Nothing could be too much for the Dragon. Right?

Five minutes passed.

No reply.

No typing bubble.

No read receipt.

Just that blank, cold space where a reply should be.

Another five minutes passed.

I stared at the screen, watching it like it might change if I willed it hard enough, like my desire could summon him across time zones.

Nothing.

“Shit,” I thumbed the side of my phone, tempted to lock the screen and pretend I hadn’t just sent him a picture of my soaked panties like a woman possessed.

Maybe he didn’t see it. Maybe his phone is off. He’s probably asleep on his jet.

Or—worse—he’d already landed in Paris and was tied up in whatever underworld dealings had him flying halfway across the globe at a moment’s notice. Meetings. Deals. Enemies to intimidate.

Or. . .the one option that hurt my pride. . .maybe he opened it and. . .wasn’t impressed.

Did I just make a fool of myself?

I pressed the phone to my chest and resisted the urge to throw it across the futon.

This is what I get for trying to be bold and match his energy.

But before dark shame could bloom even more inside me. . .

Knock.

Knock.

My head snapped toward the door.

What the fuck? Who is that? It’s too early for any guests.

The sound came again.

Knock.

Knock.

Who the fuck is it?