Page 6 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter five

Initiating Panty Protocol

Nyomi

The person knocked again.

I slid off the futon and stood.

My long nightshirt fell around my thighs.

I padded across the room, wondering who it could be. It was too damn early for any of Zo’s friends to come by.

Nervous, I cracked the door open an inch.

O-kay. . .

Standing there was a Japanese man dressed in black from neck to boots. Smooth tailored lines, not a wrinkle in sight. Black gloves. Round, dark glasses hiding his eyes.

In one hand, he held a sleek black-and-gold shopping bag. In the center of the bag was the word, Decadent , written in cursive.

He spoke. “Ms. Palmer?”

“Yes. . .that’s me.”

He bowed. “Mr. Sato would like you to place the white panties in this bag.”

My voice cracked slightly. “What?”

He didn’t flinch, but his cheeks went a little pink.

“There’s a Ziploc inside this one.” He lifted the bag slightly. “You’re to place the white panties in there. Then, I’m to deliver them to Paris. Same day.”

I stood there frozen, hand still gripping the door, staring at the man like I hadn’t just heard what I knew I had.

The panties.

Kenji wanted the fucking panties.

In a Ziploc.

I blinked again, because my brain—God bless it—was trying to glitch out like it could blue-screen itself and escape the moment. But no. The man held the bag out with both hands now, like he was some kind of cursed delivery priest about to collect a sacred offering.

All I could think was, Am I dreaming again?

I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, he wants me to—what—mail them?”

The guy adjusted his grip on the bag. “I’ll handle the delivery. There’s a secure, private cargo service currently waiting at the airfield right now. My orders are to get the panties there immediately.”

Oh my God.

Kenji hadn’t responded to my picture.

Hadn’t typed out a message or hit me with a slick emoji.

No teasing smirk.

No “You’re mine” voice note to make my thighs quake again.

Nope.

He’d just mobilized a team—delivery man, private cargo service, pilot, plane—like my soaked underwear was a goddamn operation.

I suddenly imagined this poor man having to speed down Tokyo’s Shuto Expressway, weaving through morning traffic like a demon in black leather gloves, the Decadent shopping bag buckled into the passenger seat and riding shotgun like it had its own passport and diplomatic immunity.

The city blurring around him.

In my mind, he hit the emergency lights, cut through lanes like the laws of physics were optional, and muttered into his headset, “Initiating Extraction: Panty Protocol.”

Of course he would then pull into Haneda Airport’s private terminal, tires screeching, not even bothering to park straight.

Would he even fully park the car before jumping out?

What I knew for sure is that he would fling the door open, snatch the bag from the seat, and bolt like he was hand-delivering nuclear codes.

I grinned so hard it hurt.

Because the idea that Kenji needed my panties so bad that he had launched a same-day international courier mission before breakfast?

Yeah.

That was the hottest thing anyone had ever done for me.

My mind kept spiraling.

Was there going to be a signature form for my wet panties?

A customs declaration?

Would there be tracking?

Was someone going to scan the barcode and be like, “Ah yes, this package here is headed directly into the hands of Japan’s most feared Yakuza boss. And it smells like sin and lilacs.”

I pressed my hand to my mouth to keep from laughing because Kenji had responded in the most insane, possessive, I-run-the-underworld-and-I-don’t-have-time-for-messages, way possible.

I cleared my throat and took the bag. “Okay. Please give me one minute.”

He bowed again.

I backed up slowly and shut the door.

Kenji, you are fucking insane.

Chuckling, I set the bag on the floor, hooked my fingers under the waistband of my panties, and peeled them down my thighs inch by slow inch.

Of course they were still damp.

Still warm.

The heat between my legs clung to the cotton, turning the simple act of removing underwear into something holy. My breath caught as the fabric slid over my knees, then pooled around my ankles.

This has got to be one of the craziest mornings of my life.

I bent over, picked the panties up, and cradled them in my hands. The delicate stretch of white cotton, now stained in the shape of need.

My need.

His doing.

Our mess.

God.

And because I was ridiculous—and because I wanted everything to be perfect—I brought them to my nose. Just once. A quick, quiet inhale.

Relief flooded me.

They didn’t smell rank or wild. Just. . .warm cloth with a trace of honeyed sweat. The scent wasn’t shameful—it was intimate.

Am I really going to do this?

I inspected them next, smoothing the fabric out in my palms.

No holes.

No weird lint.

The stain was there, bold and wet—artfully spread in the shape of want—but not overdone.

Okay.

I swallowed.

These are good.

Satisfied, I folded them with the same care I might give to a love letter. Not once. Not twice. But in threes—neat and thoughtful—so they’d lay perfectly flat in the Ziploc.

Naughty Dragon.

I unzipped the plastic, slid the panties inside, and sealed it shut.

Wow.

I placed the now full Ziploc inside the black-and-gold Decadent bag and turned back toward the door.

This is really happening.

I opened the door wide and met the man’s gaze.

He stood exactly where I’d left him, back straight, gloved hands at his sides, unreadable behind those pitch-black glasses.

“Here you go.” I held out the bag.

He accepted it with both hands like I’d just handed him a crown instead of underwear. “The Dragon will be pleased.”

My whole body buzzed.

He gave me a thoughtful smile. “Ms. Palmer, I’ve also been instructed to inform you that Mr. Sato’s personal chef is on his way. He’ll be preparing breakfast for you and your friend shortly.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

“The Dragon requests to know if you have any allergies. Specifically, to lobster or champagne.”

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from squealing. “Uh—no. I mean, no allergies.”

You’re spoiling me, Kenji.

He wasn’t a naughty dragon. He was a very smooth one.

I straightened, suddenly feeling underdressed in my rumpled nightshirt and bare legs. “Lobster’s fine. Champagne’s great.”

He nodded solemnly and pulled a slim phone from the inside of his coat. His fingers moved fast over the screen, thumb gliding like he was inputting a hit list, not my breakfast preferences.

“Also.” The man put up the phone, then reached into another pocket, and produced a sleek black card with gold lettering embossed across the front. He extended it between two gloved fingers. “Here you go.”

I didn’t take it right away.

I just stared.

The words Four Seasons Tokyo at Otemachi shimmered across the card. Beneath it: Imperial Lotus Suite – 58th Floor.

I looked up at him. “What is this?”

He offered the smallest of bows. “The Dragon says that if your friend’s futon ever becomes uncomfortable. . .this keycard opens your suite.”

“Suite?”

He nodded. “The Imperial Lotus Suite. It’s been reserved for you indefinitely .”

Holy shit.

I took the card with trembling fingers.

It felt heavier than I expected.

He continued, “Your driver is also waiting outside should you wish to be escorted anywhere today. Including the suite.”

“My. . .driver?”

“Yes.” His face didn’t crack even a little. “He’ll remain seated in the car, but the moment you step outside, he’ll pull up and open the door.”

All of this. . . just because I sent him a picture of my wet panties?

The man glanced at his sleek black watch. “I must hurry now.”

“Okay.”

He bowed again, then turned and disappeared down the hallway with the Decadent bag in hand—my panties packed neatly inside, Paris-bound on a mission of madness and desire.

Oh. My. God.