Page 41 of The Oyabun's Boy

"Even knowing what I am?" I unbuttoned my shirt slowly, revealing inch by inch the roadmap of scars and tattoos that told the story of my violent life. "Even knowing what I've done? What I will continue to do?"

My shirt joined my jacket on the floor. Joy's eyes widened as he took in the tattoo covering my right pectoral—a black lotus surrounded by kanji characters that marked me asOyabun.

The scars scattered across my torso told their own stories—the puckered circle where a bullet had nearly taken my life inShanghai, the jagged line where a rival had gotten lucky with a knife in my early days.

"Yes," he breathed, his gaze tracking each revelation with something between fascination and desire. "All of it. The danger, the violence, the power. I want it all."

I unbuckled my belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft hiss that made Joy's breath catch. "You think you understand what you're asking for." My pants followed, landing in a heap with the rest of my clothes. "You don't."

Standing before him in nothing but black boxer briefs, I watched his eyes travel down my body, lingering on the bulge straining against the fabric. I saw his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of green remained.

"Then show me," he challenged, the desire in his voice unmistakable now.

I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my underwear, sliding them down my legs in one fluid motion. Joy's sharp intake of breath was like music—confirmation of his desire, of his want.

"Last chance to run, Princess." I prowled toward the bed, completely naked now, my arousal evident and unabashed. "Last chance to change your mind."

Instead of answering, Joy threw back the sheets in a gesture of surrender and invitation. The sight of him—pale and freckled against my black sheets, cock hard and flushed against his stomach—nearly broke my restraint.

I crawled onto the bed, movements predatory and deliberate, until I was hovering over him. One hand planted beside his head, the other tracing the delicate line of his jaw. His skin was so soft beneath my calloused fingers, so untouched by the violence that had shaped my hands.

"Do you have any idea," I murmured, my face inches from his, "how long I've wanted you here? Just like this?"

Joy's hands came up tentatively, hovering over my shoulders as if unsure of their welcome. I caught his wrist, guiding his palm to my chest, letting him feel the thundering of my heart beneath his fingertips.

"Since the alley?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Since the rain," I corrected, watching understanding dawn in his eyes. "Since I saw you dancing in it like it was a blessing instead of an inconvenience. Like the world was still capable of joy."

His fingers spread across my chest, warm and curious against my skin. The contrast between us was stark—his hands unmarked by violence, mine stained with it despite all my washing.

"Mine," I growled, the word tearing from somewhere primal and possessive inside me. "You've always been mine. You just didn't know it yet."

I claimed his mouth then, swallowing his gasp of surprise. His lips were soft and yielding beneath mine, opening on a sigh that tasted of coffee and desire. I kept the kiss bruising, demanding, giving him a taste of the intensity to come.

Joy arched against me, his body seeking more contact, more friction. His hands found purchase on my shoulders, nails digging in as I deepened the kiss, my tongue claiming his mouth the way I intended to claim the rest of him.

When I finally let him breathe, Joy’s lips were swollen and red, his eyes dazed with want. The freckles scattered across his cheeks stood out against his flushed skin, and I knew I'd never seen anything more beautiful in my violent life.

"Kenji," he breathed, my name on his lips sounding like salvation I didn't deserve.

I ran my hands down Joy's sides, claiming each inch of skin as my territory with deliberate, possessive strokes. His bodywas a revelation beneath my palms—smooth where mine was scarred, soft where I was hardened by years of violence.

Each freckle was a star in a constellation I intended to map with my fingers, my mouth, my tongue. He trembled beneath my touch, breath catching whenever I found a particularly sensitive spot.

I cataloged each reaction with the same precision I used to analyze a battlefield—which caress made him gasp, which pressure made him arch, which touch made his cock twitch against his stomach.

"You're so responsive," I murmured against his neck, nipping at the tender skin below his ear. "Every inch of you betrays how much you want this."

Joy's fingers clutched at my shoulders, his nails digging half-moons into my skin as I dragged my tongue along the column of his throat. The sounds escaping him were better than any symphony—little gasps and moans that shot straight to my groin and fed the primal need growing inside me.

When I closed my teeth gently on his nipple, he cried out, back arching off the bed. I soothed the sting with my tongue before moving to the other one, giving it the same attention until both stood hard and sensitive against the cool air of the bedroom.

"Please," Joy gasped, his head thrashing against the pillow as I worked my way down his stomach, tracing the light trail of auburn hair leading to his cock.

I paused, looking up the length of his body to meet his desperate gaze. "Please what, Princess?" I demanded, my voice rough with desire. "Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want."

Joy's flush deepened, spreading down his neck to his chest. His cock twitched against his stomach, a bead of pre-cumglistening at the tip. I wanted to taste it, to devour him, but I needed to hear him ask for it first.