Page 45 of The Oyabun's Boy

"Please tell me I didn't recite my grocery list again," I groaned, covering my face with my hands. "My ex used to record me. Apparently, I once gave a thirty-minute lecture on the proper way to steep different teas."

Kenji's eyebrow arched elegantly. "Ex?"

Of course that's what he focused on.

"Ancient history," I assured him, using the distraction to try wiggling free from his octopus grip. "And now I really need to use the bathroom, so if you could just—"

His arms tightened, effectively halting my escape attempt. "You're not leaving this bed," he murmured, lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear.

"My bladder disagrees," I countered, fighting the shiver that ran down my spine when his teeth grazed my earlobe. "Unless you want a very unsexy accident in your thousand-thread-count sheets."

Kenji made a noise that might have been annoyance, might have been amusement, but his arms loosened marginally. "Five minutes. Then you're mine again."

I snorted as I finally managed to extract myself from his grip, trying to ignore how cold I felt without his body heat surrounding me. "Bossy, aren't you? Is this the part where I remind you I'm still technically your prisoner, or have we moved past that semantic argument?"

"Prisoner," he repeated, watching with unabashed appreciation as I stood naked beside the bed. "Is that what you felt like last night? When you were crying out my name? When you were begging me for more?"

Heat flooded my cheeks. "I don't recall any begging," I lied, grabbing the nearest piece of clothing—his discarded shirt—and pulling it on to cover myself. "And hostage with excellent benefits is still a hostage."

"Mmm." His eyes tracked my movements like a predator assessing prey. "But you're not denying you enjoyed those... benefits."

I fought the smile tugging at my lips. "The jury's still deliberating on that one. I might need additional evidence to reach a final verdict."

"Last night wasn't enough evidence for you?" Kenji sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, revealing that torso that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states. All those muscles and scars and that tattoo that seemed to move when he breathed.

Might need a drool bucket over here.

"My memory's a bit fuzzy," I teased, backing toward the bathroom. "I might need a refresher course. You know, for scientific purposes."

The laugh that escaped him was genuine—not the calculated almost-smile I'd grown used to, but a real laugh that transformed his face into something breathtaking. I stood frozen, bathroom forgotten, absorbing the rare sight of Kenji Zisheng Hú actually enjoying himself.

He moved with the fluid grace of a predator, getting off the bed and crossing the distance between us before I could blink. One moment I was standing, the next I was airborne, then flat on my back on that ridiculous bed with Kenji looming over me.

"A refresher course," he repeated, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand, his weight settling between my thighs. "Is that what you want, Princess?"

My brain short-circuited as his free hand traced a lazy path down my chest, pushing the shirt I'd borrowed up to expose mystomach. Every nerve ending in my body ignited, heat pooling low in my gut as his fingers left fire in their wake.

"Has anyone ever told you you're really bossy before coffee?" I managed, trying to maintain my composure even as my body betrayed me, arching into his touch like a cat seeking affection.

His lips curved against my neck. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?"

"Constantly," I admitted, gasping when his teeth found the sensitive juncture where my neck met my shoulder. "It's a coping mechanism. When I'm nervous, I babble. When I'm turned on, I— oh!"

His hand had found its way between my legs, effectively cutting off whatever embarrassing confession was about to escape my mouth.

"You were saying?" Kenji murmured, eyes dark with desire and something dangerously close to affection.

"I, um..." All witty retorts abandoned me as his fingers worked their magic. "I forget."

His smile was pure sin. "Then allow me to remind you," he said, and proceeded to do exactly that, thoroughly and repeatedly, until neither of us could remember anything except each other's names.

So much for my five minutes.

An hour later, I stood by the massive windows of Kenji's bedroom, wrapped in a towel that probably cost more than a new car.

Sunlight poured through the glass, painting the polished floor in stripes of gold and turning dust motes into tiny constellations dancing in the air. Even the dust in this place was fancy—probably imported from some exclusive Swiss mountainside and sprinkled around by specially trained housekeepers to enhance the aesthetic.

"Even your dust motes are fancy," I said aloud, trailing my fingers through a beam of light. "Designer dust. Artisanal particles. Probably has its own Instagram account."