Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
We both did a good job.
I’d stayed after my questions to see how he did and thank him.
That night, we had dinner.
The next day, he took me shopping, transforming my new adult closet into a fashionista’s wet dream.
What would I ever do without him?
Zo’s words brought me back to reality and his small apartment. “Nyomi, I know what you need to wear so don’t fight me on this.”
“Okay. I’m not disagreeing. I’m just saying. I’ve been doing well since your fashion lessons in these past years.”
He pointed to my scratched-up army boots. “Is that what you call an example of what I’ve taught you?”
“What, my boots? They’re comfortable and hip.”
“You’re stuck in the 90s and you were barely alive long enough to be so into the style. I don’t get it.”
“Hey, I was a kid then—”
“I’m dressing you.”
“In a nice pants suit, I hope. Maybe with some stripes or something.” He fake growled.
Really?
“Fine. You can dress me. I didn’t bring any date wear anyway,” I leaned my weight to my other foot. “I’m more surprised you’re not warning me against dating the gangster.”
“Don’t call him that. The Yakuza doesn’t exist.”
“You’ve been screaming he’s the Dragon all night—”
“That doesn’t mean you should say it. Knowing you, you’ll let that slip out of your mouth in front of him or even worse, try and interview him. Just go on the date and nicely tell him you’re not interested.”
“I will, while I get him to let me write about his soapland and hand back my recorder.”
“It’s always the book with you, isn’t it?”
“I’m addicted to the story. Writing is like cocaine, baby. Every page I finish is a snorted line.”
“Thank goodness your writing is better than your metaphors.”
“Ha!”
Zo then began to rattle on about color palettes and hem lengths, I nodded, but my thoughts drifted—slipping right to him.
Kenji Sato.
The fucking Dragon.
The man I kneed in the balls and who, instead of retaliating with bullets, sent me a sex flower, a fantasy novel, and a date request.
What kind of gangster does that?
My palms still remembered the heat of his chest. My knee, the shocking hardness of his body beneath that tailored suit.
And. . .what kind of man makes my palms sweat just thinking about being alone with him again?
I wasn’t sure if I was walking into a dinner, an ambush, or something far more dangerous.
But the thing that scared me most?
I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to resist him… even if it ruined me.
Fuck. What is going to happen on this date?
After a while, Zo finally stopped talking.
It took him twenty straight minutes of listing every possible color I should not wear on a first date for his brain to burn out. After that, he grabbed a bottle of coconut water, disappeared into the bedroom, and slid the door closed behind him.
Thank God.
Silence wrapped around me.
The Dragon is not going to kill me. . .he’s just going to. . .charm my panties off apparently.
The apartment dimmed.
The city outside hummed its late-night lullaby—faint car engines, heels clacking against pavement, the gentle whir of wind rushing between glass buildings.
I lay on the futon, stretched out with a thick white blanket pulled over my body and the fantasy book pressed against my stomach.
When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon.
I looked at it.
Why did you give me this Kenji, especially after I kneed you?
I picked up the book and shifted to my side. The cover caught the moonlight again—deep obsidian and glimmers of molten gold flickering. The silver lettering shimmered too.
I must say this is quite a cover. So enchanting. . .Almost as enchanting as him.
I shouldn’t have been thinking about Kenji.
But there he was.
In my head.
Again.
Every detail—the smooth, controlled voice, the heat of his skin against mine, the way his eyes narrowed like they were memorizing my every breath—kept playing on repeat.
Over and over.
God, what is wrong with me?
The man groped my face and pinned me against a wall like he owned me. And yet here I was, thinking about the gifts, the scent of that flower, the way his note in the book made my chest ache a little.
To the one who made me lose my breath.
—K
I should’ve tossed the book across the room. Or buried it in Zo’s overstuffed closet. Or, hell, left it outside with the clitoria to soak in some shame.
But I didn’t do any of that.
I held it tighter.
There was something magnetic about this whole thing. About him. About how the line between danger and desire kept shifting underneath me like cracked glass.
And now. . .this story.
Kenji had called it rare and special.
Again, the same question hit me.
Why would he risk sending me something personal—something treasured—when he could’ve just sent flowers?
Because this was. . .a message.
And if I wanted to have any hope of walking into that date tomorrow with my head on straight and my emotions untangled, I needed to know what that message really meant.