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)
Like I was about to place more than a recorder in his hand.
I gave it to him anyway.
My fingers brushed his.
That’s all.
Oh.
Warmth hit me first. Then, his rough skin. Callused fingertips that dragged against my own just long enough to feel intentional.
My breath snagged in my throat.
His fingers closed around the recorder—and mine—with a subtle press.
I trembled.
He didn’t take that hand away. Instead, he kept it lightly trapped in his grasp and then lowered his gaze to where our hands touched.
Damn.
The warmth of his palm didn’t just touch my skin—it pressed a thumbprint into my soul.
A second later, he raised his view to my mouth and then finally to my eyes.
“Your hands are warm. But your pulse is faster than it should be.”
“O-kay.” I tried to tug my hand back.
He didn’t let go. Instead, his thumb grazed the inside of my wrist.
One slow stroke.
Featherlight.
His velvet voice brushed against me. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.” He took his hand away and turned the little machine over in his fingers, assessing it. “This is old.”
“It is.” I held out my palm to get it back.
He put it in his pocket.
I blinked. “Are you going to give that back?”
“Probably not,” the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I need that back.”
“Maybe it’s time for a new one.”
“It has sentimental value.”
“Why?”
“My father gave it to me when I was ten.”
“Was he a writer too?”
“No. He was a judge.”
A few of the men by the wall shifted.
Mr. Sato studied me. “Was a judge. Your father isn’t a judge anymore?”
“He isn’t.”
“Retired?”
“Something like that.”
“Ms. Palmer, I like clear answers.”
I sighed. “He lost his position.”
The topic of my father always hit like old bruises—faded but tender when touched.
“Why did he lose his position?”
“No disrespect, Mr. Sato, but I am only here to observe your soapland. Not breakdown my family history. I don’t want to cause any problems or—”
“An American judge’s daughter with a tape recorder asking questions in the most dangerous part of Tokyo—”
“Hold up. What I’m doing right now has nothing to do with my father in any way. I don’t even talk to him—”
“Why not?”
I held out my hand. “What?”
“Why not?”
“Because. . .we just don’t talk,” I let out a long breath. “Mr. Sato, respectfully, can I observe your business? If not, I will leave immediately.”
“But either way you don’t want to talk about your father?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary.”
That made him laugh.
God. Even his laugh is lethal.
It wasn’t loud or unkind. But it damn sure slithered under my skin and settled there, readying itself to explode.
He leaned in a hair’s breadth closer.
No further contact just yet.
But definitely the threat of it.
The possibility.
“Here in Tokyo, Ms. Palmer, you will find that when I ask a question, you answer me whether you think it is necessary or not.”
Oh shit.
I widened my eyes.
“Also,” he leaned away. “I’m not giving you back your device. It’s too old. I’ll get you a new one.”
What the fuck?
“I don’t need a new one.”
He shrugged. “Additionally, I expect you to stay out of my district.”
My pulse thundered.
I had to be very careful. Men like him didn’t threaten with words. They just tilted the world beneath your feet—and smiled when you fell on your ass.
I considered what Zo had translated to me earlier.
‘Any man with a dick and a pair of eyes will be all over her.’
I steadied my voice. “I don’t think banning me from your district is necessary. The way I look won’t interfere with my observations of your business.”
Mr. Sato tilted his head slowly, like a cat studying the precise point it planned to sink its claws.
“I’m a professional,” I swallowed. “I know how to stay out of the way.”
“Men pay a two-thousand-dollar monthly fee just to walk through those doors and never hear the word no. Not once.” He raised one finger. “Not when they order a drink. Not when they touch a woman. Not when they whisper their darkest wish in her ear. Upstairs. . .downstairs. . .the entire experience is curated to be a world without refusal. The fantasy depends on it. Do you understand?”
“Yes. However—”
“I’m not done.”
I blinked.
He reached for one of my curls resting against my shoulder, his fingers grazing my skin first—just enough to make me hold my breath. Then he took a strand between his thumb and forefinger rolling it slowly, testing the texture.
Uh. . .
The audacity.
The sheer arrogance.
But what unsettled me most was how easily I let him.
The coil slipped through his grip and sprang back.
And I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me but. . .I wanted him to touch my hair again. . .
That feeling irritated the hell out of me.
“Now imagine you,” He lowered his hand. “You’re walking through my world—rich chocolate skin, curls like spun silk, full lips, breasts that bounce when you breathe, and an ass that draws the eye from the front. You think these men will look away? Ignore you? Resist?”