Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
It was ritual.
Still jacking my cock, I put those panties back into my mouth—wet with her and my precum—that was when I orgasmed, whispering her name.
Shooting cum in the air.
My moans soaked the cotton.
Her name spilled from my throat in fragments, muffled by the panties in my mouth.
Nyomi. Nyomi. My Nyomi.
Each syllable was a chokehold.
She hadn’t taken the suite but she had taken something far more dangerous from me—my fucking control.
How does one catch a Tiger?
Back in the current moment again, the question pulsed, low and sharp, as I stared into the darkness beyond the mirror’s reflection.
In my mind, I saw it.
A dragon.
Massive. Golden-scaled. Eyes burning like twin suns; wings furled tight in restraint. It crouched in the shadows, coiled with hunger, smoke threading from its jaws.
And across from it. . .a Tiger.
Striped gold and sable, she lay in a patch of moonlight, unbothered. Unmoved. Licking her paw with slow grace.
She didn’t run.
She didn’t growl.
She knew the dragon could burn her alive.
She also knew he wouldn’t.
Because he wanted her too fucking much.
So, the Tiger stretched, rolled to her side, and blinked at him with feminine knowing.
Oh.
That was when the answer struck me—not like a strategy but a sentence seared into the back of my skull.
How does one trap a Tiger? Perhaps. . .the Dragon must beg. . .
Chapter eleven
The Only Way a Dragon Could Kneel
Kenji
I blinked and returned to the present, standing before the mirror once more.
Now. . .all I need to learn is. . .how to beg. . .
The thought should have disgusted me. Should have made my spine stiffen in protest.
An alpha—me—on my knees?
Pleading for a woman’s mercy; for her touch, for the heat between her thighs?
The image bloomed in my head and grew toward clarity. Me, kneeling—not because I’d been defeated, not because I was coerced, but because I chose to. Because I wanted it. I saw myself with my mouth against the inside of her thigh, lips parted, and voice hoarse.
Please, Tora. . .
My cock jerked in my pants.
Hmmm. My body likes the idea of begging her?
It was hard to understand why. Granted, I would not be begging for forgiveness. Not for power. But for access. For connection. For the chance to drown in her pleasure and be nothing but a man.
A man stripped of command, of legacy, of weapons.
A man without the title of dragon.
Without the armor of blood and violence.
My cock stiffened.
Hmmm.
Some crazy part of me even. . .trusted her to be humble with my begging and to even be mindful with the power she would have over me. God help me—I trusted her to take that power and not destroy me with it.
To own me in private while the world still feared my name.
To hold me down, not to humiliate, but to remind me I was still flesh, need, and blood beneath all the guns and fire.
My cock hardened even more, straining against my tuxedo pants and responding to the vision with a pulse that made my breath falter.
I narrowed my eyes at the mirror.
Perhaps, someday.
I stepped back from the mirror.
The silk of my shirt felt too soft against my skin; the slacks too tight around the now-rigid weight of my cock. My thoughts were getting dirtier and dirtier, twisting into scent and submission.
But that isn't where our story will begin. Not yet.
If my naughty Tiger wanted me on my knees, she'd have to understand what it meant to be there first. What it cost for the pleasure of me on my knees.
First, I’d have to teach her. Show her—not through silence or symbols but through sweat. Through erotic possession. Through the rhythm of my cock’s discipline and the deep guttural truths only found when skin met skin and control snapped like a fraying thread.
I would have to fuck it into her—not punishment, not degradation, but a reminder. That even when I trusted her with the fragile thing inside me, I was still the one who could wreck her with a thrust. Still the one who could make her forget her own name just by pressing my hand between her legs and playing with that wet pussy.
Yes. I would give her my power.
But not before I took hers too.
Not before I gripped her hips, slammed her against the nearest flat surface, and fucked her like the world owed me a debt and her body was the final payment.
I imagined it.
Her bent over the grand piano in the suite’s salon. That tight little dress she’d worn on our first date hiked around her waist. Her thighs trembling as my fingers dug into them.
She’d whimper, bite her lip, try to pretend she could take all of me without falling apart.
And I’d give her the first thrust like a warning.
Don’t forget who made you scream.
She’d shudder. Her fingers would curl against the keys, playing nothing, creating everything.