Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Eager to try it, I opened my mouth.
He placed the sushi on my tongue, and his fingertips brushed my lower lip.
The touch was brief.
Electric.
Still, my whole body tightened.
Mmmm.
The tuna was firmer than the sea bream. Meatier. A whisper of iron beneath the clean ocean taste.
"Omakase is about patience," Kenji’s eyes darkened as he watched me chew. "Each piece builds on the last. Light to rich. Delicate to bold. The chef takes you on a journey, and you have to trust them to know the destination."
I swallowed. "And if you don't like where they take you?"
"Then you chose the wrong chef." His smile was slow and dangerous. "But when you choose right. . .the surrender is worth it."
“Hmmm. I like that.”
“I figured the author side of you would.”
I chuckled.
Each piece after that was a small masterpiece—colors and textures arranged with the precision of a painter, flavors that bloomed across my tongue in waves. Chef Mariko explained them in soft Japanese, and Kenji translated, his voice low and close to my ear.
Otoro. Fatty tuna. The most prized cut.
Uni. Sea urchin. Creamy, oceanic, like tasting the sea itself.
Chef Mariko returned with two pieces of kinmedai—golden eye snapper. She rested it on sculpted rice. The flesh was pale, almost translucent, with a thin layer of silver skin still intact.
Next, she didn't place them before us. Instead, she reached for a small torch at her station. The click was sharp. A blue flame hissed to life—narrow, focused, and controlled.
She angled the torch over the first piece.
The flame kissed the skin.
A sizzle cut through the koto music. The silver skin blistered and curled, turning from pale to amber to a deep, crackling gold. Fat rose to the surface in tiny beads that popped and wept down the sides of the fish.
The smell hit me next.
Butter.
Smoke.
The sea.
Oh this is going to be delicious.
Chef Mariko moved the flame in slow, intentional passes.
Sensually lingering.
Lovingly scorching.
Coaxing the oils from beneath the skin and letting them bloom.
The flesh beneath the crackling surface softened. I could see it happening—the proteins surrendering to the heat, going from firm to yielding in seconds.
This is amazing.
She killed the flame. The sizzle faded. Steam curled off the fish in thin ribbons that caught the candlelight and disappeared. She placed the piece before me with both hands. The skin was still crackling with residual heat.
“Thank you.” I picked it up with my fingers. The warmth spread through my fingertips immediately. The skin crackled against my thumb—crisp as glass.
I placed it in my mouth.
The skin shattered first. A murmur of crunch that dissolved into oil—rich, buttery, tasting of salt and sea. Then the flesh beneath gave way. Soft. Warm. The torch had unlocked lush flavor hidden inside the fish, something the raw version would have kept secret.
A moan left me that I did not authorize.
Kenji's eyes darkened.
Chef Mariko smiled, bowed, and prepared even more delights right in front of us.
We ate slowly.
Savored.
Let the koto music wash over us while candlelight danced and Tokyo glowed at our feet.
I was mid-chew when I felt it—this heat on my neck.
I glanced at Kenji.
He wasn't eating. His sushi sat untouched on the board. His eyes were fixed on my throat. Specifically on one of the spots where his teeth had left two crescent-shaped bruises.
He wasn't even trying to hide it.
The bite tingled under his gaze. Not a small tingle either. A deep, spreading warmth that pulsed outward from the mark and rolled down my neck, across my collarbone, and lower. My nipples tightened against the bodice of the gown.
From just his eyes.
Just him looking at what he'd done to me.
I swallowed my food. "What are you looking at?"
"I'm searching for another place on that beautiful brown skin to bite."
My breath caught. The marks on my neck throbbed in response—all of them, at once— like they'd heard him and agreed.
I recovered and straightened my spine. "You won't be biting me anymore, Dragon."
His eyes lifted to mine. Slow. Dark. The corner of his mouth curved. "And who is going to stop me, Tiger?"
A laugh burst out of me before I could help it.
Because the honest answer—the one my body was screaming while my mouth played tough—was nobody.
Not a single soul on this island.
And definitely not me.
He knew it too. I could see it in the way he finally picked up his sushi. Calm. Satisfied. Like a man who'd already won an argument his opponent didn't know was over.
And then Kenji fed me a piece of yellowtail from his own chopsticks, watching my mouth close around it with an intensity that made my skin heat and hum.
I returned the favor with a slice of sweet shrimp, and the way his lips brushed my fingertips felt more intimate than some kisses I'd had from other men.
And in between the sensual flirting, he told me which fish came from which waters. Which ones were rare. Which ones his mother or even Hiro had loved.