Page 136 of The Dragon 2
Because frankly. . .if I have my way tonight. . .we are about to go very fucking fast.
We continued forward, deeper into the space and I spotted a wall framed with erotic art. All ink drawings, capturing various dominatrix from different cultures—Japanese, African, Roman, Indian. Some wore corsets. Others were draped in silk or wore nothing at all. But each one had a man at her feet.
Kneeling.
Kissing.
Offering himself.
Hands bound.
Backs arched.
Mouths open.
It wasn’t pornographic.
It was spiritual.
My mouth went dry.
The jazz music rose higher in the air, and that was when I noticed the band.
Oh. Tora, how did you get them without my knowing? I’m getting you new guards.
Tucked into a velvet alcove along the far wall, the band played in near-shadow.
An upright bass stood at the center, plucked by a man in a silk vest with gloves on. Beside him, a saxophonist with long silver braids breathed a moaning line into his instrument, slow and aching. And at the back, the pianist traced his fingers overthe ivory. A drummer tapped rhythmically, and a trumpet player waited for his part and bobbed his head to the beat.
They played and the notes curled along my senses.
I swallowed hard.
This is wonderful. Absolutely. Fucking. Wonderful.
We continued ten feet more and stopped at a single table—round, low, draped in black silk, and beneath an amber chandelier shaped like a bleeding rose.
Hiroko pointed. “This is your seat, Mr. Sato.”
I nodded, but I didn’t sit. “Where is Nyomi?”
Hiroko bowed slightly—regal even in her retreat—and turned without another word.
Damn it. I want answers.
My legs were steady, but my heart was not. I stood there, still clutching the gift box like a boy waiting outside a woman’s door for the first time.
I dared to let my gaze roam the space once more, taking in the thrumming intimacy of the area. The band's rhythmic, sensual jazz continued to pour into my senses, evaporating any semblance of patience I had been clinging onto.
Awaiting Nyomi's arrival felt akin to slow torture.
Please, Tora. . .I’m close to begging. . .
The staff appeared, emerging from hidden panels in the wall, silent and graceful.
Two women. Each was seductively clothed—midnight waistcoats unbuttoned just enough to reveal glints of gold bondage harnesses. Their trousers were tailored sharp, and makeup was minimal.
Tora? Where are you? Do not keep me waiting anymore.
