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)
I imagined her in front of me now but we were in the center of the plane and my men were gone.
And I had her bent over the obsidian table I’d just used to plan war.
Her red dress bunched at her waist.
That perfect soft, fat ass arched for me.
Me—still in a suit—stroking my cock over her soaked panties, whispering cruel promises in her ear. She’d be my prisoner.
My goddess.
My ruin.
Finally, I pumped my cock and closed my eyes, thinking about her some more.
Now she was on her knees.
Worshipping my cock.
Tongue tracing my piercing. Fingers curling around my balls. Her eyes locked on mine, daring me to lose control.
And I did.
I fucked my hand like I was fucking her mouth.
Ragged.
Deep.
Controlled only by the image of her lips wet with my pre-cum.
“Fuck! Tora. . .”
I slid my hand upward, teasing the underside where the skin thinned and sensitivity bloomed. My other hand found my balls again—cupping, lifting, massaging gently to intensify every stroke.
Then I pictured her above me.
Straddling me.
Tying my wrists behind my back with silk rope.
Riding my cock like it belonged to her.
Grinding slowly.
Breaking me.
She would call me hers.
Her good boy.
Her obedient dragon.
And I’d fucking roar from my orgasm.
Fuck yes.
The pressure coiled deeper.
Tighter.
I stroked my cock some more—thumb circling the crown where the rose piercing curved against me—and my body snapped.
I groaned, chest heaving.
Hot jets of cum surged from the tip of my cock in violent pulses.
Across my hand.
Some landed on the window.
Some across my stomach.
A few thick ropes glistened across my thighs.
Loudly groaning, I let my head fall back.
Breath wild.
Muscles trembling.
Fucking wrecked by a dream.
By a voice.
By her.
My Nyomi.
I exhaled, slow.
Naughty Tiger. Very naughty.
Chapter three
A Weapon of Mass Seduction
Nyomi
The sound of running water and a faint hum drifted through the paper-thin walls.
Zo was in the shower. Singing something old-school and soft—Al Green maybe, or Donny Hathaway. One of those soul-soaked, voice crooners that always made the morning feel like honey on warm bread.
He wasn’t mad.
Thank God.
That man had the right to be annoyed; hell, I deserved a lecture after waking him up at damn near five a.m. with a phone call so loud and intense I probably radiated heat through the walls.
But Zo was humming, not stomping.
No passive-aggressive door slams.
No throat-clearing behind his bedroom door.
Just humming and steam.
I’ll have to be quieter when I talk to Kenji next time.
I let my head fall back against the futon mattress, exhaling the tension I hadn’t realized was still clinging to my shoulders.
The white ceiling fan whirred above.
My thighs were still slick, my pulse still skittering in places it had no business doing gymnastics.
That dream.
That voice.
That man.
Mmmm.
Kenji wasn’t just under my skin—he was stitched into it.
And I hated how much I liked it.
My phone buzzed on the mattress beside me.
Who’s that?
Blinking, I reached for it and then brushed my thumb across the screen.
A notification stared up at me.
One New Image from the Dragon?
I quirked my brows and tapped the screen.
What did he send me?
A loading image popped up, and it took its sweet time loading.
One slow, teasing swirl of buffering light, spinning like it had all the time in the world while I lay there… aching for Kenji and too damned curious for my own good. My thumb hovered near the edge of the screen, ready to swipe back, to close it, to not look—but my body didn’t get the memo.
What is it? A photo of his face? Of Paris at sunrise? No way.
Kenji wasn’t the “look at the city’s skyline” type of guy.
My heart tapped against my ribs, bracing for impact.
Another pause.
The loading bar ticked one more notch.
God, what are you doing to me, Dragon?
I tilted the phone, like that might make it go faster, even though I knew damn well it wouldn’t.
Then, I saw the image and screeched.
OH SHIT!!
My phone slipped from my hand like it had shocked me, landing face-up on the futon beside my thigh.
“Jesus!” I grabbed the sheet and covered my face, even though no one was in the room to witness my breakdown. “This man is insane!”
But even as I scolded him in my head, I was already reaching for the phone again, my fingers greedy with curiosity and heat.
But damn!
I picked it up slowly like it was holy.
And Lord, it was.
Because there on the screen—centered, framed like a damn art piece—was Kenji’s cock.
Very fucking big.
Super thick.
Smooth.
Beautiful.
And exquisitely pierced.
At the tip of his swollen cock’s head, right where soft pinkish-tan skin turned into a flushed crown, was a delicate gold rose.
Not gaudy.
Not crude.
Just absolutely elegant.
The petals were sculpted—refined, almost too beautiful to be real. Not a cheap barbell or edgy punk ring, but a piece of luxury art on his cock.
The contrast made my breath hitch.
I stared at the picture, and my heart fluttered in my chest.
Every inch of that cock screamed powerful.
I thought back to our phone conversation. I could still hear his voice in my head—low, sinful, and smug as hell.