Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 101427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
There was one I barely remember the name of—Aiko or something like that. Body like sin. Laugh like nails on glass. I had her first. Bent over the leather couch in the backroom of an underground illegal casino. Her knees dug into the cushions. Her spine arched.
When I was done, I whispered in her ear, “My brother wants you next.”
She moaned in pleasure.
Hiro moved in, cock in one hand and the other hand sliding along the curve of her hip. Once he plunged his cock inside Aiko, he was grabbing her throat.
In the shadows, I lounged in a chair, shirt undone, cock dirty, and a drink in hand, smiling. Her moans turned feral under him. The couch creaked in rhythm.
And I had no regrets.
Another night, we fucked a blonde Australian tourist together. Legs for days, mouth like a vacuum. I took her from behind while she sucked Hiro off at the edge of one of my soaplands’ private pools. Hiro was so rough, her tears mixed with the chlorine as she choked on his cock and begged for more of mine.
For years, we shared women the way most men shared smokes.
Without meaning.
Without memory.
Always, my bond with Hiro mattered more than any woman ever did. If she made him smile, she was already halfway mine. If she made me come, he got her next.
It was never about the woman.
It was about loyalty.
It was about blood.
But Nyomi?
Darkness rose within my chest.
Nyomi was changing everything.
I couldn’t imagine her in our bed with Hiro.
Not even a little.
Not with his mouth on her full lips.
Not with his cock in her tight, wet pussy.
Not with his fingers pulling sounds from her body that were meant for only me.
The idea made my vision haze over.
Made my pulse roar in my ears.
Made me want to drag Hiro outside, slam his back against the nearest wall, and remind him that while we were still brothers—we were no longer the same men.
Not when it came to her.
My Tiger.
The woman who walked into my war room and made every man forget his place. The woman who smelled like the scent that’s haunted my body since childhood—black amber and ripe plum.
The idea of Hiro touching her—even in jest—was not brotherhood.
It was betrayal.
My jaw flexed again.
I didn’t even realize I was gripping the edge of the desk until a loud crack split beneath my hand—subtle, but real. A little bit of the wood was fractured.
My palm throbbed.
I kept my face calm.
Neutral.
And this time when her eyes swept over the room, they met mine and my heart kicked like a fucking traitor.
I didn’t move, but I felt a jolt of desire in my throat.
Yeah. I could never share her.
Finally, Nyomi approached us and Hiro whispered in my ear, “If this room were a battlefield, your Tiger would have already won. So far, I’ve counted thirty erections, seven minor heart attacks, and absolutely no survivors.”
I shifted again, slower this time. Any harder, and the zipper would tear. Any closer, and I might rip apart too.
I didn’t have to see it to know Hiro was smirking beside me. I also knew that the Fangs, Claws, and Scales were no longer focused on their weapons, missions, screens, and maps.
They were watching her.
Watching me.
And waiting for the Dragon to move.
She stopped four feet in front of me.
Thank God.
One more step and the last thread of restraint I’d wrapped around my cock would’ve snapped.
She didn’t even look at me yet.
But I was already fucking her.
In my mind.
In my fantasy.
In the ruthless, blood-stained kingdom of my desire.
I would’ve stood—slowly, silently—without saying a word.
No warning.
No preamble.
Just stalk toward her and when I reached her, I wouldn’t touch her gently. No. I would seize her wrist, yank her into me so fast the air would whip around her body, and slam her onto my war desk with a crack loud enough to silence the fucking gods. My guns, bullets, and knives would scatter. Maps and files would fall. Surveillance feeds would flicker.
But the only sound that would matter?
The gasp from her lips as I grabbed the back of her neck and bent her over my fucking desk.
Mine.
My woman.
My Tiger.
And I wouldn’t whisper her name, either.
I wouldn’t speak to soothe her.
I would grab the hem of that sexy fucking pencil skirt and rip it up to her waist.
No teasing.
No ceremony.
Then I would tear her panties apart like paper.
Lace?
Silk?
I didn’t fucking care.
They would be destroyed in my fist.
A trophy.
A casualty.
She would be bare, bent, and dripping for me.
Legs trembling.
Pussy glistening.
And I wouldn’t ask.
I would take.
I would drive my cock into her soaked cunt with the force of a man who’s starved, who’s been deprived of food, water, breath—and she was all three at once.
One brutal stroke.
That’s all it would take.
She would scream.
Slap the desk.
Arch her back.
And I would fuck her harder.
Faster.
Right in front of all my men.