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)
Okay. Very interesting.
I hadn’t been expecting that music at all.
Surely, this wasn’t what they usually played here.
With Hiroko’s geisha roots—the way she carried herself with such traditional grace—I assumed I’d be greeted by the melancholic strings of a shamisen or the slow ceremonial rhythm of taiko drums.
But this was a saxophone dripping honey. An upright bass rumbling foreplay. The kind of sounds that didn’t bow.
Very American.
This had my Tiger’s fingerprints all over it.
Did Nyomi pick the music?
The jazz was so intimate and the melody was unfamiliar, but it stirred desire within me.
Why had she chosen this music?
I didn’t have time to dwell as the hallway unfurled into a large room, and it was like stepping into an altar built for power and pleasure.
Tora. . .
It was intimate—but not small. The walls felt close, but the ceiling soared. Like being inside a cathedral of sin, drenched in desire.
The lighting was low and poured like honey.
Candle flames shimmered inside crystal sconces.
The air was fragrant and rich. Leather and wine, yet the smell of yummy cooking lingered beneath—warm, rich, and soulful.
Fuck. I’m about. . .99% sure she cooked for me.
Everywhere I turned, the room exhaled dark, feminine power.
On my left, various whips stood in tall, cut-crystal vases like fucking blooming roses.Their handles were braided in thick Japanese leather, some tipped with gold, others with sapphires.
And I knew without a doubt that they were not props.
They were weapons of worship.
Further in, red, black, and white ropes descended from the ceiling in elaborate shibari configurations—knots so precise, they looked like silken calligraphy. Some hung loose. Others spiraled around ivory statues.
I turned to the right and froze as my eyes landed on the Saint Andrew’s Cross. Carved from cherry wood so dark, it must have been soaked in centuries. Its iron bolts gleamed in the candlelight. A black leather cuff still dangled from one arm.
It wasn’t placed against a wall.
It stood centered like a monument.
My cock jumped in my pants.
Now. . .Tora. . .I thought you wanted to go slow?
My heartbeat picked up.
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 over the 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.
I remained standing with the gift in my hand.
The one waitress rolled out a cart lined with gold plates and began placing them on the table.
The other set obsidian-rimmed wine glasses next to the plates.
Neither spoke.
Then, they began to put the silverware on the table. All polished and weighted. Knives with curves. Large spoons. Forks flared with claws.
Whatever meal they were serving, it wasn’t going to be traditional.
Goddamn it.
They continued and I put my gift down on the floor next to my chair, but still, I did not sit.