Page 19 of The Queen's Denial

“You loved it, didn’t you, baby? You loved the way I had you bouncing on my cock.”

The discomfort of my final orgasm has subsided, and all I feel now is a warm, gooey, post-climax high. “Mmmmhmmm,” I mumble, as he locks his arm around the back of my neck and pulls me into him.

“God, even your sweat tastes good,” I hear him whisper as he sucks on my shoulder. I feel a bit like I’m in the first stages of waking up from an amazing dream, softly and sweetly.

“Mmm. Thanks,” I say dulcetly, before unabashedly falling asleep in this heaven of Andy, sex, and books.

*****

“Chichi-chan?” A voice rouses me from the dark, rich, luxurious blackness of my nap. Despite still feeling as satisfied as I did when I fell asleep, I jut up from my bed, thinking about where I was and who I was with, and the fact that it’s Daiki’s voice that I hear.

As I get my bearings, however, I realize that I’m tucked into my bed, safe and sound, in the tight white t-shirt I wore with Andy earlier, and some sleep shorts he must have put on me. Still no underwear, though. Maybe he wants to come back for round two later.

“Are you okay, Chichi?” Daiki asks from the door of my bedroom, snapping me back to the current moment.

I throw my bathrobe on and open the door. “Yes, Daiki-san. I was just tired. I didn’t expect you back for a few days. Is my father with you?”

Daiki shakes his head. “No, he had to stay back and take care of a few things.”

I nod my head distractedly. I don’t really care why he’s here. I just want to find Andy and see if he’d be up for watching movies and putting his head between my legs again.

“He has asked me to speak to you before his return, though. That is why I’m here.”

“Okay,” I say, as my attention moves back to him. My father usually leaves me out of things, unless I get in trouble. I’ve mostly had tutors for everything I’ve needed to learn about how life will be once I leave his house: the history of the Yakuza, what my role in politics will be, as well as the ways in which we work with various mafia organizations in America. I’ve even had tutors to teach me about the ins and outs of my father’s legitimate businesses, which makes sense because I will have to run them one day. When he needs to speak with me, it’s usually about someone that I’ll need to make nice with in the future once I’m married off.

“Would you like to join me for tea in the sunroom?”

I wouldn’t. I’d rather Daiki just told me what he needed to tell me, since he went to the trouble of coming all the way to my room to get me, and I’d like to know what this is about immediately. He barged his way into my suite, not for the first time at that, and woke me up, so it must be important. But, of course, I’m not about to say that to my elder, and my father’s most trusted guard.

“Ah, sure.” I look down at the bits of my body that peek through the bathrobe. My shorts are too short — I’ll have to change them. “Just give me five minutes?”

“Certainly,” Daiki says tersely, before leaving me to my business.

*****

I walk into the sunroom exactly five minutes later, where there is a steaming hot pot of mandarin green tea waiting for me. Daiki pulls my chair out for me. “Thank you, Daiki-san.”

“Doitashimashite,” he replies, and I internally clench up. This is more serious than I thought if Daiki is speaking in Japanese, even though there’s no one else here.

As soon as he sits down next to me, I make eye contact for a split second, just so he knows that I want him to spit what he has to say out as soon as possible, and then I let my eyes fall to my tea. “May I ask why I have been called upon?” I ask in formal Japanese.

“Yes, of course, Sakura.” Daiki must sense my trepidation, because he uses the nickname he gave me when I was just a little girl, playing outside in the traditional cherry blossom trees lined up around the backyard garden. He would tell me I was just as elegant and beautiful as one, always in Japanese. It makes the impending conversation slightly less intimidating.

“Your father wants to begin your Omiai.”

I let out all of my breath. I knew this was coming, but I thought I had more time. Omiai is the Japanese version of an arranged marriage. I don’t know exactly how it will go, but from little bits that Papa and Daiki have told me over the past few years, I will have a handful of acceptable choices, and then be able to choose between them. I will meet them all, make a choice, and have a grace period of two months of engagement.

Of course, I’ve researched this thoroughly, and I know that this is not how traditional Omiai are done. This will be more like a mix between omiai and konkatsudo, or marriage hunting, with the help of my father and probably Daiki, since my mother isn’t in the picture. In the high ranks of the Yakuza, it has become more acceptable to introduce two young people and make sure they don’t hate each other’s guts before marrying them off. My father has always been hard, unyielding, and a bit of a tyrant, but I’m certain he has a soft spot for me and my happiness.

I know there’s no arguing with Daiki or my father about this, so I tilt my head. “May I have permission to ask a few questions?”

“Certainly, Chichi-chan. This is an open discussion.”

I swallow, feeling the pressure of dozens, if not hundreds of anxious thoughts bubbling to the surface, but I try to calm myself and choose just one. First and foremost, I want to know how much time I have. “When will we formally begin?”

“Your father would like you to meet the first match in one month.” I exhale some relief. A whole month to get used to my new circumstances. I can do that.

“Thank you, Daiki-san. How many matches will there be?” I long to ask all my questions at once, but I stop myself. I feel uncharacteristically flustered — anxious about how this will affect the life I’m living here. An image of the fucking horn-rimmed glasses Andy was wearing earlier flashes through my mind, but I blink my eyes hard and focus on Daiki’s answer.

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