Page 107 of Emperor of Wrath

“Keep it there.”

He lifts my gown. I tremble when he slips his fingers into the top of my panties, pulling them away from my glistening sex and slipping the toy down into them. I moan quietly as he curls the toy into me, sinking it against my g-spot with the outside part of it resting against my still-throbbing clit.

He reaches up and slips the second toy from between my wet lips.

“Turn around.”

I do so, willingly, eagerly.

I bite back a whimper as he lifts my gown again. His fingers tug the tiny back strip of the thong aside, and when I feel the rubber plug push against my tight puckered ring, I wince and my breath catches.

“Breathe, princess,” he growls, nipping my ear. “My cock will feel much bigger than this…”

The adrenaline rush of his touch, combined with his dark promise, have my body shivering and pulsing. I whimper as the toy pushes against my tight hole, slowly opening me up. It sinks into me, making my core flutter as I feel my ass tighten again just below the flared base.

“Now we can go,” he growls.

20

KENZO

The death of Orochi Ito and his nephew shook up the Kyoto underworld. At first, everyone expected there to be a massive bloodbath in the ensuing power vacuum.

But that never happened. Because I filled that vacuum.

I might still be the new guy in town. But the old guard of the various Yakuza families in Kyoto accord me a measure of respect due both to my last name, and the fact that I’m essentially Sota’s heir.

Unfortunately, hand in hand with respect and becoming one of the kings of the city comes having to play the tired old guard games. Like enduring insufferably boring sit-downs where everyone just glad-hands each other and bullshits about how powerful they are, or the never-ending social calendar of weddings, engagement galas, or omiyamairi ceremonies celebrating the birth of one heir or another.

Tonight is yet another of these asinine social gatherings. Worse, it’s my own asinine social gathering.

Tonight’s shindig has been organized by Sota to celebrate my marriage to Annika, and the peace and prosperity between our family and the Bratva that that brings.

Just shoot me.

Sota’s not oblivious to my thoughts about this whole thing. And he’s not being an asshole and forcing me to celebrate it. This is just what’s expected. It would be disrespectful to the other Yakuza families in Kyoto not to throw something like this.

Still, it’s me that has to suffer through the bullshit of a bunch of chain-smoking old guys ogling waitstaff and sipping expensive sake and whiskey while they make deals to make themselves even richer.

And yet…

When I turn to glance at Annika sitting next to me in the back of the black Range Rover, with the streetlights and the neon of the city washing over her in waves, I’m not sure the word “suffer” is accurate.

It’s an insult to actual suffering to characterize sitting next to a woman as beautiful as she or walking into an event with her on my arm as my wife as such.

There was a reason I fell for Annika’s bullshit five years ago. Sure, I was drunk, and high on my own successes. I was younger, and reckless, and probably looking for trouble.

But when trouble walked in looking like her? I was fucked.

She wore a blonde bob wig over her long red locks that night, but the disguise did nothing to hide her beauty. Her raw sensuality. Her tantalizing promise of recklessness and bad decisions.

I bought her a drink, then another. She asked if we could go somewhere “just the two of us”…and my dick took over.

I woke up eighteen hours later, vaguely remembering the drink she poured me back at my place tasting funny. With faint memories of putting on a record and asking her to dance to Al Green with me. I distinctly remember wanting to punch myself in the dick the next day at my sappiness regarding that move.

But most of all, I remembered her.

The feel of her body swaying against mine as So Tired of Being Alone crooned over my stereo system. The scent of her skin, a mix of jasmine, orange blossom, and the sea.

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