Page 31 of Emperor of Lust

It’s so obvious when she comes that I’m sure you’d see it from the International Space Station. Hana bites down on her lip as she screams into my shoulder. Her entire body spasms, and her pussy clenches like a velvety wet vice around my fingers as the orgasm surges through her.

I keep her pinned against the railing as her body shudders and shakes. I stroke my fingers in and out, watching her squirm and writhe until it looks like she’s going to have a stroke.

It’s only then that I slowly drag my fingers out. My hand slips from under her dress, and I lift it in front of my face. Hana stares at my glistening fingers wide-eyed as I bring them to my mouth and wrap my lips around them.

Andsuck.

Her face goes crimson as she watches me slowly lick my fingers clean.

“What the fuck is going on out here?”

We both freeze at the voice behind me. Not just any voice, either.

Goddammit. It’s her fucking brother, Takeshi.

A split second later Hana jolts, as if the reality of the situation has just hit her. She tugs frantically at her bound wrists. I curse quietly, reluctantly reaching around and yanking the lace panties off her wrists.

“I’m keeping these,” I murmur into her ear as I stuff them into my jacket pocket.

She glares, her expression venomous. But then she takes a steadying breath before pushing me away from her. She clears her throat as she smiles innocently at her brother.

“All good, Tak,” she says, her voice steady, a mask of composure slipping over her face. “Just talking business.”

I smile lazily at Takeshi as I turn to him, letting my gaze drift between the two of them. “Your sister was just walking me through a…messysituation.”

She bristles beside me.

“Yes, thanks for clarifying all that, Damian.” She turns to me, her look pure poison. “Great strategy for Tokyo.” She clears her throat as she turns to her brother. “I’m going to grab another drink and listen to some more jazz. Coming?”

“Be right in,” Takeshi says, his gaze never leaving me.

When she’s out of sight, Takeshi drops all pretense. He marches over to me, shoving me hard against the railing before getting right in my face.

“Let me explain something to you, fucker,” he snarls, his voice filled with a quiet menace. “You’re a tourist in Crazy-town. I’ve lived there my whole life. I know the bars that stay open late just for the locals. The coffee shop remembers my order, and the burger joint makes mine just the way I like it with extra caramelized onions every single time.”

I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Is there a point to this?”

“The point, shithead,” he snarls, “is that you have no idea what I’m capable of. Your little scary-boy routine doesn’t frighten me. And if you hurt, touch, look at, or eventhinkabout my sister?” He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll flay you alive. Literally. Understood?”

I meet his glare with a smirk, letting my silence speak volumes. I’m not intimidated—not by him, not by anyone—but I recognize the threat in his words, the raw protectiveness that runs through this family.

“Understood,” I reply steadily. He releases his grip, his expression still hard, then gives me a final, withering look before turning and disappearing back into the party, leaving me alone in the garden, the faint echo of Hana’s breathless gasps hanging in the cool night air.

I can still fucking taste her on my tongue.

10

HANA

I’ve been avoidingDamian for days now—ignoring his texts, dodging any situation where I might cross paths with him and he might look me in the eye withthelookthat says “I know”.

I know that you came on my fingers the other night, your hands tied behind your back with your own panties.

Every time his contact name flashes on my phone, I get a sense of dread mixed with something darker and more unsettling.

I detest him, and yet somehow he’s always there, lurking, as if he’s branded himself into my psyche. It’s confusing, maddening, and no matter how many times I tell myself he’s nothing but a bully or a bored psychopath, I can’t erase the memory of his hands on me or forget the way he looked at me, as if he could see straight into my soul.

I push the thoughts away as I make my way to the garage, where Takeshi is working on one of his “ladies”—today it’s an older Honda NSR500—black, with neon-blue racing stripes down the side.

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