Page 61 of The Dragon 1
“I’m dressing you.”
“In a nice pants suit, I hope. Maybe with some stripes or something.” He fake growled.
Really?
“Fine. You can dress me. I didn’t bring any date wear anyway,” I leaned my weight to my other foot. “I’m more surprised you’re not warning me against dating the gangster.”
“Don’t call him that. The Yakuza doesn’t exist.”
“You’ve been screaming he’s the Dragon all night—”
“That doesn’t mean you should say it. Knowing you, you’ll let that slip out of your mouth in front of him or even worse, try and interview him. Just go on the date and nicely tell him you’re not interested.”
“I will, while I get him to let me write about his soapland and hand back my recorder.”
“It’s always the book with you, isn’t it?”
“I’m addicted to the story. Writing is like cocaine, baby. Every page I finish is a snorted line.”
“Thank goodness your writing is better than your metaphors.”
“Ha!”
Zo then began to rattle on about color palettes and hem lengths, I nodded, but my thoughts drifted—slipping right to him.
Kenji Sato.
The fucking Dragon.
The man I kneed in the balls and who, instead of retaliating with bullets, sent me a sex flower, a fantasy novel, and a date request.
What kind of gangster does that?
My palms still remembered the heat of his chest. My knee, the shocking hardness of his body beneath that tailored suit.
And. . .what kind of man makes my palms sweat just thinking about being alone with him again?
I wasn’t sure if I was walking into a dinner, an ambush, or something far more dangerous.
But the thing that scared me most?
I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to resist him… even if it ruined me.
Fuck. What is going to happen on this date?
After a while, Zo finally stopped talking.
It took him twenty straight minutes of listing every possible color I shouldnotwear on a first date for his brain to burn out. After that, he grabbed a bottle of coconut water, disappeared into the bedroom, and slid the door closed behind him.
Thank God.
Silence wrapped around me.
The Dragon is not going to kill me. . .he’s just going to. . .charm my panties off apparently.
The apartment dimmed.
The city outside hummed its late-night lullaby—faint car engines, heels clacking against pavement, the gentle whir of wind rushing between glass buildings.
