No Ordinary Love (7 page)

Japanese men tend to be extremely nervous on the first few dates and will not make a move toward the women.

I flipped to another result.

Japanese culture thrives on “cuteness.” In order to impress a Japanese man, one should appear like a cute little kitten.

“Alrighty. That has to be bullshit. I won’t be purring tonight.” I turned my phone off and decided to wing it.

A bell rang in the distance. I turned around. Several feet ahead of me, elevator doors slid open. Kenji stepped out. A sleek, gray suit fit him perfectly. He wore a black shirt under it that was open at the top.

Goodness. At least he knows how to make an entrance.

If he’d been taller, he could’ve been a runway model.

Around five men trailed behind him. One talked to him in Japanese as they headed my way, yet Kenji didn’t nod or look at the man next to him. All of his attention was centered on me. I looked into his eyes. His gaze snared me in seconds, triggering me to edge back. It was just something about that expression on his face. He looked hungry, famished, in fact. I hoped he was hungry for food, because I had no plans to feed him my body. Yet, the vision of me lying down in front of him while he licked my flesh flashed in my head. My sex clenched.

Down girl. We won’t be having fun with this bad boy.

I liked my men rough around the edges and with a bit of the street swirling in their chest, but Kenji represented more than the type I was used to. According to my internet search last night, Kenji didn’t walk around on the street as if he owned it, like my ex-lovers. Kenji actually owned the streets, at least many parts of the red-light district.

Here we go.

He approached and paused right in front of me. Just like last night, only a few inches rested between us. But unlike last night, something charged from him to me. It pulsed and throbbed back and forth as he stared into my eyes.

“Tora.” His voice vibrated through my body.

I edged back and did a half-bow. “Hi, Kenji.”

He smiled. I hoped it wasn’t due to my pitiful attempt at respecting his culture. I always felt stupid trying to follow a country’s traditions.

“I read your letter several times today.” He walked around me in slow, deliberate steps, circling me like a prowling beast. “I apologize for the unwanted groping last night. I like to touch my woman. We’ll need to figure out a compromise like you said.”

My woman? All that dragon smoke must have muddled his brain.

“Wait a minute. I think we have a misunderstanding,” I said. “A compromise on the touching? That’s not what I said. No way. That’s not what I even meant. I wanted to compromise on researching the district and—”

“Doesn’t matter. We should compromise on the touching too.”

“I disagree.”

“We have time for that later.”

“For what?”

“Compromising.”

“I doubt we’ll have time for that,” I muttered as he chuckled.

“I told you yesterday that you should always know who you’re meeting with, before you greet them.” He stopped behind me.

I had to glance over my shoulder to see him as he drank in my curves. Everything about him was intense. He snared all of my attention. I could focus on nothing else. A flicker of something journeyed between us. If I could, I would've named it something grand and bold, but I had no name for it, just this sensation of lust mingling with yearning and all of that slamming into my chest as he continued to watch me.

Why am I always off my game with him?

“Do you know who I am now?” he asked.

More than I should’ve known. Zo had been right. Kenji was the second son of the leader who ran the biggest yakuza syndicate in Japan. The Yamaguchi. It was a group that boasted well over twenty thousand members in the country, and even more around the world. Many lived in my state of New York. Others stayed in California and Hawaii. It freaked me out. The only reason I kept the date was because the reports claimed that the yakuza were supposed to be different than the Italian mafia.

Apparently, they were more a business that thrived on old customs. Gang leaders in suits. They'd formed a deep connection to the Japanese community. I just hadn't figured out if it was a good or bad union.

There were the good things about them. When the tsunami hit Japan in 2011, the yakuza represented some of the first groups to provide aid and supplies to their residents.

Then there was the bad. A few articles mentioned a term called
sokaiya
. It was a yakuza method for obtaining bribes. They would buy shares in companies, attend shareholders’ meetings, and then discover any dirt on the leadership. Once they found enough wicked little secrets, they threatened to reveal them. According to several articles, sokaiya worked due to the Japanese’s fear of shame over anything else.

And I can’t forget about that other thing. What was it? Yubitsume, I think.

Yakuza members that violated particular rules were disciplined by getting a part of their finger chopped off. One news documentary explained that they started at the tip of their pinkie, however as further problems appeared, more mutilation continued.

I'll have to tread carefully with this one. Anybody who deals with discipline through knives and brute force is someone I better be cautious around. But how much of the yakuza is in Kenji’s veins?

Kenji hadn’t been involved with the yakuza until after his surprise retiring from soccer at the young age of twenty-five. Not a soccer fan myself, I was still impressed by his stats. He’d won Asian Football Confederation Player of the Year for each year he’d played. It totaled five. He participated in a FIFA World Cup tournament and in the Olympics. However, the best part of my internet search was discovering the Calvin Klein underwear ad campaign he did three years ago. Kenji wasn’t huge, but like I assumed, sculpted muscles layered his abs and chest. His thighs swelled with strength. The black boxer briefs he wore could barely hide the bulge tucked within. Upon seeing those pictures, I’d made the hot photo my screen saver and drooled over it the rest of the night.

Regardless, Kenji’s retirement had been five years ago, making him thirty. He looked youthful, but his eyes held an old understanding that only a rough life could bring.

What happened to make your eyes look so dark? In the ads and soccer pictures they’d been bright and hopeful.

“Tora, did you find out who I am?”

The word “Dragon” sat on the tip of my tongue, but Zo had forbid me to speak it in front of Kenji.

“Yes. I did my research.” I flicked my thumb against my index finger over and over. “I know who you are.”

“Good.” He stayed behind me.

Tensing, I continued to face forward, unable to get enough courage to turn around. For some reason, he just knocked me out of my game and placed us on a new playing field, one I was unprepared for. Still behind me, he captured my waist with both hands and did nothing else. My nerves flared.
What is he doing? Will I have to knee this crazy man again?
Before I could ask him myself, he loudly inhaled and groaned. My insides melted from the sound.

“You’re like an enchantress. Everything about you makes my body react.” He released my waist and got in front of me. “How long will you be in Tokyo?”

“Three and a half weeks.”

“That’s not enough time.”

I leaned my head to the side. “For what?”

“For everything I want to do to you.” His gaze journeyed all over me. There was no place untouched.

My pulse sped up. “I’m—”

“In your letter you said that you would meet me tonight, but not for a date. Let’s make one thing clear right now.” He seized my waist again and molded his body against mine. “This is a date, Little Tora. On this subject, there won’t be any compromises.”

I opened my mouth to speak. He leaned in for a kiss, dipped his tongue between my lips, and enveloped me with his presence—his fingers massaging my waist, his tongue playing with mine, that citrus scent pouring over me, and the taste of ginger candy on his tongue.
Mmmm.
He swallowed my whimper of pleasure, slipped those hands over the curve of my behind, and gently squeezed. I couldn’t think or see, escape or control my hormones. All I could do was hold on for the ride.

When he pulled back, he whispered, “Stay for two months at least.”

Holy fuck! Did I just kiss him?

“No.” I blinked a few times, gaining control of myself. “I’m only going to be here until the end of the month. No longer.” I stepped back. “And don't ever kiss me like that again, unless you'd like to date my knee.”

That made him laugh, instead of jump back and flee.

“I'm sorry. I'll behave.” He held his hands up, but I got the feeling that it was more to mock me. “Consider extending your trip, please. Don’t give me an answer now. Just think about it. I like you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I will.” He left me there flabbergasted, went to my chair, and pulled it out for me. “Please, sit down. I want to talk about this compromise with touching. Good idea.”

“Wait.” I waved my hand. “It’s not a compromise on touching. I didn’t say that in my letter. I said a compromise on going to other soaplands.”

“You won’t go to any other soaplands.” Chuckling, he tapped the chair. “Please, sit.”

“Look. I came to Tokyo to write a book about the underground sex industry.” I sat down and he tucked me in, more like a dad would to his kid than a gentleman to his lover. “How am I going to do that if you’re banning me from the red-light district?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“I don't care.”

“You should.”

I touched my chest. “You don't get to be as successful as I am by being afraid to do things.”

“How
did
you become such a success at your age?” He quirked his eyebrows. “You're only twenty-one.”

“It's a long story.”

“I like long ones.”

“It's also private.”

He grinned. “I love private ones, too.”

“Mr. Sato—”

“Call me, Kenji.”

“Fine. Kenji, I need your permission to research the district. Please work with me on this. Is there anyone else I can talk to in order to make this happen?”

That playful smile left his face. “I'm as high as you need to go.”

I smirked. “I doubt that. You're not even thirty yet. How does someone so young get to block others from a whole district?”

“Like your story, mine is a long and private one.”

“I bet there is someone above you.”

“There's always someone higher than another. Just remember, people don't get to high places without shedding blood in the process. Are you sure you want to meet the men above me?”

Oh shit. Is this metaphorical shedding of blood or is he saying these guys actually killed people?

I placed my now shivering hands under the table. “Maybe. I might want to meet them if I can't get permission from you.”

He leaned forward. “No. You don't want to meet them and, trust me on this, you won't.”

“I bet if I nosed around I could find these people and speak to them myself.”

“Naughty Tora.” He moved away and leaned back in his chair. “I'm surprised you've managed to live this long. You're not going to give up on this book, are you?”

“No, and I want my recorder back.”

“It’s in my pocket.”

I extended my hand to him. “Give it to me, please.”

“After we’ve agreed on a deal.”

“What deal?”

“Maybe you should write about something else.”

“I can't. I love the topic and my publisher already contracted me for this one.”

“Aww, you’re like Basho.”

Now what is he talking about?

“Excuse me? Who the hell is Basho?” I asked.

“He’s a famous poet.”

A few faded memories came to mind. “I think I’ve heard of him. He invented the haiku, right?”

“No. Haiku was around before Basho, but he definitely perfected it. He’s recognized as the greatest master of haiku.”

“Okay?” I twisted my lips to the side. “And how am I like him?”

“He was a wanderer. His goal was never the destination but the actual trip itself. One of the famous things he taught was that the true spirit of a haiku thrived while it was in the poet’s mind and being written.” Kenji tapped his head. “Once the haiku shifted into ink and paper, it was no longer anything.”

“So he was big on the experience of writing the haiku versus the actual product?”

“Yes. You remind me of him.”

“Well I’m not like him. I’m a believer in the product, and I won’t be able to hold my book in my hands if I can’t even get permission to learn about the topic.”

“You thrive on the experience too.”

“Maybe, it’s exciting.”

“You want to see those beautiful women slip soapy sponges along hard cocks. You like to watch, don’t you?”

My body heated, but I recovered. “We’re veering off topic.”

“Are we?”

“Yes.”

“You’re like Basho.”

“Fine. I’m like Basho.” I saluted him. “Will that allow me access to your district?”

“No.” He tossed me a wicked grin. “But that knowledge gives me bigger bargaining chips. How far are you willing to go to get my permission? How important is your experience here?”

“Very important, and I’ll go as far as I need to without putting myself in danger.”

He chuckled. “Aww. Youth is a funny thing. You want to play it safe, but here you are dining with danger. Can I give you some advice?”

“Sure, old wise man. Tell me what you’ve mastered in your thirty years.”

“I’ve done a lot.”

“I’m sure you have.” I twirled my hands in the air. “What’s your advice?”

“If you want to get your way with me, you'll have to give me a lot more than a reckless attitude and a violent knee.”

“What do you want?”

He licked his lips. “Dates?”

“Explain.”

“You and I spending time together.”

“I don’t have time for that.”

“You do.”

“I’m here to learn about the red-light district.”

“Who would know more about this area than me?”