Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22496 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22496 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
I’d chosen Santorini, a Greek island, where Tatsun, “The Red Dragon,” caught up with a sellout who had traded information on the yakuza. I’d been in class, sneaking in manga reading time, when tea sprayed from my lips. The eleventh graders had looked up from their physics exams in confusion as I’d turned the page. Tatsun had spilled the traitor’s guts across the white sandy beaches in Santorini. Yeah, that’s all the action I needed at that time. And I wasn’t embarrassed. Hell no.
I swagger into the hotel’s lounge, confident that the honey-colored concealer covers what’s now a half-moon of darkness beneath my eye. As I head into the hotel bar, a pianist, eyes shut and lost in the mood, plays with quick, nimble fingers. I pass velvety turquoise seats and white-linen tables, searching for my Tatsun. The company, Book Boyfriend Extraordinaire, assured me that he’d wear a crisp black suit and a red tsubaki—a Japanese camellia. A representative shared that they’d take special care of the small touches for an additional fee. The tsubaki appears on Tatsun’s lapel for the first forty chapters of the series, so I forked over more cash.
I finally understand the kids and their YOLO, but of course, now, they hardly use it.
I stop in my tracks, eyeing a man who not only embodies my favorite yakuza boss. He actually . . . unnerves me. Damn, the company better be giving fake Tatsun a good chunk of the money.
A tiny thrill of trepidation and a whole heaping of desire sparks down my spine. I would’ve given my entire retirement for one night with him.
As our eyes meet, my thong saturates in pleasure. A second later, I beeline to the bar. I should get us drinks.
“Um . . .” I’m used to margaritas and Stella Rosa. Something tells me that mentioning the latter is like asking for a forty-ounce.
“M-mai tai.”
The bartender cocks half a grin. “Sweet?”
“Tsk, I look sweet?” I push up my size B cups. “I was going for sex—”
“The drink.” The Greek’s grin flatlines.
Oh. Damn, that’s why Essence nicknamed you Ry Pie. You so goofy, girl. I laugh softly. “Definitely sweet. Actually, make that two. One strong.” I clear my throat and glance around back to “Tatsun.” “And one less sweet.” The bartender nods.
I notice two Japanese dudes sitting together and another two across the room. “There are a lot of Asians here this evening,” I say. Perhaps there’s a business convention here too. It’s almost as if they’re surrounding my Tatsun.
I think nothing more of my thought as my drink slides in front of me and then another blue one.
“Which one is . . .”
The bartender cocks his head to the orangish-yellow drink.
“Okay, the umbrella. Unless you think they’re for rain and gloom and . . . Not really symbolic for swe—” I snort-laugh.
My hand flies up, covering my mouth. Nerves haven’t tugged this tightly over my flesh since my first year at a high school in South Central LA. Needless to say, those badasses ran over me that year.
Tatsun’s sitting back in the chair, owning every inch with his lean physique. He’s sporting a man bun, although manga Tatsun doesn’t. It’s sleek, manly. A tattoo creeps up the side of his neck.
Ohhh, dangerous. I like! A lot! It looks so natural.
One foot in front of the other, hips swaying, I stroll straight to him, slide the blue mai tai over, stuttering, “You forgot the tsubaki.” Oh, no, Ryann! Girl, did you have to go there? Nitpicking over a tiny ass flower.
“The tsubaki?” Thick arched brows lift over an alluring pair of obsidian eyes. Tatsun rises and comes around the table for two, pulling out my seat. His body presses to mine. I inhale the embodiment of man—a salacious scent of spice, musk, power, power . . . power.
Ya’know how a sexy pair of heels separate the girls from real women? Or jewelry? Or even rich, dark chocolate? Well, I’ve never felt more like a woman than this singular moment in time with him so close. I look up into onyx eyes.
Licking his lips, he repeats himself in his low, rich Japanese accent. “The tsubaki?”
I attempt nonchalance while sliding into the seat and gesturing to my chest. “The flower.”
Tatsun’s eyes pierce that spot, turning my nipples into aching little pebbles. My heart hikes into my throat as he nods, reclaiming his seat. “Ah, the flower. My apologies. What is this?” He eyes the blue mai tai.
“A mai tai, the less sweet kind.”
With an amused smile, Tatsun pushes away the drink I’m second-guessing having grabbed for him.
“You can order something else. That’s not really becoming of a yakuza boss.”
“Not at all. But . . . the gesture was thoughtful. I’ll give your mai tai a chance.” He relents, and I laugh a little, watching a pretend mafia goon sip a fruity drink.