8. Vi
CHAPTER 8
VI
There’s an announcement over the conference room speakers, and Kenzo whisks me away to the Boulevard Ballroom. There’s so much food and conversation. I sit back while Kenzo takes the lead. Some of the other guests comment about how beautiful I am. I thank them, then switch between sips of champagne and water, hoping the buzz in my head won’t drown me like it always does. But it doesn’t feel like drinking with Uncle Jay and Patrick. It’s fainter than usual, but still a welcome haze over the evening.
After all, this is way out of my comfort zone.
A server places the main course in front of us: oven-roasted salmon for me, and a filet mignon for Kenzo. We’re almost through our dinner when Kenzo cuts a bite of steak, then holds it up to me.
“Open your mouth,” he says, his voice commanding me. My cheeks burn. It’s just a piece of meat, but it seems so much more phallic than it is. Kenzo smirks; he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Give it a taste, Vi.”
I melt inside, but I open my mouth. It’s medium rare, seasoned to perfection with pepper and garlic, and it tastes like heaven. I close my eyes in satisfaction, and an amused grunt comes from Kenzo.
I flake off a piece of my salmon, lifting it to him, but he grabs the fork from me, beaming as he chews.
So he can feed me, but I can’t feed him?
I don’t understand what he’s getting from this.
“Kenzo,” one of the other guests says. “What’s going on with the Flamingo? Is Samurai Corporation really in talks to buy it out?”
“We’re courting Caesars Entertainment, sure,” he says. “Not sure if it’s the Flamingo we like, but?—”
He brushes aside the fabric of my dress, the slit sliding open, exposing my thighs. His palm grazes my skin, and my mind goes blank.
Why is he touching my thigh?
He’s just touching me, I tell myself. It’s not a big deal. And it’s the truth. I can move his hand, but I don’t. Maybe it’s the champagne. Or the gourmet food. Or the fact I’m living on adrenaline right now because I’m on a date with a man from the yakuza, and we’re surrounded by sophisticated investors.
Everything tumbles inside of me. Kenzo’s lips move, orchestrating the people around us with his charm. He turns to me and winks while seamlessly continuing the conversation.
My throat drops to my belly, and a flush crests over my cheeks. His hand rubs back and forth on my thigh, and I take my last bite of salmon, stuffing my mouth so I don’t have to acknowledge the way he’s making me feel. I’m not a virgin, but my sexual history is limited, so this—whatever his hand is doing—is weird. It’s not an unwanted sensation, but it’s different. It’s possessive, like he wants me to know he owns me. And yet, it feels good too. Like he’s reminding me he’s by my side.
Maybe I like being held this way.
“I hear the president booked your celebrity suite,” another guest says.
“That’s a funny story,” Kenzo says, wiping a napkin across his mouth with his free hand. “He actually?—”
His touch moves higher, and higher, until he’s cupping me between my legs. I hold my breath. Everything is tight there, like I’m squeezing to fit inside of the tiniest lingerie imaginable. But when his fingers gently press my folds, and the fabric of my underwear is the only barrier between us, my cheeks redden even more.
What is he doing? And here, of all places?
One of the guests looks at me. “It’s so good, right?” she asks.
I blink up at her, and Kenzo fingers snake underneath my panties.
“What?” I ask, my voice squeaking higher than usual. Is she talking about what Kenzo’s doing to me? His fingers are warm between my thighs, and my entire consciousness is focused on him. I must be soaked.
“The salmon,” she explains. “I’m going to sneak into the back and see if they have anymore.”
My body reddens. I’m basically a human tomato.
“Really good,” I mutter.
His finger slides between my folds again, and it’s so obvious. I am wet. Humiliatingly wet. He’s touching me underneath a table while we’re surrounded by people. Their eyes float between Kenzo and me, and I swear, one man stares a little too long. Studies us. Like he knows. Like they all must know what we’re doing right now.
I’m only doing this for Uncle Jay, I tell myself. I’m doing this for our dream house. On the beach ? —
But it’s not just that.
Kenzo presses his finger deeper, but he doesn’t enter completely. He’s teasing me. My body aches for more, and my skin prickles.
Am I making it obvious?
I’m supposed to be a virgin.
I lower my eyes to my lap, trying to play shy, but Kenzo readjusts his grip between my thighs, and it only makes me hotter.
Am I supposed to push him away? Is that what a virgin would do?
But what if I don’t want to push him away?
“What do you think, Vi?” Kenzo asks. Everyone waits for me to answer, but Kenzo doesn’t stop playing with me. He pushes the tip of his finger inside, and my walls constrict around him.
“Really good,” I say.
“I didn’t think you liked the crab cakes,” another person says. “You hardly touched yours.”
“Oh.”
Sweat covers me. My face must be as wet as my thighs. Kenzo kisses my earlobe, sending shivers down my spine. Between my legs, his palm skims the hair on my mound as his finger slides another inch deeper inside of me.
“So you liked your dinner, then?” Kenzo breathes.
I expect to find my salmon on my plate, but I find half of a cheesecake. I don’t even remember eating it. I’ve been so distracted by Kenzo’s hand between my legs.
“It was great,” I say.
“They outdid themselves this year,” Kenzo says to the group.
“So good,” another guest says. She turns back to me. “The salmon, right?”
“Really good,” I say again. I feel so stupid repeating myself, but it’s all that comes to mind. They keep talking, and my mind whirls into nothingness as his finger presses inside of me, filling me up. Everything is sensitive and throbbing, and I swear everyone is judging me; they must think I’m a yakuza slut or something. Still, I don’t move. I don’t want to. And Kenzo acts like he’s doing nothing. Like he’s simply entertaining the room. Like he has nothing to do with why my brain is in a fog.
I survey each of the guests with a strained smile. What do they know? Can they read right through me?
A pressure builds inside of me, scorching my cheeks, and as Kenzo’s finger hooks upward, a small moan escapes my lips.
I smack a hand over my mouth.
“Excuse me,” I say, pretending I burped.
“Too much champagne?” one of the guests jokes.
“Maybe.”
“Coffee?” a server asks.
Kenzo’s hand slips out from between my legs. “Please,” he says.
The conversation moves on, and I’m disappointingly empty. The server pours his cup. No one seems to know what Kenzo did, or at least, they don’t address it; they must have thought his hand was on my thigh—nothing more than a romantic gesture.
Kenzo cups his face, like he’s wiping his mouth, but I swear he licks the edge of his finger, tasting my need right in front of everyone. It’s disgusting. And…maybe a little hot.
Okay, maybe it’s really hot.
I sink inside of myself, my entire body aching for him. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like I need his hands on me right now.
“Coffee, Vi?” Kenzo asks.
“Coffee,” I repeat. “Yes, please.”
His smug expression makes my insides burn, and part of me hates him for being like this. For putting me in this bind. For making me like it. The server pushes my coffee forward, and I cross my legs so tightly my thighs go numb. But the ache doesn’t go away. Kenzo puts his arm around my back, dragging his fingertips along my bare shoulders. My skin is covered with goosebumps. He has so much sensual power over me; it’s embarrassing. How did I let it get this far?
I want to say this is for Uncle Jay—for our dream house—for living on the beach like we’ve always dreamed of. But it’s not that.
I’m supposed to act like a virgin, but I didn’t want Kenzo to stop.