10. Kenzo
CHAPTER 10
KENZO
Days pass, and Vi doesn’t run.
I’ve been giving her space—that is, giving her a chance to escape—but I’ve been keeping tabs on her too. She takes the bus to the UNLV campus, gets a coffee and an apple tart from the library’s cafe, then scrolls endlessly through the internet. Sometimes, it seems like normal social media browsing, and other times, it seems like she’s hunting for dirt. It’s intriguing.
She even searches for me, but the only articles and profiles you can find for me are carefully curated to represent our public-facing business, Samurai Corporation.
On Friday night, Dice, our lead enforcer, is watching her as a favor for me. Sitting in an unmarked cargo van with a kimchi sandwich, he inspects her motel door. He’s a hāfu, like Cherry—half Japanese, born and raised in the United States. Like me, he’s got the traditional irezumi tattoos you’d expect from the yakuza—a full-body piece with skulls, flowers, and a geisha. But he’s a big son of a bitch, with a sumo wrestler’s bulk, a bodybuilder’s obnoxious muscle, and a shaved head. Stubble gets him sometimes, but for the most part, he keeps his face clean. Tomo used to try to get him to wear suits when we were younger, but combat clothes are his thing, even if he’s at the Gilded Stage ogling his crush. He’s never spoken a word to her, and she has no idea one of the fiercest yakuza killers in the country has already staked his claim on her.
Dice rolls down his window.
“Everything good?” I ask.
He nods.
“I’ll take over then. Thanks.”
He finishes his last bite, then backs out of the parking space, disappearing onto the street. I slip back over to my car and grab the hanger from the back seat. The dress weighs more than a box of vinyl records, and honestly, I don’t know how women do it. What’s the point in wearing chains when you can easily get married in a short little cocktail dress or sweat pants?
Then again, I picked out this beaded cage. I’ve got this particular image I want when I see my wife walk down the aisle and again when I finally get to fuck her brains out. It’s going to be perfect for her.
I knock on the motel door. Vi answers with smudged makeup, plaid pajama pants, an oversized shirt on her chest, and her hair in a sloppy ponytail. She’s objectively a sleepy mess, but I don’t see her like that. This is Vi in all of her disheveled glory. She’s not the sweet little doll I took to a gala, nor some gold digger pulling one over on me. This is her. And with those blue eyes and her long neck, she doesn’t need anything fancy to be gorgeous.
If I didn’t have this fantasy of fucking her in this wedding dress already playing on repeat in my mind, I’d dump the beaded cage in the Hoover Dam and make her say her vows in this exact outfit right fucking now.
“Yeah?” she asks, scratching her head. Her eyes widen as she focuses on me. “Kenzo!”
I catch a glimpse inside. There are clothes everywhere, mostly male, and though it looks like she’s got her own bed, her cousin is passed out on the floor next to hers.
My shoulders tighten. He’s only her cousin, but Vi doesn’t need to live like this. Not when I’m in the picture.
She steps outside, closing the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”
I lift the hanger. “Brought you a wedding dress.”
She rubs her eyes. “You already sent over fifteen of them.”
“Those were from our designers. I chose this one.” A smug smile paints my lips, and I motion towards the motel. “Grab your bags.”
Her lips scrunch together. “Why?”
“You’re not sharing a room with two grown-ass men for another night.”
“I’ve been sleeping in the same room as them for almost my whole life. For the whole week you’ve known me!”
I tsk her under my breath. It’s still a dump.
“This is the first time I’ve seen inside your room. You’re not staying here.”
“But Uncle Jay and Patrick?—”
I press a finger to my lips, and she falls silent. “My wife isn’t going to sleep in those conditions anymore.”
“Fiancée,” she corrects.
“Contract has been signed, wife, ” I counter. “Let me take care of you.”
Her eyes narrow, and her snarky side comes up briefly for air. Maybe she’s too tired to pretend to be a prude, or maybe this is me pulling the real Vi out.
But her anger fades, and eventually she nods and goes back inside. The lights turn on in the room, and shadows move across the curtained windows. She returns with a suitcase and a duffel bag; I carry them to my Challenger and store them in the trunk.
We drive to Samurai Castle, and I escort her to the suites closest to the ballroom so she won’t have a long walk tomorrow.
A surge of excitement pumps through me. We’re getting married tomorrow. I never thought I’d be excited about my own wedding, but here I am.
I hold open the door, letting her inside. Her mouth hangs open; I can’t tell if it’s shock or fatigue. There’s a view of the Strip from the windows, and every fixture gleams with elegance. There’s even a fully stocked bar near the kitchen.
I put her bags by the bathroom, and she meets my gaze.
“Thank you,” she says, then she lowers her eyes. Back to her submissive, proper-virginal niece act.
I’ve seen the real her, and I want her back. Now.
“But you’re not sleeping here, are you?” she asks.
I laugh. Is she playing the virgin, or is she actually nervous around me? I don’t answer; I head to the stocked bar and find a brand new bottle of Hakushu Whisky.
“It’s bad luck for us to sleep together on the eve of the wedding,” she says.
I raise my glass. “I’m not interested in sleeping, Vivian.”
“Vi,” she corrects. I offer her some whisky. Vi shakes her head. “You know what I mean.”
She paces the room, probably waiting for me to leave, but I savor every drop of the woodsy liquor on my tongue. Is she nervous, being around someone from the mafia, or is this a part of her act? The woman she wants me to fall for?
I’ll figure out what’s real, whether or not she likes it.
“You’re a virgin?” I ask. She slows to a stop and stares down at her feet, all shyness and performance. Still, I don’t buy it. “Let’s see.”
Her big, stormy blue eyes brew thunder as she looks up at me. “You want to examine me?”
I admit the idea of examining her is mildly appealing, but it’s not a search for a hymen; it’s a judge of character, a way to see if this is an act, if she’s more comfortable with her sexuality than she lets on.
“Lie down on the bed,” I instruct. “No underwear. No pants.”
“But, Kenzo,” she says, hesitation in her voice. She doesn’t finish her sentence.
“The door is right there,” I say, pointing to the exit. “No one’s making you stay here.”
She grits her teeth, but then she stomps over to the bedroom and follows my instructions.
She lies on her back and keeps her eyes on the ceiling, then she shimmies out of her pajama pants and underwear.
Her pussy is soft and hairy, exactly like I remember from the gala. I salivate at the sight; she’s perfect. Her thighs are shoulder-length apart, but I kneel at the end of the bed, peering between her legs. Her decadent slit. Dark red hair. Freckles on her thighs. Her knees lock out, nervously straight, and her eyes stay fixed on the ceiling. I stand up again, looking down at her.
“Touch yourself,” I murmur.
She angles her head to look at me, and I grab a pillow and slip it under her head. Tension swims in her eyes at the gesture, but then her focus gravitates to my cock, the bulge growing in my pants. She averts her eyes to the ceiling again as if she’s going to get in trouble for looking at my dick.
“You like what you see?” I chuckle. “Touch yourself. Show me how much you like it.”
She cups her pussy like her hand is underwear, but she doesn’t move. Her neck is red, and her baggy shirt still covers her breasts, but her nipples are erect, pushing against the fabric. I rub a hand over my pants, my hard length twitching at the contact, yearning for her.
“You’ve never touched yourself before?” I ask.
She meets my eyes and bites her lips. “What do you want me to do?”
For a second, I lift her hand so I can see her: a drop of need pools at her seam, dripping down to her dark hole. I lick my lips—fuck, I wish I could taste her right now—but this is a game. I want to mess with her. To test her limits. To see if she really is an innocent little angel. To see how far it takes to make her run, or if she’s already too enraptured to leave.
But with her pussy dripping and soaking the bed sheets, it takes all of my strength to stay in place, inspecting her. I move her hand back, letting her cup her pussy once again.
“You like being watched, Vi?” I ask. “That’s why you didn’t stop me at the gala. Your pussy is wet already, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” Though she keeps her eyes on the ceiling, her pupils dilate. She likes when I talk dirty to her then. “Do you see how hard my dick is, just looking at you? A shirt on. Your pussy covered by your hand. Do you know what I want to do to you right now?”
At those words, her fingers twitch, the friction rubbing against her clit.
“Go on,” I murmur. I kneel again so I’m closer to her. I whisper in her ear, “That’s it, baby.”
A panting breath shudders through her, and she startles, placing her hands at her sides. My dick is hard as hell, already staining my pants. I’m not supposed to touch her right now. This is a game. A little trick to see my little “virgin” come undone.
But I can’t hold back. I want a little touch.
I grab her hand. Her skin is cold, her hands trembling, but I guide her until the tips of her fingers are resting on her beaded clit. A small gasp escapes her, and her eyes lock on mine. Blue. So fucking blue. Like a damn iceberg.
I move her hand back and forth, making her tease her own clit.
“Just like that,” I say. “In circles. You feel how wet your pussy is?” Her fingers slip down into her slit, but then she’s back to her clit again, using her own lubrication to play with herself. A groan erupts from my chest, but my eyes never leave hers. Her bottom lip quivers, and though she’s hesitant with my presence, there’s no doubt in my mind she’s touched herself before. A complete virgin would move with a raw frenzy, but my future wife is acting as if she has practice. She’s withholding, but it’s obvious she knows what she likes. She may be a virgin in some ways, but she’s still a dirty bitch who gets off on being watched.
And that thrills me.
“Good girl,” I murmur, and a small whimper travels past her lips. She spreads her legs wider, her fingers grinding harder into her bundle of nerves.
I’m tempted to rub my dick through my pants, but I keep focus, and she squirms. Her blue eyes. Her quivering lips. The light sheen of sweat building at her temples. She’s nearing the abyss, and I want to see her drown in it, but I also want to hold on to this moment. To save her first expression of absolute pleasure for when my dick is deep inside of her.
“That’s enough,” I say. I’m not sure if it’s to myself or to her, but I move her hands to the sides, then I head to the door.
Her eyes dart around frantically. “Wait, what?” She sits up, gawking at me. “We’re done?”
“It’s late,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I just needed to make sure.”
“Make sure of what?”
“That you know what your future will be like.”
Your final warning, sweet wife.
She squints her eyes. “Why do you keep saying stuff like that?”
“You should’ve run,” I say. “You shouldn’t have indulged me or your uncle in this marriage, and you shouldn’t have let me take you to our resort so you can have your own room.” I lean on the doorframe. Her shirt pools between her legs, covering up her pussy, and her nipples are pebbled through her shirt. “But part of you wants to see what it’s like to be mine.”
She touches her cheeks, and I know I’ve struck the core of her thoughts. My future wife is full of curiosity, but an inquisitive nature can get you killed in my world. She needs to know that.
I lick my lips. “I’m going to warn you, once again, if you don’t leave by the morning, you’ll be mine. Forever.”
“Forever” hangs in the air like a ringing church bell. I want her to embrace the coldness, to know she’s not as powerless as she thinks she is. She can run. She can hide somewhere. She doesn’t have to be with me.
“Goodnight, Vi,” I say. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She doesn’t say a word. The door closes behind me, and I exit Samurai Castle.