25. The Cock-Hard Edge of Restraint
Chapter twenty-five
The Cock-Hard Edge of Restraint
Kenji
I was going to hurt my Tiger’s pussy.
Make it throb.
Make it tremble.
Make it so raw and swollen, she would forget her own name and beg me to remind her who she belonged to. She would wear the ache like a crown. It would be my mark, my proof, my ruinous reward.
And when she finally stood to leave my bed, my cum would still be dripping down her thighs—a trail of obedience no one could ignore.
No one could touch.
No one could ever erase.
Nyomi walked into my war room like she owned the fucking air. Shoulders back. Chin high. That skirt hugging her hips like it was scared to let go.
And just like that. . .every head turned and even the ones that shouldn’t have. Over two hundred of my Scales—men trained to resist torture, to aim through gunfire, to slit throats without blinking—forgot who they were.
Their discipline?
Gone.
Their breathing?
Shaky.
Their focus?
Fucked.
Nyomi entered, and they fell apart like amateurs at a goddamn burlesque show. And for that alone. . .I would ruin her.
Punish that pussy with every brutal inch of my cock.
Slow.
Deep.
Cruel.
I would stretch that sweet, wet cunt until she begged. Until the echo of her own moans humiliated her. Until she couldn’t sit on her throne without remembering who she belonged to.
Because that fucking walk.
That smooth sway of her hips.
Too timed.
Too confident.
She knew what she was doing. She knew who was watching. And still, she held her chin up like a queen.
The sheer blouse and the way it clung to her breasts. The lace bra that I could see from my desk as she got closer. The pencil skirt. The flash of thigh from the slit high enough to stir earthquakes.
But it was the stilettos that destroyed me.
Red.
Sleek.
Razor sharp.
So fucking dangerous.
They clicked out gunshots in my war room and the sounds drilled into my skull, tightened my chest, and made my cock pulse behind my zipper.
Fuuuccckkkkk. . .
I clenched my jaw to keep from groaning out loud, but still the sound left me.
This is getting dangerous.
I shifted my weight, trying to ease the pressure growing within my pants.
Is she going to break me in front of everyone?
I was so goddamn rock hard.
Already leaking pre-cum.
Already planning to destroy her.
I was not minutes away, but seconds from losing control and even my cock knew who its queen was. If I stood up from this desk, all my men would know exactly how hard I was. They would see every hungry inch. Every brutal consequence of her walk.
If I took even one step toward her, my cock would tear through the seam.
And she hadn’t seen me yet.
Her gaze was still scanning the room.
But I saw her.
“Shit,” Hiro muttered, dragging the word out in a low rasp.
I glanced over to him.
He was leaning against the desk beside me, one brow raised, arms folded, and that stupid red lollipop in his mouth. He didn’t look at me. He just kept watching her. “She’s got every man in here cocked and loaded.”
Sneering, I returned my view to her and didn’t respond.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Nyomi continued forward.
Hiro ran his fingers through his hair. “So. . .when are you ready to share her? Are you done just yet or you need a few more weeks?”
My jaw clenched.
“You know I like women with claws, the kind that scratches before it kisses.” Hiro bobbed his head. “And she looks like she has some serious claws.”
I kept my gaze on her. “I moved her into the house.”
“You did.”
“What does that tell you, brother?”
“That whatever is between her thighs is a very fucking good time.”
Nyomi still hadn’t seen me yet. But I knew she felt me watching. Her chin tilted ever so slightly. Her lips parted—barely. Just enough for me to imagine my cock fucking her mouth.
Glancing my brother’s way, I kept my voice low, but sharp enough to cut glass. “I will not be sharing my Tiger with anyone . I would kill them. Torture them first and then watch them slowly die.”
“Interesting.” Hiro raised his eyebrows and studied me. “This is new territory for you.”
Hiro wasn’t wrong.
This was new territory.
He and I had shared many things over the years.
Secrets.
Enemies.
Scars.
Women.
So many women.
Some we traded off with a nod, others we passed between us in bed like a bottle of sake—wet, willing, and forgettable.
There was one I barely remember the name of—Aiko or something like that. Body like sin. Laugh like nails on glass. I had her first. Bent over the leather couch in the backroom of an underground illegal casino. Her knees dug into the cushions. Her spine arched.
When I was done, I whispered in her ear, “My brother wants you next.”
She moaned in pleasure.
Hiro moved in, cock in one hand and the other hand sliding along the curve of her hip. Once he plunged his cock inside Aiko, he was grabbing her throat.
In the shadows, I lounged in a chair, shirt undone, cock dirty, and a drink in hand, smiling. Her moans turned feral under him. The couch creaked in rhythm.
And I had no regrets.
Another night, we fucked a blonde Australian tourist together.
Legs for days, mouth like a vacuum. I took her from behind while she sucked Hiro off at the edge of one of my soaplands’ private pools.
Hiro was so rough, her tears mixed with the chlorine as she choked on his cock and begged for more of mine.
For years, we shared women the way most men shared smokes.
Without meaning.
Without memory.
Always, my bond with Hiro mattered more than any woman ever did. If she made him smile, she was already halfway mine. If she made me come, he got her next.
It was never about the woman.
It was about loyalty.
It was about blood.
But Nyomi?
Darkness rose within my chest.
Nyomi was changing everything.
I couldn’t imagine her in our bed with Hiro.
Not even a little.
Not with his mouth on her full lips.
Not with his cock in her tight, wet pussy.
Not with his fingers pulling sounds from her body that were meant for only me.
The idea made my vision haze over.
Made my pulse roar in my ears.
Made me want to drag Hiro outside, slam his back against the nearest wall, and remind him that while we were still brothers—we were no longer the same men.
Not when it came to her.
My Tiger.
The woman who walked into my war room and made every man forget his place. The woman who smelled like the scent that’s haunted my body since childhood—black amber and ripe plum.
The idea of Hiro touching her— even in jest —was not brotherhood.
It was betrayal.
My jaw flexed again.
I didn’t even realize I was gripping the edge of the desk until a loud crack split beneath my hand—subtle, but real. A little bit of the wood was fractured.
My palm throbbed.
I kept my face calm.
Neutral.
And this time when her eyes swept over the room, they met mine and my heart kicked like a fucking traitor.
I didn’t move, but I felt a jolt of desire in my throat.
Yeah. I could never share her.
Finally, Nyomi approached us and Hiro whispered in my ear, “If this room were a battlefield, your Tiger would have already won. So far, I’ve counted thirty erections, seven minor heart attacks, and absolutely no survivors.”
I shifted again, slower this time. Any harder, and the zipper would tear. Any closer, and I might rip apart too.
I didn’t have to see it to know Hiro was smirking beside me. I also knew that the Fangs, Claws, and Scales were no longer focused on their weapons, missions, screens, and maps.
They were watching her.
Watching me.
And waiting for the Dragon to move.
She stopped four feet in front of me.
Thank God.
One more step and the last thread of restraint I’d wrapped around my cock would’ve snapped.
She didn’t even look at me yet.
But I was already fucking her.
In my mind.
In my fantasy.
In the ruthless, blood-stained kingdom of my desire.
I would’ve stood—slowly, silently—without saying a word.
No warning.
No preamble.
Just stalk toward her and when I reached her, I wouldn’t touch her gently.
No. I would seize her wrist, yank her into me so fast the air would whip around her body, and slam her onto my war desk with a crack loud enough to silence the fucking gods.
My guns, bullets, and knives would scatter.
Maps and files would fall. Surveillance feeds would flicker.
But the only sound that would matter?
The gasp from her lips as I grabbed the back of her neck and bent her over my fucking desk.
Mine.
My woman.
My Tiger.
And I wouldn’t whisper her name, either.
I wouldn’t speak to soothe her.
I would grab the hem of that sexy fucking pencil skirt and rip it up to her waist.
No teasing.
No ceremony.
Then I would tear her panties apart like paper.
Lace?
Silk?
I didn’t fucking care.
They would be destroyed in my fist.
A trophy.
A casualty.
She would be bare, bent, and dripping for me.
Legs trembling.
Pussy glistening.
And I wouldn’t ask.
I would take.
I would drive my cock into her soaked cunt with the force of a man who’s starved, who’s been deprived of food, water, breath—and she was all three at once.
One brutal stroke.
That’s all it would take.
She would scream.
Slap the desk.
Arch her back.
And I would fuck her harder.
Faster.
Right in front of all my men.
So deep her soul would try to crawl up my cock and beg me to stop. . .but I wouldn’t.
I would make her sob.
Make her gush.
Make her soak the desk.
Soak me.
Soak the fucking floor.
And still, I wouldn’t stop.
Not until her moans turned hoarse.
Not until her voice cracked on my name like glass breaking.
Not until my cum painted her insides and marked her like a brand, so that if anyone even dared to breathe in her direction, they would taste me on her.
Taste my power.
My possession.
My obsession.
She would claw at the wood.
Try to run.
Try to beg for mercy.