No Ordinary Love by Kenya Wright

the restaurant sat on the highest floor signaled to me that the prices soared well beyond my meager budget.
    And he rented the place for the night.
    “Here you go, Ms. Palmer.” A woman held a tray and placed a blue and white porcelain pitcher of warm sake along with two tiny blue cups on the table. I’d asked for the best sake in the house since Kenji had left a message explaining I could order anything.
    “This is Juyondai,” she said. “It is the best we have. This particular one has aged for three years. The flavor palate is bold with ripe, dried fruits, caramel, and subtle hints of vanilla.”
    “Sounds outstanding. Thank you.”
    She poured me a cup and stood there, waiting for several seconds.
    I touched my chest. “Oh, should I try it?”
    Smiling, she did a half-bow. I was surprised she didn’t ask why I was standing. I was just too nervous to sit. I picked up the warm cup and sipped the sake. The smooth liquid slipped into my mouth with an elegance I’d never experienced with any type of wine. The caramel soothed my tongue while the sweet taste of fruits finished the experience. It was so light. I almost chugged the rest of it. Instead, I set it down so that I could have a clear mind around Kenji.
    “The sake’s perfect. Thank you so much.” I did a half-bow myself, hoping it was the right thing to do. She bowed again and left.
    Where are you, Mr. Dragon? Hiding in a cave, I bet.
    Jittery sensations bounced around in my stomach. To have something to do, I decided to do an internet search on how to date Japanese men. Not that I considered this a date, but I needed to make sure that I didn’t insult Kenji in anyway. I was still hoping to get his permission for my research in Kabukichō. Zo had no advice for me. Granted, he dated tons of women here. Most were celebrated in the fashion world, others active in BDSM. However, I didn’t think any of Zo’s experiences would help me out.
    “All right. What does the internet have to tell me about dating Japanese men?” I unlocked my screen and typed in a few words.
    Lots of results came up through my quick phone search and the majority of it seemed a bit … stereotypical. As well as out and out racist.
    Japanese men are shy with western women and will never directly speak with you about their wants or needs.
    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