Red Hot Desire

 



Red-Hot Desire
Nyomi
 

Damn.
Kenji was nude and sprawled across the page like a fallen god—every inch of him captured in stark charcoal with a level of detail that made my throat tighten.
Mami had drawn him sleeping.
His head was turned slightly to the side, resting against what looked like a pillow, dark hair spilling across his forehead in messy strands. His eyes were closed, lashes fanning against his cheekbones.
His lips were parted just enough to suggest breath—soft, unguarded, vulnerable in a way I'd never seen him in waking life.
She'd caught him defenseless.
And she'd worshipped every inch of that defenselessness.
The heavy muscle of his shoulders anchored the composition, broad and powerful even in rest.
She'd traced the slope of them down to that narrow waist with obsessive precision—every ridge of muscle, every shadow between his ribs rendered in loving detail.
His abdomen was a study in contrasts: hard planes softened by sleep, the ridged terrain of his stomach rising and falling with imagined breath.
The tattoos.
God, the tattoos were exact in placement and detail.
She must have spent hours on them. I could tell by the layering, the way she'd built up the dark ink with careful crosshatching until the dragons pulsed against his skin.
And she’d also captured the sharp cut of his hip bones, the trail of dark hair descending from his navel, and there, between his powerful thighs, she'd drawn his beautiful cock, half-hard. The rose piercing glinted even in charcoal, a small circle of negative space she'd left white against the dark shading of his cock.
She'd drawn that piercing like she knew exactly how it caught the light.
Like she'd studied it.
Like she'd memorized it.
Jealousy filled me.
How did she see the piercing?
His thighs were thick, muscled, slightly parted in the loose sprawl of deep sleep. One arm was flung above his head, exposing the vulnerable hollow of his underarm, the bulge of his bicep, the veins mapping his forearm like rivers. The other hand rested on his stomach—fingers long, relaxed, curled slightly inward.
Killer's hands rendered gentle by unconsciousness.
But it was his face that destroyed me.
In sleep, all the coldness had melted away. The cruel set of his mouth had softened. The calculating sharpness in his eyes was hidden behind closed lids.
He looked younger.
Peaceful.
Almost innocent.
He looked like a man who hadn't killed anyone.
Like a man who could be loved without consequence.
Mami had drawn him the way she wanted him to be—soft, open, belonging to her.
I stared at the page. "So. . .she probably took a picture of him while he was sleeping and then drew this."
“Correct. My brother would never let her see him like this. Not willingly.” Hiro pulled out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Telling Reo that the Eyes are involved.”
I snapped my view to him. “What?”
“The only way she could have done this is if both Eyes let her do it. That means that they have a level of secrecy and odd loyalty that none of us know about.” He sneered and typed into the phone. “I never fucking liked those Cum Guards, but at least I thought they would keep my brother safe while he was sleeping.”
I’m glad Kenji stopped using them when we got together.
I tensed.
Did the Eyes also work for the Fox?
The thought uncoiled in my mind like a venomous thing, spreading its poison through every assumption I'd made.
The Fox wasn’t just a mastermind.
He was a puppeteer who had spent decades, threading his fingers into every corner of his son's organization. Not with brute force. Not with obvious attacks. But with patience. With placement. With trauma. With the slow, methodical insertion of loyal bodies into positions of trust.
The Eyes could be the Fox’s spies too. . .
Kenji's Eyes were supposed to watch him when he couldn't watch himself.
During those vulnerable hours when even the most dangerous man in Tokyo had to close his eyes and trust that someone was keeping him safe.
During sleep.
During sex.
And the Fox had corrupted even that.
This is worse than anything I could have ever imagined.
If the Fox controlled the Eyes, then every time Kenji had slept, his father had been watching too.
Every time Kenji had fucked someone, his father had known.
Every nightmare, every moment of unconscious vulnerability, every whispered confession in the dark—the Fox had seen it all.
And I thought my father was a piece of shit.
My skin crawled.
This nest of snakes was bigger than I'd imagined. More layered. More insidious. The spy wasn't just one person—it was a network, woven so tightly into the fabric of Kenji's life that pulling one thread might unravel everything.
Or nothing at all.
Because how do you fight an enemy who's already inside?
I felt them then—the snakes.
Not real ones, but real enough.
Phantom scales sliding up my ankles, coiling around my calves, slithering higher. They wrapped around my thighs, my waist, squeezed my ribs until breathing hurt.
Tons of them.
Their tongues flicked against my ears, hissing secrets I couldn't understand.
We're everywhere. We're everyone. You'll never find us all.
I shuddered.
Hiro looked up from his phone. "Reo's personally grabbing the Eyes now with two men.”
“He’s leaving Kenji alone with the Scales?”
“His Fangs are in there.” Hiro put his phone up. “Once they have the Eyes, Reo will have a Fang check their movements in the footage to see if anything's been strange."
"Shit." I pressed my palm against my chest, trying to slow my racing heart. "This is insane."
"But good too."
I blinked. "How is this good?"
Hiro's smile was sharp—the smile of a predator who'd just caught a scent. "You're helping us catch snakes. Enough snakes will help us catch the Fox."
"How?"
"Once we trap all of them and put them in the prison my brother has below the mansion—" He paused, letting the weight of that settle. "Reo, Kenji, and I will have a very lengthy conversation with all of them."
All I could imagine was the splattering of blood.
Crimson on concrete.
Screams echoing off stone walls.
The wet sound of flesh meeting fist, meeting blade, meeting whatever tools they used to extract confessions from people who'd betrayed them.
Hiro continued, "They'll show us how to contact our father. And Kenji's hackers can use that. We can grab his location much faster."
“Oh.” The dread that had been crushing my chest shifted. Something else pushed through.
Hope.
“Good job. . .sis.” Hiro winked. "You may be helping us end the war much sooner than we thought. Instead of waiting on my father to call Jean-Pierre, we may lure the Fox out this way."
I stared at him, and the snakes around my body loosened their grip and fell away.
I put my view back on the sketchbook. “But is Mami involved or was she just able to get the Eyes to sneak her in?”
I traced my eyes over the drawing again—the intimacy of it, the invasion of it, the desperate love bleeding through every charcoal stroke.
Mami hadn't just drawn Kenji's body. She'd drawn the version of him she prayed existed underneath all that ice.
I flipped the page, and my breath caught hard in my chest. "Uh. . ."
Hiro was close enough beside me that I felt the warmth of his body along my arm as we both looked down.
The sketch was. . .intimate in a way that made my pulse skip.
Hiro.
Nude.
On a bed.
And he wasn't alone.
And he was definitely fucking.
The composition was framed strangely—edges darkened, the perspective slightly skewed, as if Mami had captured the scene through a narrow opening.
A closet door, maybe.
A gap in a doorway.
Something that said I shouldn't be seeing this while simultaneously screaming I couldn't look away.
Hiro dominated the center of the page, his body rendered in painstaking detail. Every muscle in his back was defined—the broad wings of his shoulder blades, the deep valley of his spine, the dimples just above the swell of his sculpted ass.
His skin glowed against the darker shadows of the sheets beneath him, charcoal smudged and layered until he looked almost luminous.
He was on his knees, thighs spread, his weight braced on one powerful forearm while the other hand gripped the headboard above him. The position made the muscles in his arm bulge, veins standing out like rivers beneath his skin.
Behind him—pressed flush against his back—a man.
The man's body was sculpted, beautiful, rendered with the kind of obsessive detail that only longing could produce. His chest was broad, his stomach ridged with muscle, his hips snapped forward in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. One of his hands splayed possessively across Hiro's stomach, fingers digging into the hard flesh there. The other gripped Hiro's hip, pulling him back, holding him in place.
His face was partially obscured—turned into the curve of Hiro's neck, mouth pressed to the spot where shoulder met throat. But his jaw was sharp, his hair dark and disheveled, and even in charcoal I could see the tension in his body. The coiled power of a man lost in pleasure.
And beneath Hiro—a beautiful woman.
She lay on her back, her body arched upward. Her spine curved off the mattress, her head thrown back against the pillows, her lips parted in what could only be a moan.
Her big breasts were full, nipples stiff, rendered with such careful attention that I could almost feel the weight of them.
Her thighs bracketed Hiro's hips, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.
One of her hands clutched the sheets beside her head, fingers twisted in the fabric. The other reached up—not to Hiro, but past him, her palm pressed flat against the chest of the man behind him.
Connecting them.
Completing the circuit.
Three bodies.
One rhythm.
One unbroken line of ecstasy.
Mami had captured the moment like a confession—every shadow, every point of contact, every place where skin met skin.
The sheen of sweat on Hiro's back.
The flex of muscle in the man's thighs.
The soft give of the woman's belly where Hiro's weight pressed into her.
The expressions destroyed me most.
Hiro's face was turned slightly, his profile visible—eyes half-closed, lips parted, jaw slack with pleasure. He looked undone. Wrecked. Like whatever was happening to his body had short-circuited every defense he'd ever built.
The woman beneath him wore bliss like a mask—brows drawn together, mouth open, caught in that suspended moment right before release.
And the man behind him—what little I could see of his face—looked possessive. Hungry. Like he desperately hoped he could claim Hiro, but knew he never would.
It was gorgeous.
Too gorgeous.
Too intimate.
Mami had captured them and clearly stole a moment she was never meant to see, preserving it in charcoal and shadow so she could return to it again and again.
I couldn't breathe.
Hiro, beside me, didn't tense.
Didn't blush.
Didn't look away for even a second.
His voice was casual. "She drew this after an Opera in Italy. I recognize the woman and man. This was a year ago."
My head snapped toward him. "This actually happened?"
He nodded, completely unbothered. "Yeah. It’s a pleasure ladder. I like them."
"A what?"
“Pleasure ladder.” His voice dropped to a wicked tone that slid right under my skin. "Three people. One rhythm. One bed. Pleasure moving through all at once until everyone reaches their destination."
Heat rushed up my neck.
He saw it immediately—and smirked. “You're blushing."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He looked back down at the page. “Do you understand now what a pleasure ladder is, or do I have to show you?”
“I’ve got it.” I nervously closed the book.
He chuckled.
I swallowed. “So. . .she is good at spying on people and capturing moments.”
“From that angle, I think she might have been in my closet.”
“Why do you say that?”
“My bedroom door was near the bed.”
“How do you remember that?”
"I remember every detail about all my encounters. It’s a part of the experience, the details. . .the setting. . .the moment. . .the emotion."
His casualness made my insides churn. I bit my lower lip, feeling a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. My cheeks were aflame, and I was aware that my pulse had quickened. The intimacy of the situation was making me uncomfortable in the most peculiar way.
I caught his eye once more, and he held my gaze, his eyes glinting with an unspoken understanding. "So, she was in your closet then. I’m not willing to say for sure that she is the spy, but she’s moving like one.”
His gaze never left mine. “She is.”
My heart pounded in my chest.
I returned to the sketchbook and opened it to the next page.
Fuck.
The next image was of him lying on the same bed, completely satiated and knocked out.
The man and woman were gone.
Hiro lay sprawled across rumpled sheets, one arm flung above his head, the other resting on his stomach. His face was slack with post-orgasmic exhaustion, lips slightly parted, dark hair damp against his forehead.
But my eyes traveled lower.
His huge cock lay against his thigh—softened now, but still impressive even at rest. And there, catching the light even in charcoal, was metal.
Not one piercing.
Four.
I leaned closer without meaning to, studying Mami's meticulous rendering.
Two barbells intersected through the head of his cock, forming a perfect cross.
One ran horizontal—a gleaming bar that entered on one side of the glans and exited the other, the rounded ends visible on both edges.
The second pierced vertically, entering through the top of the head and emerging from the underside, its silver tips catching shadows where they rested against his skin.
The cross they formed was precise.
Deliberate.
Almost architectural in its symmetry.
Each barbell looked thick—substantial—the kind of metal you'd feel with every movement, every touch, every thrust.
I tried to imagine the sensation of that steel sliding inside a woman. The horizontal bar dragging against her walls. The vertical one pressing up, then down, hitting spots that fingers and flesh alone could never reach.
Four points of contact.
Four sources of friction.
Four reasons to lose your mind.
My mouth went dry.
“I’m even bigger in person.”
I widened my eyes. “I was just. . .realizing that you have. . .piercings too. That’s it.”
Hiro must have known exactly what I was staring at because he answered before I could ask. "When Kenji got his piercing, I got mine. This is called a magic cross."
Speechless, I flipped to the next page.
And things got even crazier.
Hiro blinked. “Well. . .this never happened.”
“No shit.”
Kenji.
Hiro.
Both naked.
Both together in the most erotic way possible.
My brain short-circuited.
The drawing showed them facing each other, bodies pressed so close there was no space between them. Kenji's hand was wrapped around both of their cocks—his and Hiro's—stroking them together in a single fist with savage intensity. Sweat-slick skin. The swollen heads of their thick, pulsing cocks kissed at the top, lines of pre-cum glistening between them in careful strokes of white charcoal against the dark shading.
Hiro's forehead pressed hard against Kenji's, their eyes closed, mouths barely an inch apart, letting out ragged breaths.
Their bodies were a study in contrast and similarity.
Both with brilliant tattoos.
Both equally powerful.
Same broad shoulders.
Same narrow waists.
Same thick, muscled thighs pressing together.
The piercings.
God, the piercings.
Mami had drawn them in excruciating detail—Kenji's rose piercing gleaming against Hiro's magic cross, metal touching metal as their cocks slid together in Kenji's grip.
Near their faces—so close their breath could mingle—Mami had written in delicate red ink.
The words curled from Kenji's parted lips. "You're the only one who knows what I need, brother."
And from Hiro's mouth, the response bled crimson across the page. "Then let me give it to you. All of it."
Heat flooded my entire body.
Between my thighs.
Up my spine.
Across my chest until my nipples tightened against my bra.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't think.
I could only stare.
When I turned to look at Hiro, he just appeared absolutely shocked and speechless himself.
Well. . .I should look at more. . .I must be. . .thorough. . .Right?
My hand trembled as I flipped the page—desperate to escape and desperate to see what else Mami had thought up in that nasty mind.
Well damn, girl.
The next image hit me like a punch to the stomach.
Hiro was on his knees like a sacrifice.
Kenji towered above him, powerful and merciless.
Hiro's lips stretched obscenely around Kenji's thick shaft, cheeks hollowed to the point of pain, throat convulsing as he struggled to take more.
Kenji's fingers twisted cruelly in Hiro's hair, yanking his head back at an angle that strained the tendons in Hiro’s neck into taut, vulnerable cords.
Meanwhile, Kenji's head was thrown back in abandon, the long column of his throat exposed like something waiting to be bitten, his expression transcendent—body-numbing pleasure so intense it bordered on agony.
A mixture of saliva and pre-cum leaked from the corners of Hiro's mouth, trailing down his chin in glistening rivulets that caught the light like tears.
Red script cascaded down from Kenji's mouth, and the words hovered above Hiro's upturned face. "Open your mouth. Show me you belong to me."
And there, written along the curve of Hiro's hollowed cheek, his answer. "I've always belonged to you, Kenji. Since the day we were born."
I had to stifle a whimper as I stared at the image, my mind tripping over itself.
I wasn’t turned on because of the brother-angle. What hit me—hard—was the taboo of it, the sheer audacity of two violently beautiful men drawn in a moment they would never allow happen.
Two predators stripped down to forbidden hunger.
Two kings unmasked.
It was the danger of them.
The power.
The intimacy.
The contrast between how terrifying they were in real life. . .and how undone Mami had imagined them.
All saturated in the forbidden desires.
Beside me, Hiro exhaled sharply and shook his head, eyes wide with disbelief. “Mami is crazy. Absolutely out of her mind.”
“Yeah. . .” I murmured, still staring. “This is. . . insane.”
And it was.
But I couldn’t stop looking at the taboo art.
My brain whispered, you shouldn’t be staring at this…
My body whispered back, still. . .this is hot.
I swallowed hard and flipped again.
Kenji bent over a desk, his powerful body reduced to trembling submission.
Hiro loomed behind him, one hand pressed flat against the sweat-slicked hollow of Kenji's back, forcing him down until his cheek met cold wood.
Hiro's other hand gripped Kenji's hip with such savage possession that tomorrow's bruises were already blooming beneath his fingers.
Their bodies joined in brutal intimacy—Hiro's cock buried so deep inside his brother that each pulse between them must have echoed in both their veins.
Kenji's fingers clawed desperate furrows into the desk's edge, splinters embedding under his nails. His mouth stretched in a silent scream that seemed to pull the oxygen from the room.
Between Kenji’s thighs, his cock hung heavy and abandoned—engorged, aching, dripping a steady stream of pearlescent cum onto the floor beneath them like tears.
Words were scratched near Kenji's open mouth, desperate and raw in scarlet ink. "Harder! Make me forget I'm the Dragon."
Behind him, words were curled along Hiro's jaw. "With me, you're not the Dragon. You're just mine."
I went to the next page.
They were both in a sixty-nine position, bodies locked in perfect symmetry.
Kenji's powerful thighs straddled Hiro's face, muscles quivering with each breath Hiro exhaled against his most sensitive flesh.
Kenji's tongue traced the thick vein running along the underside of Hiro's cock. Hiro's fingers digging crescents into the firm globes of Kenji's muscular ass, spreading him wide.
Red ink spiraled between their tangled bodies—Kenji's words written upside down near Hiro's thighs. "I want to taste you, brother, while you taste me. I want us to drown together."
And Hiro's response, right-side up, breathing against Kenji's skin. "We've shared everything else. Why not this?"
Flip.
Side by side. Stroking each other. Watching each other. Their free hands intertwined between them like lovers. Cum splattered across both their stomachs—fresh, glistening, mixing together in pearlescent streaks that Mami had rendered with devastating precision.
Their intertwined fingers were framed by words in matching red.
From Kenji, written near his closed eyes. "No one else will ever understand us."
From Hiro, scrawled beside their joined hands. "No one else was ever meant to."
Flip.
Kenji riding Hiro. His thighs flexed as he lifted himself up and slammed back down. Hiro's hands wrapped around Kenji's cock, stroking in time with the brutal rhythm. Both of them drenched in sweat. Both of them wrecked. Both of them looking at each other like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
Hiro's command was written in bold red strokes near his intense gaze. "Look at me, brother. Don't close your eyes. I want to see you fall apart."
And Kenji's surrender, inked along his arched throat. "Only for you. Only ever for you."
Flip.
Hiro pressed against a wall. Kenji's hand around his throat. Their cocks grinding together while Kenji's other hand worked between them—fast, rough, punishing.
Hiro's cum painted across Kenji's stomach in thick ropes while Kenji's release followed seconds later, adding to the mess.
The words clawed up from Hiro's throat where Kenji's hand gripped. "Choke me. Remind me I'm alive."
And Kenji's response burned red near his snarling lips. "You're more than alive. You're everything."
Flip.
Both of them collapsed on a bed.
Tangled together.
Covered in each other.
Kenji's head on Hiro's chest.
Hiro's fingers trailing lazily through the cum cooling on Kenji's abs.
Post-orgasmic.
Peaceful.
Intimate in a way that made my heart ache almost as much as my body throbbed.
The softest words.
The quietest confession.
Written in faded red near Kenji's sleeping face, pressed against Hiro's chest. "Stay. Don't leave me tonight."
And Hiro's answer, inscribed along the arm wrapped protectively around his brother. "I'll never leave you. Not in this life. Not in the next."
I slammed the sketchbook shut.
My hands were shaking.
My thighs were pressed together so tight it hurt.
My underwear was ruined—absolutely soaked through.
My voice cracked. I tried again. "She's got. . .quite the imagination."
I looked at him.
His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark. And for the first time since we'd started looking through this book, he didn't look casual at all.
He looked affected.
"She's been fantasizing about this," I whispered. "About both of you. Together."
"Apparently."
I slid the sketchbook back under the pillow, tucking it exactly where I'd found it.
For a long moment, I just stood there.
Breathing.
Trying to remember how to be a professional.
The images burned behind my eyelids—all that charcoal and red ink, all that forbidden want poured onto paper like a fever dream. Mami had taken two of the most dangerous men in Tokyo and stripped them down to something that made my chest ache and my body throb in ways I wasn't ready to examine.
Get it together, Nyomi.
I pressed my palms flat against my thighs, grounding myself.
You're here to find a spy. Not to combust over artwork.
I exhaled slowly, forcing the heat in my blood to cool, forcing my mind back into investigator mode.
Okay. Focus. What else is she hiding?
Something told me to check the other pillows. As I smoothed another cherry pillow, my hand pressed against the smaller decorative one—and met something hard inside.
Wait a minute. What is this?
It wasn’t pillow-hard.
It was phone-hard.
Holy shit. That can’t be right.
My pulse jumped.
“Wait a minute.” I pressed my fingers along the seam until I found the hidden zipper, neatly concealed in the stitching. "If this is what I think it is…"
I unzipped, reached in, and wrapped my fingers around a cold rectangle of plastic.
Next, I pulled out a cheap black burner phone.
No branding.
No case.
Anonymous by design.
“Her hiding around and watching people and now a hidden phone.” Hiro went still. "It’s Mami. Not Hina.”
“I think so.” I turned it over in my hand.
“Or maybe both.”
“Maybe.” Yet, doubt tugged at me. "If this is the spy’s phone. . .this is a predictable hiding spot for something so dangerous."
“Unless she doesn’t think it is truly dangerous.”
“Back to the idea of the Fox brainwashing her. . .making her think that what she is doing is protecting him.”
He nodded.
My thumb was already hovering over the side button.
I pressed it.
The screen lit.
Enter password glowed white.
My reflection looked back faintly in the glass. "Okay. What do you think the password is?”
“There’s the obvious one.”
“Yeah.” I tapped out K-E-N-J-I first.
The phone buzzed sharply.
Incorrect password.
Then came next, Attempts remaining: 2
My stomach dropped. "Two more. If I get it wrong twice, we're done."
“Kenji’s hackers will get it regardless.”
“True, but I want to see what’s on this phone now.”
I stared at the screen, and my mind raced. "Okay. Think. What would someone obsessed with Kenji use as a password?"
Not his name—too obvious.
But something connected to him.
Something that mattered.
"His title." I typed in D-R-A-G-O-N.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then the phone vibrated once—different from the error buzz.
Softer.
Unlocking.
Relief flooded through me. "Wow."
The home screen appeared—generic wallpaper with standard app icons.
No cute customization.
No selfies.
No hints at personality.
All anonymity.
I went straight to the messaging app.
There was one main thread at the top.
No contact name, just a number in an international format.
Hiro sneered. “My father’s line.”
“Fuck.” I opened the thread.
Messages filled the screen.
Short, clipped lines.
Updates.
Little reports.
I handed it to Hiro. “This is the spy’s phone.”
“And Mami is the spy.” He took the device and scrolled down to the most recent message. There were attachments—tiny paperclip icons along the thread.
He tapped one.
Photos opened.
The air left my lungs in a rush.
The image was of me walking down the hallway toward my office, seen through a partially open door.
Cold sweat broke out along my spine. “Fuck. It’s really her.”
“I’ll let Reo know.” He gave me the phone back and pulled out his own. Next, he typed into it.
I couldn't look away from the screen. Couldn't stop seeing myself through someone else's eyes—prey, marked, catalogued for slaughter. “What the hell did the Fox say to make her spy for him?”
"He could've turned her recently. Or been whispering in her ear for all her life. Planting doubts. Feeding resentments. Not everyone he uses is clever. They just need to be loyal to him."
“And she was most likely working with Kenji’s Eyes.” I took one last look around the red room—the canvases, the chaos, the perfect bed hiding terrible secrets.
Hiro gestured for us to leave. “And yet. . .it may be more snakes. We still have Hina to check too.”