Excerpt from Dragon & Crow Volume 1:
A few days after being ambushed at his dojo, Michael anticipates meeting his assailant.
Shoulders hunched, Michael pushed through the doors of The Kimura School doing his best to suppress his anticipation. It was finally Tuesday. Today he’d find out why he’d fought a virtual stranger Sunday and find out who this Kiyoshi dude was. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get my brown-belt after all. Somehow he doubted it. Sensei had barely given him the time of day when Michael had arrived at St. Paul’s with the kid. Ichiro had definitely been in sensei mode and Michael had known that any questions asked would not be answered.
Sensei had plucked the boy from his arms, stood him on his two legs and gave the youth a little shake. Stern golden eyes had met wide, somehow guileless ones. Michael had been odd man out as the two Japanese men stared at each other in some kind of intimate silent conversation before speaking in hushed Japanese. It had been weird. But whatever had been going on in the tight bubble of communication had given Michael a brief opportunity to compare the attractive men.
With thick, upper-back length hair that gleamed like polished obsidian, exquisite almond-shaped champagne-gold eyes in a startlingly beautiful face that Michael had secretly drawn and painted repeatedly, his sensei was gorgeous, no doubt about it. Ichiro’s tall frame carried deceptively strong, lean muscle and his grace and elegance could put a male model to shame. To see him fight was to watch the lethalness of the tiger crossed with the grace of the gazelle. No one missed an opportunity to watch Ichiro demonstrate kata. It was better than watching a computer-generated karate flick. And a hell of a lot more inspiring. The geisha cool to stern countenance his teacher maintained only served to make him more mysterious and desirable. Yes, Sensei was greatly admired by his students. Michael was certain he wasn’t the only one crushing on the man.
Every once in a while Michael let his curiosity roam. In the six years he had been a student at The Kimura School, Michael had seen Sensei with a woman maybe twice. What did that say about the guy? Michael wasn’t sure, but he always shut down any thoughts that revolved around the possibility that his teacher’s taste ran to men. Michael was afraid of what he would do if he seriously considered it. Something that would get me thrown out of dojo, most likely. That hadn’t stopped him from having some pretty erotic wakashudo fantasies over the years. Fantasies where Ichiro starred as a samurai of old and Michael his eager apprentice.
But as much as he longed to crack his sensei’s cool façade and make the man writhe and moan beneath him, there was no way it would happen. Michael had long ago decided the Kimura family had no need to know he was gay: it could only complicate matters. The Kimuras’ were the closest thing to family that he had. He would have thrown in the towel long ago if it hadn’t been for their training. Yeah, Sensei was beautiful, but the boy—the boy was--exquisite.
Michael had been correct in thinking that the kid was built like a smaller version of his sensei. But if Ichiro was a sleek tiger, then Kiyoshi was built with the delicate frame of a deer, fine-boned with whipcord musculature. His pale skin was so smooth and unblemished it seemed pigmented with cream and contrasted sharply with his glossy blue-black hair. Strong, arched brows hooded his Kimura gold eyes, which surprisingly, were double lidded. The boy had seriously long lashes. And his mouth—sculpted pout aside—his lips were a rich changeable color somewhere between the blush of a ripe peach and a glowing ruby.
The kid’s eyes held a haunted expression, which only added to his youthful appearance. The entirety of his fragile appearance seemed to scream innocence and helplessness, which was ludicrous because the boy had pretty much beaten the shit out of him at the dojo. Startled at the purity of the ethereal beauty that was revealed by the bright hospital lights, Michael was torn between rushing to the youth to assure him that Ichiro was not a monster and pleading the boy’s case to his sensei.
Sensei had plucked the boy from his arms, stood him on his two legs and gave the youth a little shake. Stern golden eyes had met wide, somehow guileless ones. Michael had been odd man out as the two Japanese men stared at each other in some kind of intimate silent conversation before speaking in hushed Japanese. It had been weird. But whatever had been going on in the tight bubble of communication had given Michael a brief opportunity to compare the attractive men.
With thick, upper-back length hair that gleamed like polished obsidian, exquisite almond-shaped champagne-gold eyes in a startlingly beautiful face that Michael had secretly drawn and painted repeatedly, his sensei was gorgeous, no doubt about it. Ichiro’s tall frame carried deceptively strong, lean muscle and his grace and elegance could put a male model to shame. To see him fight was to watch the lethalness of the tiger crossed with the grace of the gazelle. No one missed an opportunity to watch Ichiro demonstrate kata. It was better than watching a computer-generated karate flick. And a hell of a lot more inspiring. The geisha cool to stern countenance his teacher maintained only served to make him more mysterious and desirable. Yes, Sensei was greatly admired by his students. Michael was certain he wasn’t the only one crushing on the man.
Every once in a while Michael let his curiosity roam. In the six years he had been a student at The Kimura School, Michael had seen Sensei with a woman maybe twice. What did that say about the guy? Michael wasn’t sure, but he always shut down any thoughts that revolved around the possibility that his teacher’s taste ran to men. Michael was afraid of what he would do if he seriously considered it. Something that would get me thrown out of dojo, most likely. That hadn’t stopped him from having some pretty erotic wakashudo fantasies over the years. Fantasies where Ichiro starred as a samurai of old and Michael his eager apprentice.
But as much as he longed to crack his sensei’s cool façade and make the man writhe and moan beneath him, there was no way it would happen. Michael had long ago decided the Kimura family had no need to know he was gay: it could only complicate matters. The Kimuras’ were the closest thing to family that he had. He would have thrown in the towel long ago if it hadn’t been for their training. Yeah, Sensei was beautiful, but the boy—the boy was--exquisite.
Michael had been correct in thinking that the kid was built like a smaller version of his sensei. But if Ichiro was a sleek tiger, then Kiyoshi was built with the delicate frame of a deer, fine-boned with whipcord musculature. His pale skin was so smooth and unblemished it seemed pigmented with cream and contrasted sharply with his glossy blue-black hair. Strong, arched brows hooded his Kimura gold eyes, which surprisingly, were double lidded. The boy had seriously long lashes. And his mouth—sculpted pout aside—his lips were a rich changeable color somewhere between the blush of a ripe peach and a glowing ruby.
The kid’s eyes held a haunted expression, which only added to his youthful appearance. The entirety of his fragile appearance seemed to scream innocence and helplessness, which was ludicrous because the boy had pretty much beaten the shit out of him at the dojo. Startled at the purity of the ethereal beauty that was revealed by the bright hospital lights, Michael was torn between rushing to the youth to assure him that Ichiro was not a monster and pleading the boy’s case to his sensei.
