It’s entirely inappropriate, but I smile. Momo seeking comfort in my embrace. Chump.
“Where’s the other one?” I ask.
“Scissors,” she says.
“Um, I’ll find a pair in a sec,” I offer, thinking she wants me to cut her zip-ties.
She only starts laughing, but I admit, it’s a little unhinged. A little hysterical. I hold her tighter.
“I stabbed him,” she says. “In the leg. He hobbled out the back door.”
I look up, but the door is closed, and then I hear a crash of glass out the front of the shop and my whole body jerks in reaction.
“Stay here,” I say, reaching out and grabbing a shard of glass off the bench behind Momoko, and then I head toward the noise.
Adrenaline still fuels me, because when I see the thug I’d hammered with the cash register following a bamboo barrel through a now shattered front window, I start to chase him. But he makes it to the black van, presumably driven by the second thug who now has a pair of scissors embedded in his thigh, and they gun it.
I watch from the pavement as the van fishtails out of the Viaduct, tyres squealing and people jumping out of their path. Several people stop and stare at the wreckage behind me and then their eyes start to take in my sorry state.
I haven’t had time to catalogue my injuries, but I know Momoko is in a worse condition than me, so I ignore the alarmed stares and return to the shop, walking across broken glass to reach the rear.
Momoko is still sitting exactly where I left her. But now she just looks mad.
“Those bastards broke the front window, didn’t they?” she says.
“Ah, yeah,” I offer, because it’s clear this is what has her upset the most right now.
“Do you know how long it takes to get those replaced?” she demands.
“Ah, no,” I say, because she seems to want an answer.
“And the loss of business will be gutting.” I smile. Not because of the situation or the fact that I think Momo losing money is funny. But because I still find it remarkable that she’s just so fucking kiwi.
This woman who could wear a kimono with chopsticks sticking out of her hair and look the genuine article is as kiwi as they get.
And then I watch her push herself to her feet, surprisingly gracefully considering her hands are still tied behind her back, and then she jumps up in the air. Knees to chin, hands sweeping beneath her feet, to bring her zip-tied wrists to the front of her body.
Yeah, kiwi chicks don’t do that every day.
At least, not the ones I’ve ever fancied.
She rummages around in a drawer for a while and then produces another set of scissors. It’s only then I think to move and offer assistance. But she has the zip-ties undone in a flash and I once again feel superfluous. I run a hand through my hair instead and then tentatively rub the lump forming on my forehead.
“Are you OK?” she says quietly.
“Fine,” I offer, studying her every move. “You?”
She lets out a long sigh and I swear I can see the weight of the world on her shoulders.
“What did they want, Momo?” I ask softly.
“Money,” she says, surprising the fuck out of me. I hadn’t thought the 14K Triads would be that hard up for cash.
“Money?”
“Protection money,” she reluctantly explains. Maybe nearly getting knocked out and eviscerated by scissors allows me some leeway as far as explanations go. Because that’s the most she’s ever told me.
“And this protection money is against what?” I query. “Them roughing up your shop?”
She nods her head.
They’re extortionists. They’re blackmailing her. In Auckland. It’s ludicrous.
I shake my head at her.
“That’s not all of it,” I say, because it can’t be.
She lifts her gaze off the debris strewn floor and looks at me. I see so much in that one sorrowful stare.
I cross the space between us and reach out and wrap her up in my arms, laying a soft kiss in amongst her hair. My hand strokes down her back and she returns the embrace, arms around my waist, cheek to chest. She’s so tiny and those men were so big. I shudder with the thought of what they could do to her.
“They were the same guys who tried to shove you in that van on Friday,” I say.
She nods her head.
“Momo,” I press. “Blackmailing you is one thing. But abduction?”
“It’s part of their negotiation tactics.”
“Taking someone off the street, zip-tying their wrists and slapping masking tape over their mouths? That’s negotiation?”
She just nods.
And I thought courtroom antics were cutthroat.
I let out a long breath of air, waiting, hoping, she’ll elaborate. But she says nothing.
“Are you going to call the police?” I ask eventually. I feel her whole body stiffen. “What about your brother?”
It’s not what I want to suggest, but something needs to be done about all of this. And if Momo won’t go to the police, and I kind of understand that considering the Triads who invaded my home had to have connected me to Momo though the CCTV system, then I’ll settle for Koki Tanaka getting involved.
Then maybe he’ll be pressured to involve Nick.
“Koki can’t stop this.” And the words sound final. Demoralised. Almost dead.
“Momo,” I plead.
“Please,” she says, pulling away to look up at me. “Just help me tidy up this mess.”
It’s better than nothing. She could have ordered me to leave. To not get involved. Like she’s told me to before. But Momo looks shattered and I think right now she just needs someone to be there for her.
And it’s not her brother. It’s not even this Tadashi guy she’s meant to be marrying in less than two weeks. It’s me.
So I help her tidy up. I organise a glazier to come around and board up the front window. And I say nothing of my fears and worries and gut churning anguish at what might happen.
It’s late when the shop is clean and secured again. Momo looks dead on her feet. I’m not far off that myself. My body aches, my head is splitting in two, and my chest feels strangely heavy.
I know she’s going to tell me to go home now. She’s going to send me away.
But she just sits down on the back step of her shop and leans her shoulder against mine when I sit beside her.
“Do you have a cigarette?” she asks quietly.
The Viaduct has bedded down, at least as much as it ever does. The restaurants and bars over toward the marina are still pumping, but this section is closed up for the night and only a few souls walk the streets. The back alley of Momo’s shop is dark and deserted. Just my Lexus and Momo’s Mini.
And the soft glow of a lighter as I offer up a flame for Momo’s cigarette.
I thumb one myself, and then return the pack to my inside pocket. For a long time we just sit their and smoke our ciggies.
“I’m tired, Finn,” she says after a while.
I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her close to me. She fits under my arm so perfectly. Her hair smells like jasmine, or maybe that’s from inside her shop. I bury my face in the strands anyway.
She hasn’t told me everything. We both know it. The Triads are far more complicated than she’s letting on. Something holds her back. And I don’t know how to get her to trust me enough to divulge it.
For now, it’s enough to be here for her. To hold her. To share a sneaky cigarette together.
But I know time is running out. Because in less than two weeks she’s meant to marry another. And I’m not entirely sure I can let that happen.
I’m even more unsure that I’ll still be around to prevent it.
I wonder, idly, what will be waiting for me in the centre of my bed when I get home. How does one top shit? It boggles the mind.
We finish our cigarettes and stand and face each other. The world continues to turn as I stare into her eyes and
feel rooted to the spot. Incapable of moving.
“Will they come back?” I finally ask.
“Possibly.”
“Momo,” I say, feeling frustrated and beyond worried.
“I can handle them.”
“Like you did tonight?”
“It’s not for much longer.”
“What does that mean?” I demand.
“Finn,” she says. “Go home.”
And there you have it. The brush off. Clearly nearly getting knocked out and eviscerated by scissors can only curry you so much favour.
I stare at her for a moment, considering just doing that; going home. And then I let out a growl, move into her personal space, and cup the back of her head with one hand, tilting her face to mine. I don’t kiss her. I couldn’t handle the rejection right now. But I do hold her close and let her see how much I care; how involved I am right now.
“You’re not married yet,” I say, and if I have anything to do with it, she never will be. Or at least, she never will be married to anyone else but me.
It’s Momo who starts the kiss this time.
But I don’t say no.
It’s hungry and desperate and a part of me thinks it might be a farewell. But she clings to me and devours me, and matches me breath for breath. I could lose myself in this woman; I already have. I could stay wrapped up in her arms for eternity. Kissing her lips until the world is long dead. I don’t need anything else but her never saying no to my kisses. All I need is this.
I’m not sure how long we kiss, but I think the sun isn’t far off from rising. She’s tired and all I want to do is wrap her up and take her home and watch her sleep. But as much as Momo is attracted to me, I still don’t know if I’m just an escape. A last chance to forget her future. The final rebellion before the dutiful daughter accepts her fate.
I almost want to laugh at that, Momo would never accept anything she didn’t want to, but that’s what scares me.
Because I think she might just accept Tadashi as her mate.
Why? I don’t know. None of this makes sense. The Traids. Her father’s arranged marriage. Koki’s indifference; as though this is a battle he can’t possible undertake.
I do know one thing, though, if I intend to fight for Momoko Tanaka, I need some help. I was woefully lacking this evening. My entire body is still burning from the pain.
But when Momo takes my hand and leads me to her car and then kisses me again, whispering against my lips for me to follow her home, I do.
Because I’d follow this woman anywhere. Because despite not knowing exactly where I stand with her, how this could possibly end in anything other than heartache, she’s already mine.
In my heart. In my head. In my very soul. Momoko Tanaka is mine.
And I will not give her up without a battle.
Chapter 10
And Has A Shitload Of Test Pot Paints
Jason
The smell of paint reaches my nostrils before I see her. She’s checking one test colour against another, small patches of enamel side by side on the pale beige walls. I’ve never much minded the colour of ASI’s bedrooms, but Kate decided they needed a spruce up the last time we were locked in here.
I realise it was this very room we’d shared.
I stand in the doorway and watch her. She’s humming to herself and swiping a brush over the wall with a third colour. It’s a simple thing. Something that most would take for granted. But I never take Kate for granted. Nor the strength of her character that has gotten her back to this.
What she loves doing. What makes her fired up and full of life. What makes Kate sing and dance and kiss. For a while there, it looked like she couldn’t be anywhere near a paint tin again. But slowly we’ve made it back to this.
I check the doorjamb to ensure it’s not been coated with anything - a habit I’ve had to get into since Kate became mine - and lean against it as I watch her do her thing.
She’s debating between six colours it looks like, and she’s onto the fourth, shaking her hips as she sweeps the brush over the wall again. She’s wearing a dress of course. It’s part of our agreement. If she’s been a good girl, she won’t have on any knickers either.
I watch as she bends over to pick up the next test pot, the length of her leg on display for all to see.
“I’ve told you, those legs are mine,” I say softly.
She jumps slightly, but then looks over her shoulder and offers me the sexiest smile and wink. It’s my smile and wink. The ones she only gives to me.
“Hey, baby,” she purrs, paintbrush in one hand, test pot in the other.
“Kate,” I say, arms crossed over chest as I stare at her bare legs. She’s slipped her shoes off. Her bare feet and delicately painted toenails are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Her bottom lip slips between her teeth and she cocks her head at me.
“No one’s watching,” she says, her voice the touch of feathers over hot, hot skin.
“They could be. Bunch of perverted bastards. Any one of them could walk past this door and watch you bend over and pick up your paints.”
She lowers her eyes, but I see the twitch of her lips. She’s teasing me.
“I think we should close this door,” I say, taking a step into the room and very carefully, very purposefully, closing the fucking door and flicking the lock shut. The sound of the bolt sliding home is loud. “Much better,” I add, turning around to watch her.
Her breaths have sped up. Her eyes are wide, pupils slightly dilated.
“Carry on,” I say, leaning against the door and waiting.
She doesn’t show her disappointment. Paint is calling.
“Which do you like?” she asks. Swapping the fourth pot for the fifth off the floor. She bends at the waist, giving me a delightful look of her legs all the way up to the crease of her arse cheek. She’s not wearing underwear and my cock shoots rock hard at what an obedient wife I’ve got.
I force myself not to show a reaction.
“They’re all good, baby,” I say, my voice steady, no different from usual.
“Hmm,” she murmurs, either pondering my lack of reaction or her colour options. “I’m not sure,” she says. “I think I need to shake things up a bit.”
“And how do you plan on doing that, Kate?” I ask.
“Mix it up a little?” she says, but it’s a question, not a statement. She’s asking permission.
Not permission regarding her test colours. No, that’s Kate’s domain and all hers. She’s in charge of that. But I don’t miss the innuendo. The hint that she wants to play.
“I don’t know, Kate,” I say in a drawl. “You might be surprised when things get mixed up a little.”
“But that’s half the fun, isn’t it?” she says, smirking at me. “Everyone likes a bit of excitement.”
We’re not talking about the redecoration of this room anymore. Even Kate has stopped playing with her paints. The air hangs suspended for a moment. And then I cave.
It was a forgone conclusion the moment I saw she’d followed the rules and wore no underwear.
“Turn around and face the wall,” I say, feeling anticipation thrum inside me. We’ve not played like this for a while. And I thought Kate was fine with that. George takes a lot of energy. Most nights, she’s exhausted when she climbs into bed. It’s been a bit vanilla lately. I haven’t minded, life’s complicated.
But I have missed our games. I’ve missed this. The rules have still applied. Kate wears dresses and forgoes the underwear. I’m shirtless around the house. But George has taken a big chunk out of the spontaneity.
I love him. I love him more than I can express in words. He’s… ours. He’s beautiful. He’s perfect.
But then so is Kate.
And I need this. And it looks like Kate does to. So, to hell with the rest of the world. To hell with what’s outside this room right now. I’m giving my wife what she needs. I’m reminding us of what we are.
Kate has turned to face t
he wall, the paint brush in her hand, the test pot in the other. She moves to lower them both.
“Did I say to put them down, Kate?” I ask, walking closer, taking my time.
She hesitates, half bent over, brush and pot still in her hands.
“Start painting,” I say, and she sucks in a breath of air.
I stop advancing when I’m mere inches away from her back. The smell of the paint wafts up to meet me. Kate’s hair brushes against my jaw. I reach up and wrap my hand around her ponytail. I don’t do anything other than just hold it. She lifts her paintbrush and strokes it down the wall. Her hand is shaking slightly.
Still holding her hair in my hand, but not hindering her moves; the rush is in the promise, I slip my free palm over the curve of her arse, stroke her cheek through her dress in time to her paint brush.
“Keep painting. I like that colour,” I say, not giving a fuck about the colour, but loving the way Kate shudders every time the brush hits the wall and my hand copies the movement on her arse.
I let my palm stroke lower, until I reach the hem of her dress and feel the skin of her thigh. The next time her brush strokes upward, my hand strokes up beneath her skirt. A smooth, rounded butt cheek meets the palm of my hand and I almost groan.
“I…I need a new test pot,” she stammers, breathlessness making her words come out husky.
“Bend over,” I say, keeping my hand in her hair and following the curve over her arse as she complies. “Stay there,” I add, when she’s low enough to exchange brushes and pot. “Take the lid off and change out your brush without moving this arse,” I say.
I smooth the skirt of her dress up over her butt cheeks, exposing her rear to the air. She’s wet. Her legs shaking. Her pussy begging for my touch.
“You turned on, baby?” I ask.
She moans and nods her head.
“You like this, don’t you, Kate?”
“Yes.”
“You need this, don’t you, Kate?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to fuck you while you paint your wall.” It’s not a question, and my beautiful, perfect wife doesn’t answer. Because she knows me. Because she knows what turns me on.
Sweet Seduction Sayonara Page 9