His Until Dawn (Kissing the Boss Book 3)

by Fionn Jameson

We caught a taxi out front. Nobuki didn't say anything, but his hand stayed in mine, and it stayed that way when the driver let us off at my apartment building.

  When we entered the courtyard, I saw my mother washing the dishes, visible from the open window, but I kept my eyes straight. She didn't do anything as she watched me lead Nobuki up the five flights of stairs to my place.

  I didn't care.

  As the door closed behind us, he turned me around, his mouth over mine, kissing me so deeply, I thought he was trying to drink me in.

  I fell under the spell of his hands and his lips and gave him everything I had to offer.

  He breathed fire into my veins, turning my body into molten lava. I stretched out my arms, hands tightening in his silken hair as I drew him down for a kiss.

  I belonged to the handsome demon.

  And the handsome devil belonged to me.

  The End

  Fionn Jameson has lived in some pretty awesome places like Seoul, Chicago, and Los Angeles, but currently calls Shanghai home. She lives with three cats, a very patient husband and can usually be found in front of a computer, no matter the time of day.

  She can be found on the web at www.fionnjamesonbooks.com and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter for new release updates and free books!

  The difference between love and obsession?

  Love is about letting go.

  Obsession is holding on tight to the object of your affection, even if it should ruin you both.

  A lesson Saya Kogure must learn as she juggles the attentions of an electronics tycoon son with a sadistic streak and her handsome boss with a tortured past…

  Read on for a sneak peek at Fionn Jameson's next book:

  My Obsession

  Coming September 2017

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE BEGINNING

  The leaves were coming back, tiny bursts of green on spindly dark branches that lessened the stark white and gray of winter, when I first met him.

  I stood in front of the coffeehouse door, reading the Help Wanted sign, fingers fiddling with a strip I'd ripped off the sign with the store's phone number printed on it.

  "Are you going to do it?" asked Irina Sakuraba, staring at me with wide blue eyes.

  Fake, of course, but just about everything about my best friend was fake.

  Not that I minded.

  Perhaps that's the reason I was so drawn to her. While I was so withdrawn and quiet, she was boisterous, unabashed. She didn't give a shit about anything, and I envied that about her so much.

  I bit my lower lip, worrying it between my teeth. "I don't have much of a choice. Dad cut me off."

  I'm not spending all my hard-earned money putting a silly, unrealistic girl through art school!

  My ears still rang from the harsh words funneled through my phone a few days ago.

  Yesterday, I got the notice from registration that my semester's tuition was late.

  They had been unfailingly polite about it.

  Japan usually is, as a nation.

  Irina winced, running a manicured hand through her bleached wavy shoulder-length hair. "But working at a coffee shop? That's kind of…lame, isn't it? It's almost too much of a cliché to be true."

  I slanted a glance at her, shivering as a sudden gust blew down the quiet street. "Cliché?"

  "Well, yeah." Her crimson nails glinted in the early morning sun, startlingly bright and yet not as warm as I wanted it to be. "Starving art student working her way through school as a waitress in a coffee shop? I can't count on both hands how many dramas there are with that same subject. Don't you ever watch TV, Saya?"

  "You know I hate TV."

  "Yeah, but you love movies."

  "Movies and TV are different. I only have to invest two hours of my time for movies. With TV, I have to spend a lot more time than I want. It's no question what I'd rather watch."

  "Fine, fine, whatever."

  She sighed and inspected her immaculate cuticles. Meanwhile, mine were peeling like mad from the cold, forcing me to keep my hands in my pockets.

  "I keep hoping you'll change your mind," she said. "All you ever do is read and paint. That's not normal. One day, I'm going to walk into your apartment and find you dead from huffing fumes."

  The coffee shop windows were fogged up, making it hard to see in, but the various blurs made it obvious just how popular the place was. "I don't want to do this, Irina."

  We moved aside to let a cashmere-coated patron out, a newspaper tucked under his arm, and a warm puff of air brushed across my face, along with the scent of coffee that inexplicably made my mouth water.

  Why?

  I hated coffee.

  Maybe I was hungry.

  In an unexpected show of comfort, she tapped me on the shoulder, an encouraging smile on her pale pink lips. "If you get the job, I'll come by every night and keep you company."

  I snorted. "No, you won't. You'll be too busy with your salary man."

  She winked. "Okay, almost every night."

  I paused, hand hovering over the shiny chrome door handle.

  "Saya?" asked Irina quietly. "What are you waiting for?"

  What are you waiting for?

  I didn't want to work.

  I just wanted to focus on my art.

  But if I didn't work, I couldn't draw or paint.

  And if I couldn't do what I wanted to do most in the world, then what was the point of living?

  I took a deep breath, forced a wide smile as artificial as Irina's breasts, and pulled the door open.

  Even though I had walked past Cafe Francois almost every day for the past three years, I had never once thought to venture into the small coffee shop, sandwiched between a lingerie store and a bookstore.

  Probably because I hated coffee.

  Judging from the crowd of people huddled around the main bar and overflowing into the sitting areas filled with mahogany tables and overstuffed armchairs, I was very much the minority.

  Irina and I were jostled by a crowd of laughing high-school girls, all with expensive bags, smelling like they were dunked in a vat of perfume. They weren't normal girls; there was an international high school a few blocks away, and most of the students there were from rich households.

  Even Irina wrinkled her nose as they brushed past, yipping in their high-pitched voices, throwing their long, dark hair over their slim shoulders.

  "Girls these days," she muttered, throwing a dirty look at one with a beige Coach bag.

  I recognized the bag as the one Irina proudly showed me a few weeks ago that her married salary man bought for her birthday. "That bag is the same as yours, isn't it?"

  She sniffed, her thin nose pointed up in the air. "She doesn't even know anything about the brand she's carrying."

  I blinked. "Eh?"

  "Young girls shouldn't carry a brand like that. Coach is for older women."

  "You mean like middle-aged women?" I teased.

  Irina rewarded me with a pinch to my side that was somewhat mitigated by the thick black parka I wore. "You just keep saying things like that and see what I do."

  "Sorry," I muttered, trying to find a spot along the bar where I could engage one of the four employees who were working with machines, polishing glasses, pouring drinks from pots, and twisting knobs on a large machine that hissed and spit every few seconds.

  Irina squeezed herself next to me, her hair decidedly ruffled. "Maybe…maybe we should come back? Morning, obviously, they're going to be busy."

  I shook my head. "No, I can wait."

  Because if I left now, I might lose my nerve and never attempt to get a job here.

  It almost made me want to do the same thing Irina was doing—spread my legs for an older man who could support me while I painted. for me.

  Almost.

  I loved her, but I couldn't do what she did.

  Besides, I didn't even like sex.

  The few interludes with my last boyfriend proved to be fumbling, sweat-drenched affairs that le
ft me empty and cold.

  Even now, Kenichi's voice echoed in my head.

  I'm sorry, Saya.

  I can't do this.

  You're too frigid.

  I'm bored with you.

  We're over.

  I had been so relieved. It was all I could to keep from bursting into laughter.

  He picked up his clothes, changed in the bathroom and left a few minutes later.

  I never saw him again, except for a few classes here and there, but we sat on opposite sides of the room which was fine by me.

  Irina tilted her head to one side. "Saya? What's wrong? Don't frown. You'll give yourself wrinkles before your time."

  I smiled. "Better?"

  Soon, I found myself in front of the cash register, mouth gaping open as I tried to think of what to say.

  "What can I get for you?"

  I stared.

  I couldn't help it.

  My fingers twitched on the counter. I couldn't remember the last time I wanted to grab my sketch pad and a charcoal pen more than the instant I first saw him.

  His nametag said Takumi, with hearts in green highlighter drawn around it.

  The handwriting was extremely girlish, and it made me wince to look at it.

  But not him.

  Not the man with the luminous dark eyes that seemed fathomless.

  Skin as pale and perfect as freshly fallen snow, black hair brushing his wide shoulders, he smiled at me with lips of dusky pink, and I couldn't stop staring.

  Irina nudged me. "Saya! Hurry up and say something!"

  His features seemed like they were taken straight off a Raphael sculpture, all clean lines with an angular jaw and an elegant nose that would've made a plastic surgeon weep tears of envy.

  He should've been on TV and movie screens.

  What the hell was he doing behind the counter of a coffee shop taking six-hundred yen for a cup of expensive coffee?

  His smile flickered. "Miss, have you decided what you'd like?"

  You.

  I'd like you.

  I want to draw you.

  Please, let me draw you.

  Thankfully, those thoughts never left my lips.

  Not thankfully, I did little but continue to stare at him like an idiot.

  Irina let out a heavy huff of exasperation and shoved me to one side, a blinding smile on her lips. "Sorry, my friend's a little slow. We were here about the job posting on your door."

  The cashier nodded once. "Ah, understood. Unfortunately, I don't think the owner can speak with you until after the morning rush. Would you be willing to come back in about…" His dark, luminous eyes roved over the cafe. "Hmm, two or three hours, maybe? It's a little busy to conduct a proper job interview."

  Irina simpered, her twin dimples digging deep. "Two, three hours? Of course. We'll be back."

  "Good, see you then."

  Without another glance, his gaze went to the customer behind us, and Irina dragged me out of the cafe, her steps quick and sharp.

  The early spring chill was like a slap to my face. I shook my head, trying to regain my bearings.

  Irina threw up her hands. "Jesus, what the hell was wrong with you?"

  I blinked. "Huh? What?"

  "Do you even know you might've ruined any chance of ever working there?"

  I blinked again. "I don't—"

  "You don't? You don't what?" she echoed, her voice shrill. "Are you serious about getting this job or what?"

  "I am. I just—"

  "You just what?"

  I held up a hand, stifling her protests before we could attract any more curious stares from passersby. "Wait. Stop interrupting me."

  "I'm not—"

  "Yes," I said decisively. "You are."

  She opened her mouth to say something, and closed it again, a mulish tilt to her lips. "Fine. May I finish what I was going to say?"

  "No," I replied. "Let me."

  She crossed her arms. "Fine. Go ahead."

  "I'm an artist."

  "I know that," she said, voice peevish. "What's your point?"

  This time, it was my turn to snort. "Did you get a good look at the guy at the counter?"

  "What? Of course, I—" Her eyes widened. "Oh. Okay. I get it."

  "See?" I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets. "I've got to start thinking about my finals."

  "That's not for another three months!" said Irina with shock. "You're probably the only person doing that. The semester started two weeks ago!"

  "I know, but it's not too late to think about it. My final project counts for sixty percent of my grade," I said. "I have to get good grades."

  She looked at me curiously. "Why? Grades were never a concern for you."

  "That's because my dad was paying for me," I replied. "I need to show him I'm serious about this. The only way to do that is if I get perfect grades while working. Then he'll know I'm not doing this because I'm lazy."

  "Wouldn't it just be better to flunk all your classes?"

  I flinched. "That's a joke, right? If I did that, it would be more ammunition for my dad to use against this degree. He thinks artists starve and are a blight on society. He says it's people like me who place a strain on the economy."

  "So you're going to work and put yourself through this semester? To show him you're willing to put everything on the line to become an artist?" Irina's voice was barely audible over the rumble of a delivery truck going past.

  I looked away from her knowing gaze. "I don't have a choice. Not anymore."

  She shook her head, tousling her already artfully tousled hair. "So, you were staring at the guy at the counter because he was so hot?"

  My fingers twitched with the urge to put his face onto paper. "I want to ask him to be my final project."

  "Okay, he's good looking, I admit," said Irina. "Even if you get the job, there's no guarantee he'll sit for you. How're you going to pay for him?"

  My hands clenched into fists. "Whatever. Anything. Everything."

  Her smile turned wicked. "Even giving up your body?"

  "What?" I asked, recoiling from her words. "Why would you even say that?"

  She gave me a pitying look. "Because, you silly girl. That's all guys ever want, you know. They only want a woman's body."

  I wanted to disagree.

  It seemed unfair to reinforce a stereotype. I was pretty sure there were men in the world who didn't just want what a woman's body could offer.

  Too bad I couldn't think of any.

  "I doubt he has any need to search out female companionship," I said primly, lips pursed. "I don't think I have to worry about him forcing himself on me."

  "Hmm, I wonder about that," said Irina, a devilish glint to her eyes. "What about that movie star in America who slept with his housekeeper?"

  "I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't watch TV, remember?"

  She shrugged. "That doesn't matter. What matters is that he slept with her because she was available. Just so you know, I don't think she was very easy on the eyes, but he still slept with her, and they even had a child together. If that's not a sign of just what kind of dogs men are, then I don't know what is."

  "How can you be so negative about men when it's a man who's paying everything for you?"

  Irina smirked. "I'm not being negative. I'm being realistic. And smart. I even think this is my revenge for the dogs in our world. If I bankrupt my salary man, who cares? There's plenty more where he came from."

  I sighed as I followed her back to campus in time for our eight-thirty class, Western Romantic Art of the Nineteenth Century.

  "You need to be careful about what you say." I tried not to sound sanctimonious as I was wont to, according to Irina. "Don't you believe in karma? One of these days, your words will come back and haunt you for the rest of your life."

  She gave me a delighted grin over one shoulder. "Maybe. But I'll be rich and old by then, so who cares?"

  I stared at her, completely at a loss. "I don't know where you
get such pluck."

  "Because I'm Irina Sakuraba, that's why."

  Possibly the best comeback in the world, in my opinion

  She continued, "Now, come on. I'll buy you your favorite melon bread before class starts."

  On second thought, that was.

  Chapter Two

  The Interview

  Western Romantic Art of the Nineteenth Century passed by even slower than usual, and it seemed at least six hours until I found myself standing in front of Cafe Francois a few minutes before eleven.

  Alone.

  Not exactly what I had planned, but Irina had gotten a text in the middle of class and split as soon as Professor Higashiyama closed the textbook with a resounding clap, waking up half the class who'd been dozing in the back of the chilly third-floor classroom.

  Irina jumped up, stuffing the textbook and her notebook into her black leather bag, giving me an apologetic look. "Sorry, I have to leave you!"

  "What? Where are you going?"

  I was getting nervous about the impending interview and the fact that my loud-mouthed, confident friend wasn't going to be around to help me made me feel more than a little ill.

  She swung her purse over one shoulder, grinning widely. "My boyfriend wants to see me right away. I guess he only has a half-day at work today, and he wants to spend the rest of the day with me."

  For a woman who bragged about using men just for their money, she seemed very happy. "Are you going to make him buy you a new pair of shoes?"

  She stuck her tongue out at me. "Whatever you say. See you later!"

  I lost her in the general mass shuffle for the door; although, I thought I saw the flash of her blond head leaving the room first.

  And now here I was.

  The windows were still fogged over, although it did seem a little less busy than before.

  Hands shaking badly, stuck deep into my coat pocket, I took a deep breath and then walked in.

  There were only a few people lounging around in the comfortable, sinkable chairs that looked plush enough to drown in, and no one crowded the bar.

  Only one employee stood behind the bar now, cleaning out the machine with a white rag, her long hair caught back in a red plaid handkerchief, and she looked up as the bell over the door rang with my entrance.