Sweet Seduction Sayonara (11 page)

“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.

T
he 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 the 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.

I’m aching with the need to sink myself inside her, but Kate deserves a reward. She’s brilliant, is my wife. She’s everything good in this world. She’s an amazing mother. A fantastic friend. A loyal and steadfast confidante. And a fucking outstanding submissive in my bed.

And I am nothing without her.

I let go of her hair and kneel down behind her. “Spread your legs, baby,” I say.

She does. Her hands shaking as she tries to undo the lid on the final test pot.

My palms run over both of her cheeks, then I spread her folds, and breathe in her scent. She is heaven.

The first lick of my tongue over her cunt is exquisite. I forget where we are and groan out loud. I’m sure it can be heard through the door. Kate moans with me, her hands frozen on the test pot lid. I swat at her cheek, pulling back my lips from her clit, and say, “Keep working, baby.”

She returns her attention to the test pot, but she can’t get the lid off and when I slip a finger inside her and flick at her g-spot she’s almost smashing the fucking thing on the ground in frustration.

“Shh, baby,” I say softly, rubbing my hand over her butt cheek to soothe it. “Get the lid off and I’ll let you come.”

It’s surprising how tricky that lid is. I’m thinking perhaps more than it warrants. Because as I lick and suck and thrust my fingers into her pussy, Kate bucks and moans and shudders, but she does not get that fucking lid off the pot.

I smack her cheek again in exactly the same spot to make her focus. She’s so close to coming now, my hand is soaked in her juices. I coat my fingers, sliding them through her folds, dipping them into her pussy with my other hand, making her cry out loud.

A wet smack on her cheek again and then I press my sopping fingers into her arse.

The lid comes off and Kate screams as she comes on my hand.

I lap it up as if I haven’t had sustenance in months.

And then I’m standing, her pussy is empty, my hand wraps up in her hair again and I grip her tight. The fingers in her arsehole remain for now, as I stare down at my glorious wife.

“Pick up the pot, Kate,” I say, and my voice is rough. “And the brush,” I add, when she only follows my command to the letter.

Once she’s got both in her hands I pull her upright with a gentle tug on her hair. She stands up, my fingers sinking in further, her body shuddering and arsehole tightening, and then I let go of her hair and unzip my jeans, freeing myself.

“Start painting, baby,” I instruct.

Her hands are shaking even more than before, and as I position myself at her entrance, I pull my fingers out of her arse and grip her hip tightly, holding her steady.

“Nice slow strokes, I think,” I say, and seat myself inside in one inexorable thrust.

The brush darts off at an angle, and I have to take a moment to catch my breath.

Then I reach around, slip my hand inside her blouse, pull the cup of her bra down, and palm her breast. Thank fuck George is on a bottle now, because I tweak and pinch her nipple and all she does is moan and buck.

“Faster strokes, Kate, I want to get off.” It’s all a ruse, and she knows it. I’m about as turned on as I can be, fucking my wife while she’s painting, making her take every inch of my cock.

Her paint brush picks up speed, and I gotta say, it’s quite a mess she’s making of that wall. And then I’m lost in the sensations she’s creating, thrusting and bumping and grinding my way to salvation, and Kate is moaning, biting her bottom lip, her tit in my hand making her pussy clench around my cock, and then I reach my free hand around and stroke her clit.

She explodes.

I explode.

The paint explodes all over the wall and onto the drop cloth.

Fucking brilliant.

I lean forward and rest my head against her shoulder, then turn my face and lay a soft kiss behind her ear. She’s panting, the brush and test pot are scrunched beneath her hands on the wall, paint - a soft blue, I notice - smeared all over Kate’s clothes and her left cheek.

“That colour,” I say softly. “That’s the colour you paint this room.”

“OK,” she replies with a soft smile. “But I’ve got four more to do.”

“Four,” I say. “That’s not nearly enough.”

“I could redecorate at home,” she offers with a wink.

“Baby,” I growl. “Let’s paint the whole fucking house.”

She collapses beneath me in a fit of giggles and I end up as covered as her in pale blue enamel paint.

And when I take her again on the floor, looking into her eyes as her legs are wrapped around my neck and shoulders, I think the whole world should get a new coat of paint.

Because nothing is better than mixing it up a little. Especially when your wife is such a talented artist. And has a shitload of test pot paints.