Sweet Seduction Sayonara Read Online Free PDF Page A

had that much action of late. I shift in my seat, but I’m damned if I’ll look away.
    “What does a florist look like, Finn?”
    I’m going straight to hell, or wherever Koki Tanaka sends me, because I’m going to do my very best to sleep with this woman. The way she says my name. Such a short name; one syllable. But it seems so momentous when spoken from those delectable lips. My name seems fit for a king when Momoko says it.
    “Older,” I manage to say.
    “I’m thirty-two,” she points out. “And I’ve been a florist for over a decade. Straight out of high school.”
    I smile and take a sip from my beer. “Older and more dowdy,” I clarify. “I’m having trouble picturing you making up a posy whilst wearing that dress. But I’m giving it damn good try.”
    She laughs again, shaking her long dark hair out in one curtain of silky black.
    I want to run my fingers through it. I want to bury my face in amongst the strands. I want to wrap them around my hand while I tilt her head back and kiss the fuck out of her.
    “I don’t usually dress like this for work,” she says, running a hand down the material of her gown and drawing my eyes to the contours of her body. Does she know she’s turning me on? Does she know what’s happening beneath the table, just out of sight? I suddenly have an image of her foot sliding up between my spread thighs and her toes massaging a certain part of my anatomy. A certain part which is currently straining to get out. All while wearing a naughty little smirk on those kissable lips.
    I take another sip of beer and resist the urge to shift again in my seat.
    Our food arriving breaks the moment, but it’s not the waitress of before. An older gentleman carries the dish over and puts it on the table with a flourish. He wears a bandana over his head, pulling his hair back off his forehead, which is shining slightly. I’d hazard a guess that he’s the chief. Or restaurant owner. And spends the majority of his night in the kitchen.
    “Momoko-san,” he says, bowing after placing the platter between us. “It has been too long since you visited.”
    “Sensei,” she replies, bowing her own head in respect. I stare at the old man, but he can’t be her karate teacher. He looks a little paunchy around the stomach.
    “You have brought a friend,” Sensei says, but there is something I don’t like in his eyes when he looks briefly at me.
    I think it’s fear. Fear for me? Fear for him? Or fear for Momo?
    “Fujiwara-sensei,” Momoko says. “This is Finn Drake, a friend of my brother’s.”
    I’d hardly call myself a friend to Koki, but I guess it’s easier than explaining my peripheral inclusion in ASI dynamics.
    “Ah,” the old man says, and his whole demeanour changes. Relaxes. I get the feeling Momoko is sheltered. Or at least, her family and friends attempt to keep her that way.
    I watch on as they chat amicably, searching for the naivety I would expect in such a situation. But if Momoko is sheltered in anyway, I can’t see it. She’s full of life as she exchanges small talk with the restauranteur, owning the conversation and directing it exactly where she wants it.
    Which seems to be about banal matters.
    Mr Fujiwara bows one last time, then slips his hand into Momo’s, holding her eyes for an extended moment. I’m not up on Japanese culture, but I don’t think touching is as readily agreeable as in the west.
    Maybe Fujiwara has been in New Zealand for long enough to let a few things slide. But then he says in parting, “You should go home, Momoko-san. Honour your father’s wishes.”
    Momo doesn’t get to reply, but I see the anger in the small downturn of her lips. She narrows her eyes after the man and then looks down into her lap briefly. She thinks I didn’t catch it, the surreptitious passing of a note from his hand to hers. But it’s a move I perfected with my brothers, when we’d been subjected to long boring sermons in church. Reverend Blundell had a