Page 14 of The Oyabun's Boy

Mine, I thought, the word resonating through me with the force of absolute certainty. Mine to protect. Mine to keep. Mine to claim.

The feeling was dangerous, unsettling in its intensity. I'd built an empire on cold calculation, not heat. Not want. But as Joy slid into the backseat of my SUV, the copper gleam of his hair catching the streetlight, I knew there was no going back.

I had claimed him. And I would burn the world to ash before I let him go.

The SUV cut through the darkness like a shark through black water, silent and predatory. Inside, the leather seats creaked softly with each turn, the only sound besides Joy's measured breathing beside me.

I kept my eyes fixed on the city lights blurring past the bulletproof windows, hyperaware of every inch where his thigh pressed against mine on the back seat. Even through two layers of fabric, the contact burned.

My driver kept his eyes forward, the privacy partition half-raised—present enough to protect us, absent enough to give the illusion of solitude. Joy sat rigidly beside me, his body tense but not trembling. Brave, even now.

He'd barely spoken since we'd left his mother's house twenty minutes ago. The silence should have been comfortable—I preferred silence to pointless chatter—but tonight it felt charged, dangerous.

I shifted slightly, creating a half-inch of space between us. The loss of contact was both relief and torture. I needed to think clearly. I wanted him willing, not coerced. Not frightened.

Patience, I reminded myself. I'd waited this long. I could wait longer.

"Where are we going?" Joy finally asked, his voice so soft I almost missed it.

"My home," I replied, keeping my tone neutral.

"And my mother?"

"Following in the second car. She'll have her own quarters."

He nodded once, then turned to stare out the window. The passing streetlights painted his profile in alternating gold and shadow, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the delicate sweep of his lashes, the full curve of his lower lip.

That lip. Christ.

I watched from the corner of my eye as he licked it nervously, tongue darting out to moisten the soft flesh. Something electric shot through me, settling low in my gut. My restraint, carefully constructed over decades, began to crack.

"You're staring," he said without looking at me.

"Yes."

There was no point in lying.

Joy turned then, green eyes meeting mine with defiance that sent a fresh wave of heat through my body. "Most people would deny it."

"I'm not most people."

"So I've noticed," he replied, a hint of dry humor in his voice. "Most people don't kiss strangers in alleys or murder home invaders or kidnap baristas and their mothers."

"Most people lead very boring lives."

That drew a surprised laugh from Joy, brief but genuine. The sound wrapped around me like smoke, seductive and intoxicating.

And just like that, my restraint shattered.

I moved before conscious thought could stop me, one hand sliding into Joy’s hair, gripping the soft auburn strands at the base of his neck. My other arm circled his waist, pulling him closer until our chests nearly touched. Joy’s eyes widened, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of green remained.

"Last chance to say no," I murmured, my voice rougher than I intended.

Joy didn't say no. He didn't say anything at all.

I crashed my mouth against his, swallowing his gasp of surprise. For one heartbeat, Joy remained still, frozen between resistance and surrender. Then, with a small sound that might have been defeat or desire, he melted against me.

His lips were as soft as I remembered, but this time they parted willingly beneath mine. I tasted mint and coffee and something sweeter—something uniquely him. My grip in his hair tightened, angling his head to deepen the kiss. My tongue swept into his mouth, claiming, exploring, demanding a response.