The Beauty of Surrender

by Eden Bradley

  “I have to go,” he said, his jaw clenched.

  “You shouldn’t leave yet, James. I can’t let you drive like this.” He shook his head. “I need to go. Now.” She moved toward him, saw him flinch as he had when she’d laid her hand on his shoulder earlier. “You know better.”

  “I’m fine. I never hit subspace. I’m fine.”

  She was quiet a moment, searching his face. “You know that’s not true, James. Even if you only caught that first edge.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Marina. But I am going to go.”

  That danger was still in his expression. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to talk him into staying. Hated that there was nothing she could do, that she had let her control slip so drastically.

  She nodded her head, and he turned and stalked out of the room. Every nerve in her body ached to follow him, to say something more. But dignity demanded she let him walk away—hers and his. And she didn’t think she could stand to watch him walk out the door.

  She heard the skid of his shoes on the floor, the soft creak of the door, then the knock of wood against wood as he closed it behind him.

  It was then that she let out her breath, her lungs burning.

  She felt … lost.

  How had she let things spiral so out of control?

  Walking to the bench, she ran her palm over the surface. She swore she could still smell him in the room, feel him, as though something besides his scent lingered there.

  She’d always believed people had a unique energy about them, a sort of signature. And his was pure power. Pure masculinity. She’d never come upon anything like it.

  She’d never met anyone like James. Never met a man who made her burn the way she did now. Unbearable, this wanting. Desire like fire in her body: her breasts, her belly, her sex.

  She slid a hand between her thighs, pressed there.

  Need like a razor, cutting through all logical thought, through her need for control. Through everything.

  Stalking across the hall and into her bedroom, she stripped off her clothes, yanked her most powerful vibrator from the drawer, took it into the bathroom. She stood before the mirror, naked, her skin flushed all over. Her nipples were two hard, red points of desire. Her sex was soaking wet.

  Spreading her thighs, she reached down and pressed once more against her sex. It was slick, hot. Aching. Her eyes fluttered as she brushed her fingers over her swollen clit, then watched carefully as she parted her pussy lips, revealing that hard bud of flesh. She spread her thighs a little farther, turned the vibe on high, and lowered it, touched the tip of her clitoris, desire pulsing through her. She shuddered.

  This was what she needed. All she needed. She didn’t need a man.

  James …

  No.

  She pressed harder, the buzzing working its way into her body, shivering through her sex. Spreading wider, she shoved the tip of the vibrator inside her, moaning, her body clenching.

  Oh, yes …

  She kept her eyes on her image in the mirror, moving the vibrating phallus in and out of her, pleasure building, cresting.

  James.

  No, just herself and some good equipment. That’s all she needed.

  She pumped her hips, used her hand to rub her clitoris as she angled the vibe into her G-spot. Her breasts ached to be touched; her pussy ached.

  When was the last time she was fucked by a man?

  She thrust her hips harder, pressing the vibe deeper, pinched her clit hard.

  James!

  Pleasure arced through her like an electric current. Sharp. Lovely. Excruciating. And her body burst, her climax almost painful. And she was coming, coming, James’s dark eyes, his smooth golden skin, his beautiful cock in her mind.

  When it was over she dropped the vibrator onto the bathroom counter. Her image in the mirror looked flushed: face, neck, breasts. Her eyes were enormous, absolutely gleaming. Her mouth looked as though he had kissed her, even though he hadn’t.

  Even though you wanted him to.

  Yes, she’d have to admit that much. And more. She wanted James. Wanted him, as she had no one else for years.

  Dangerous. Oh, yes, James was dangerous.

  Or was he? This had to be pure lust, nothing more. Why was she so concerned? She hadn’t allowed a man to touch her since she’d lost Nathan; perhaps it was time, as Desmond had said. She was, after all, a sexual being, just like anyone else. She’d denied herself long enough.

  But was it fair of her to consider sex with James when it was her responsibility to feed his need for subspace, for peace within the ropes? Would taking things to that level be good for him? Or would it only confuse the issue? She couldn’t think clearly enough where he was concerned to be certain she was making a rational decision. And of course much would depend on whether or not he wanted her.

  He did. That much she didn’t need to question. The lust raging in his eyes, his hard, beautiful cock, the way he’d broken the rules, taking over like that …

  She wouldn’t have put up with it from anyone else. But James … she had a feeling she’d put up with almost anything from him, let him do anything …

  Not very Domme-like. But James was no standard subbie boy, either. Far from it. And that was exactly why she was so damn attracted to him. Or part of it, anyway. That and his smoldering dark looks, the energy that emanated from him. The heat.

  She moaned, pressed her hand to her sex once more, picked up the vibrator again. And told herself as she lowered the buzzing instrument between her thighs that another orgasm would cure her need for James, knowing full well it was a lie.

  THE DRIVE HOME seemed to take forever. The city was alive, as it was on any Saturday night, despite the late hour. Too many cars, too many people and lights, too much noise and confusion. James couldn’t seem to think, to lose himself in the buzz, as he once could.

  He needed to lose himself.

  He needed to get the near taste of Marina’s lips out of his mind. The feel of her hair brushing his skin. The scent of her.

  His cock was still rock-hard, growing harder as he thought of her. He pressed a hand against the ridge rising beneath his jeans, willing it to go down. It didn’t help. Not that he really expected it to.

  Nothing was going to help.

  She was too fucking beautiful. Too hot. Too female. Too everything.

  That sense of power, her absolute control, was a huge turn-on. And seeing her fall apart when he tried to kiss her … he’d thought he was going to lose his mind. Knew that if he’d let it go one step further, it would all have been over. He’d have pinned her against the wall, torn her clothes off, and fucked her, raw and primal, standing up, pushing her flesh into the hard wall behind her while he drove his cock into her sleek body …

  Jesus.

  He was hard as iron now.

  Just get home.

  Yes, get home, stroke himself until he came so he could stop thinking about her.

  He groaned, forced himself to focus on the road, on the line of traffic moving down Van Ness. He swung a right onto Gough Street, then another right into the alley behind his building, parked in the small garage he’d been lucky to find in this old city. He slammed the car door behind him, made his way up the stairs to his apartment, fumbling with the keys at the door. Finally he was inside, and he made straight for the shower.

  He reached in and turned the water on, yanked his shirt over his head, kicked his way out of his boots, his jeans, his boxer-briefs. His cock stood like a sentinel of lust between his legs, pulsing with need. Stepping into the shower, he turned the hot water up; he needed to feel the burn on his skin. Then he grabbed the bar of soap, lathered his cock, even the touch of his own rough hands making him pulse harder.

  He leaned into the tiles behind him and began to thrust. This was no slow, even pace; no, he was far too impatient for that. It was a hard plunge into his soapy fist, then another, and another, too fast and rough to keep any rhythm. And pleasure pouring through hi
s system, Marina’s hot little mouth in his head.

  He could imagine her taking him into her mouth. But no. It was him shoving his cock between her lips, making her eyes water, with her on her knees. Sucking him, sucking him, while he fisted a hand in her hair.

  Marina!

  His cock gave one hard throb, come flooding between his fingers, spraying the wall of the shower. And he kept coming, his body shaking.

  Marina …

  Finally it was over. He leaned his weight into the wall of the shower, letting the water wash away his sticky seed. His cock was still half hard.

  Closing his eyes, he drew in one deep breath after another, trying to calm down. But it was no good. He needed her. Fucking needed her.

  Not okay.

  He’d never needed anyone. Not like this. All he needed from her was her skill with the ropes, her knowledge of trance states, her ability to make him clear his mind of all the shit that had been layered there over the years. Years of war and violence and unbelievable emptiness. Everything he’d seen and felt, and especially everything he’d tried so hard not to feel.

  He was feeling now.

  God damn it.

  Marina Marchant was his one savior. And his worst nightmare. A woman he could fall for. A woman he could feel for. One he already did.

  Chapter Five

  ANOTHER MONDAY MORNING, and it felt like a Monday, the sky outside the window of Marina’s office on Union Street a dark, threatening gray. Downstairs, the co-op gallery she rented office space from was just opening. The streets outside were quiet, still, the only crowds at the coffeehouses that dotted the street, two and three to a block.

  She loved her office in the old brick building. It was small, but she didn’t need much space. Just her computer on the enormous antique desk in the bay window, a phone with multiple lines on which she brokered art for her upscale clients. The red leather-bound book where she kept her most precious information: her contacts around the world, people who knew the hottest up-and-coming artists, those mysterious folks who could find almost anything, no matter how ancient, how rare.

  She could have worked from home, but she liked getting out of the house, liked being out in the world. It made her feel more connected, more plugged into the city, into life. But all week she’d been totally disconnected, had felt nothing from the city around her. Nothing but a constant obsession with James. Where was he? What was he doing? Why the hell hadn’t he called her?

  Nine days since James had left her house. Since he’d tried to kiss her. Since she’d let him.

  He hadn’t called, hadn’t answered the e-mail she’d sent.

  She should have been furious. With any other submissive she had agreed to train this would have been reason for dismissal. But she knew there was far more to his sudden disappearance than mere disobedience. This was much deeper. For James. For her.

  She’d felt his fear that night. Felt her own. And she was more compelled than ever to explore things with him, the electric dynamic, the astonishing chemistry, the sense of connection, of knowing who he was. Of absolute wanting.

  She couldn’t remember feeling so frustrated in her life, so damn helpless, except when Nathan had died. She didn’t like it any more now than she had then. Helpless was one thing she didn’t do well.

  It was the one thing that prevented her from calling him: She couldn’t let him see her powerlessness. It would make it all too real. But she didn’t know how much longer she could stand not to see him, talk to him. And it was her responsibility to follow up with him, after a scene that had ended badly. She shouldn’t allow this lack of contact to continue. She owed him that.

  That’s what she told herself, anyway, as she reached for the phone and dialed the number she’d memorized, just as she had every angle of his face, the curve of muscles in his long back, the scent of him.

  She picked up a pen and tapped it against the wooden desk as the phone rang.

  He probably wouldn’t answer it. She should leave a message, reminding him how important it was that they talk about what happened when she’d bound him.

  God, the sight of his strong body in the ropes, his shoulders bunching …

  “Hello.”

  “Oh.” The pen dropped from her hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor at her feet. “James.”

  “Marina?”

  “Yes.”

  He was quiet a moment. She couldn’t seem to get her brain to work, to speak to him.

  “Are you there, Marina?”

  “Yes. I’m here.” Her body flooded with relief, with heat. “I … we should talk, James.”

  “I know. You’re right.”

  No apology. But she hadn’t exactly expected one. Hell, she hadn’t expected to talk to him at all.

  “Meet me tonight.” His voice was a little rough. Commanding. She couldn’t believe the way her body was melting.

  Get ahold of yourself!

  “Tonight’s not good for me,” she lied, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “Tomorrow,” she said.

  “Yes, tomorrow, then. We should talk in person.”

  He was taking over again. Damn it.

  “Yes. Tomorrow. Come to my place.”

  “We should meet in public, Marina,” he said softly.

  “What? Why?” She was getting annoyed now.

  He paused, a long silence that seemed to stretch interminably. “Because I don’t trust myself with you.”

  She melted a little, unable to help that she loved the vulnerability in his admission. That mixed with his commanding tone a moment before. It was too good. She didn’t understand the effect it had on her.

  “Alright, then.”

  “Do you know a bar on the corner of Gough and Hayes called Absinthe?”

  “Yes, I’ve driven by it. I’ve never been in.”

  “Meet me there at eight, if you can.”

  Ah, a small concession, a bit of manners, rather than him giving in to her.

  She loved it, that he didn’t really give in to her. But that was all wrong, wasn’t it?

  “I’ll be there,” she told him.

  Another long pause. Then he said, his voice still low, “I’m looking forward to seeing you, Marina. And dreading it.”

  Her stomach knotted. “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t explain it any more until I see you.”

  “Okay. I understand. A bit, at least. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  They hung up, and she was left gripping the phone in her hand. She felt oddly elated and empty at the same time.

  What would he have to say to her tomorrow night? Would he tell her why he couldn’t see her again? Was that what this conversation would be all about? She couldn’t stand the thought of that.

  Have to see him.

  Yes. See him, talk to him.

  Touch him.

  One more day. She could wait that long. But just barely.

  JAMES WALKED THROUGH the light evening rain, passing the lit windows of the small shops, galleries, florists, and hair salons that lined Hayes Street. He didn’t mind it; he loved the rain. And this was no torrential downpour. There was just enough of it to make the streetlights gleam on the pavement, to bring out that smell of old, wet concrete and musty wood that was found in certain old cities. Always in San Francisco. It reminded him that he was home. And now, after everywhere he’d been, all the things he’d seen, that was all he wanted.

  Except the woman he was about to meet.

  A quick two blocks and he arrived at Absinthe. Small hammering in his chest, wondering if Marina was there yet.

  Absolute pounding when he saw her, sitting by the window, the streetlights outside washing her skin in silver. Her hair was a fall of dark red, heavy and lush. It looked like pure silk. Her fingers were wrapped around a martini glass. Two olives, he noted, as he made his way through the press of small tables. The place smelled of good vodka and the faint scent of burnt caramel from the lavender crème brûlée the bar was known for.

&
nbsp; She’s just a woman.

  A woman who twisted him all up inside. A woman who would set him free, if he could allow it to happen.

  Fuck.

  Just sit, talk with her.

  “Marina.”

  “James. Hi.”

  She smiled, her mouth a red pout that widened slowly. She had a dimple in her right cheek; he’d never noticed it before. And he felt … charmed by it. That was the only word he could find to describe it.

  He pulled out one of the cane-back chairs and sat down. A waitress approached immediately, and he ordered a Scotch before turning back to Marina.

  “Thanks for coming. I know I don’t deserve it.”

  She was quiet a moment, watching him. She didn’t look angry, but her eyes were a dark gray, flashing with some emotion he couldn’t identify.

  “You’re right, you don’t.”

  “Why are you making an exception, then?”

  She glanced down at the glass in her hand. “I … don’t really know. And maybe that’s why I’m here. To find out.”

  He nodded. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, either. I don’t know why I left your house the way I did.” He rubbed both hands over his thighs. “Fuck. No. I do know.”

  She looked up, that cool, gray gaze on his. “Tell me.”

  Where to start? How much to reveal? How much would anyone want to hear about this shit? “Do you have a while? Because this is no short story, and I … I’d really like to explain myself. I’d like to try.”

  She nodded. “Go on.”

  Oh, she wasn’t giving him much, was she? But she was here, willing to listen to him.

  “You know what I did for a living. That I traveled all over the world, reporting on the most horrific events. I spent years in all the war-ravaged countries, all of those places that are forgotten about once the war is over. And it’s never really over in those places, no matter what the governments say. I’ve been in El Salvador, Laos, Serbia, Iran, Africa.”

  He paused as the waitress delivered his drink, took a good long swallow, let it burn its way down his throat.