Pride & Surrender

by Jennifer Dawson

A chuckle vibrates from his chest. “I’ll take it.” He holds out an outstretched hand. “Come with me to the couch, I brought you something.”

  Unable to resist, I glance toward the small sitting area in my office.

  What I see makes my chest squeeze tight. My vision blurs as my eyes well with sudden, unexpected tears. They’ve been doing that a lot lately. Once the dam broke, I don’t seem to be able to stop. Now I remember why I stopped crying in the first place.

  I long to find that numb place again. But it eludes me, if anything, the harder I try the more hyper emotional I become.

  My fingers tremble as I press them to my lips. I blink rapidly.

  On the square coffee table in front of the couch he’s set out a picnic. A crisp white tablecloth holds two crystal goblets, a couple bottles of wine and a tray of cheese. Large red grapes and lush strawberries overfill a bowl. A platter of sandwiches fills a plate. In the center of this feast is a low glass vase packed to the brim with blood-red roses. No leaves, no filler, just a tight bunch of flowers. A beautiful slash of color across the white linen.

  It was the sweetest, most romantic gesture anyone has ever offered me. I’ve always believed I hate romance, hate the soft gooeyness of it—but I’m so wrong. Nothing could have touched me more. Pleasure swells in my sternum until it feels as though it might burst.

  I glance over at him, he watches me with that intent expression he wears. As though trying to peer inside my head and learn all my secrets.

  I swallow back the emotion. “Y-you,” my voice comes out as a strangled croak and I clear it. “You did this for me?”

  He shifts his large frame so he faces me, raising his hand, his strong fingers curl around my neck. The weight of his palm so right, and I don’t know what to make of it.

  A sense of security washes over me, powerful and intense. I want to crumble under the weight of it. As if he reads my mind, his fingers tighten and his other hand grasps my own.

  Steadying me. He anchors me like my own personal port in the emotional storm. His thumb slides over the skin of my inner wrist. “I would do anything for you, my Juliet.”

  The truth of his words shines in his eyes.

  He’s winning. Slowly but surely, each time he comes back, each time I see him, he chips away at my defenses.

  I find myself believing.

  “Thank you,” I say, my tone shaky.

  For the first time in my life, I want to talk, to spill those secrets he seems to want. But the feeling is so foreign, so out of my comfort zone, my blood races through my veins and a low buzz fills my head.

  He smiles then, a heartbreaker of a smile that melts a layer of the ice I keep around me like a second skin. “You’re welcome. Now come on.”

  He tugs and I stand from my chair.

  “It’s a good thing I brought lunch. “ He glances down at me, his lips curving wider, making him look almost boyish. “You’re looking a tad scrawny.”

  “That’s a lie!” The tension breaks and I laugh a little, the sound rusty. I’m not heavy, but I’m nowhere close to scrawny.

  He cocks his head to the side, and his expression flashes with something purely male. “You’ve lost weight.”

  I shrug. Maybe a little. The stress of the last few weeks has taken a toll on me, affecting both my appetite and my ability to sleep.

  “I like you better with some meat on your bones.”

  I open my mouth to say something scathing, but he chooses that moment to swoop down and capture my lips with his.

  The kiss is searing. Liquid heat pours through me as our mouths fuse together.

  It’s like coming home. Like he’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  After so long apart, I press close, desperate for the feel and taste of him.

  He kisses like no man I’ve ever known. Taking and demanding, he fully focuses on me. It’s impossible to resist. Impossible not to surrender and give him everything he wants.

  I lose myself in him. And the thought both thrills and scares me.

  How do I stay whole when another person consumes me?

  He breaks the kiss, his breath ragged as he presses his forehead into mine.

  We stay like that for long, silent minutes, exchanging air as we struggle to control the desire between us.

  “I want you, Juliet. But I’m not going to fuck you on the floor of your office.” A strangled-sounding chuckle rumbles from his chest. “At least not until I’ve had you a few dozen times.”

  A couple weeks ago I would have protested, but today my mouth stays firmly shut. Why continue to deny the obvious? Christos is going to be inside me, and I don’t just mean his cock. I mean him.

  And I want him there.

  Despite every single argument, rational thought and belief I have, I don’t want to say no to him anymore.

  At least not today.

  He nips at my lower lip. “Let’s go eat.”

  Moments later, he nestles me into the couch, tucking me into the corner. To my surprise, despite the wary, uncomfortable feeling sitting in the pit of my stomach, I let him. For the simple reason that I want to make him happy. From the second I met him I’ve been nothing but a prickly pain in the ass, and I want to show him a glimpse of the woman I can be.

  I want to show us both a glimmer of the woman I want to be.

  He sits beside me before trailing his hand down my bare thigh and over my knee, leaving a path of goose bumps in his wake. He encircles my ankle with his long fingers, drawing my foot onto his thigh. The sharp heel of my shoe is poised on his jeans, forcing my legs to part ever so slightly as my skirt rises up. I stare down at the picture we present.

  The angle of my leg. The slope of my calf. His dark fingers wrapped around my fair skin. Warmth fills low in my belly at the image, erotic and intimate. Something I’d like to capture with my camera.

  I meet his eyes.

  The green depths blaze with heat and hunger. His fingers stroke over my ankle. “Let me take care of you.”

  And with those words, I fall.

  Give in.

  Surrender.

  With my heart pounding in my ears and fear rushing through my veins, I nod.

  Relief and sheer pleasure flash over his expression. He lifts my foot and his head dips. The thick black hair like silk as it brushes along my skin.

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out.

  He presses his lips to the inside of my ankle, his tongue flickers along the bone.

  It’s exquisite and intimate. A rush of greediness shakes me.

  He lifts his head. “Thank you.”

  He slips off my shoe and repeats the same gesture with the other foot before tucking them both underneath me when he’s done.

  Desire hums inside me, making me forget all about the fight, the struggle. For this moment in time, I want to be free. Free to touch him, free to relax, to let down my guard.

  “Red or white?”

  Dazed, my muscles already loose, I stare at him, at a complete loss for what he’s talking about.

  “Wine, Juliet.” The corners of his mouth twitch as he waves the goblet in his hand.

  Least he get too comfortable, I raise one brow. “You’re pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

  He shrugs one big shoulder, not bothering to look chagrined. “Everything about you pleases me.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You must be a glutton for punishment.”

  “You’re not as scary as you’d like to be.” He leans forward, running a hand along my thigh as if he’s been doing it for years. “I see past all your defenses.”

  My throat dries up like a mirage in the middle of a desert. I lick my lips. The need to know what he sees beats in my chest. Am I brave enough? I nod. Today, I am. I prop my head into my open palm and ask, “And what do you see?”

  His hand smooths over my leg. “First, red or white?”

  I look at the delicate spread stretched out on the table before me. “Normally, I prefer red, but this seems like
a meal made for white.”

  He leans forward, picks up a bottle and uncorks it. “Red it is.” He pours the deep, smoky liquid and hands it to me. “You should always go with what you really want.”

  I take the glass with trembling hands and raise it to my lips, taking a sip. The dry flavor of pinot noir slides down my throat, warming my nervous stomach. I’ve never been wooed before, never encourage it from men, but Christos makes it work.

  He pours himself a glass and leans back on the couch, his hand never moving from my leg. He glances around my office, taking in the exposed brick and ductwork, the high ceilings that make up the loft space. “I like this, it fits you.”

  “Katherine found it. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. She might have found the space, but this office is all you.”

  I frown. Somehow irrationally irritated by his assertion. The space is all warm and cozy with rich woods, deep grays and rich cream.

  Can’t he see how cold I am? If I picked something that reflected me, I’d have gone with gunmetal industrial. “Katherine decorated.” My tone taking on the distinctive bite I reserve just for him.

  He cocks one brow. “She obviously knows you well.”

  I open my mouth to protest, then snap it shut. What am I doing? Do I really want to ruin this decadent mood over decorating? I take another sip of the wine.

  He points at a framed photograph hanging large on one of the walls. “That picture, it’s beautiful and haunting. Who’s the artist?”

  I stare at the black-and-white photo. It’s of a long stretch of deserted highway with an abandoned farmhouse on the side, storm clouds filling the vast sky.

  My heart skips a beat.

  He’s not the first person to ask the question, and I’ve never told anyone who did the piece, not even Katherine. But I want him to know.

  I take a deep breath and tell him one of my most closely held secrets. “I am.”

  His fingers tighten on my leg and there’s a moment of silence, the air stills. “You’re very talented.”

  “It was a fluke,” I say matter-of-fact. I’m not being modest. I’ve never been able to capture anything quite like it ever again, although I’ve tried countless times.

  “Maybe.” His head rests along the back of the couch and he shifts his attention to me. “Or maybe you’re just too scared of what you felt to journey back.”

  Again his own personal brand of truth hits me as if I’ve been jackknifed in the stomach. It’s the exact reason why I’ve never told anyone I took the picture. The expectation of a follow-up is far too desolate a place for me to explore.

  I lick my lips. Words fill my mouth, desperate to escape. I’ve never been a talker, never understood the value of confession. I love the safety of everything being locked up inside me. Trapped in a tight cocoon of my own making, spinning around me in layer after layer, protecting the fragile insides no one but Christos has ever suspected.

  As much as he scares me, the words tumble out anyway, at long last refusing to be contained. “Sometimes, when I need to think, I get in my car and drive. I always go somewhere remote and I always take my camera. I like photography and the unexpected things you encounter when you develop the photo.”

  His expression is intent, but he doesn’t interrupt, so I continue.

  “The storm had been about to break when I spotted the house. I pulled over and there was no one out. I still remember the whip of the wind against my hair, the smell of danger and electricity charging the air. The contrast between all that lonely isolation and the violence of the upcoming storm…” I trail off, taking a sip of the wine. Sitting in the car that dark afternoon with the storm raging around me, I’d felt alive and raw and so very alone.

  His strong, warm palm rubs, taking the chill away. “You’ve never told anyone, have you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  I pull away from the memory, shifting my gaze from the photograph to him.

  Before I get in too deep, before I start telling him all my secrets, I need to understand. I tilt my chin. “Why, after all the time we’ve known each other, when there’s been nothing but animosity between us, are you doing this now? What’s your motive?”

  A smile curves over his lips. “There’s my Juliet.”

  Shivers race through me, and I fight to keep the tremble from him. There’s the “my” again. I’m ashamed at how much I want it. Crave to make it absolute truth.

  I narrow my eyes, but I say nothing.

  He shrugs. “Has it really been animosity between us?”

  “Yes,” I state in a firm tone, refusing to acknowledge what he’s getting at.

  “Liar.” His thumb traces circles on my thigh, right over my knee. Soft and insistent, he moves higher along the inside of my leg, and my body heats at his touch. He twists, moving closer, sliding his arm around the back of the couch to surround me. “You can wish it was a thousand different emotions than what it is, Juliet.”

  I know, of course, what it is, but I can’t even think it, let alone say it. More than anything I want to hear him say it, but it terrifies me too much and I’ve already given him more than I’ve given anyone in a very long time.

  I glance away, looking out the window, staring at the skyline in the distance. Tightness fills my throat and I will myself not to break down.

  We stay like that for a long time. A thick silence permeates the air as I watch the white fluffy clouds roll slowly past the Chicago skyscrapers. The clear, brilliant blue a perfect photo background. Outside, the temperature is a mild eighty degrees with low humidity. A rare day in a city where it is often too hot or too cold.

  A strange urge to go stretch out on a blanket at Oak Street beach and let the sun warm my skin steals over me. It’s been forever since I’ve done that. On impulse, I turn to him and find him watching me with that studied gaze.

  I clear my throat. “What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?”

  Surprise flickers in his green eyes. “I kept my calendar clear. I was feeling hopeful.”

  My gaze sweeps over the food. “I know you went through a lot of trouble, but the beach isn’t far from here, and it’s beautiful outside.” My tone takes on a hesitant cadence, and a sudden shyness leaves me stammering like a sixteen-year-old asking a boy to her first turnabout dance. “Can we… Would you…like to spend the afternoon with me?”

  A hot flush fans up my neck and spills onto my cheeks.

  He leans in and kisses me. It’s hard, fast and over much too soon.

  When he pulls back, I see none of the triumph I expect to read in his face, instead the corners of his eyes crinkle as he gives me that heartbreaker’s smile. “I would love to, Juliet.”

  5

  Thirty minutes later I’m exactly where I want to be and I don’t regret my impulsive actions one bit. I’m committed now, and I want to enjoy every second with no remorse, no fear.

  I kick off my shoes and abandon them in the sand. The fine, soft grains slide over my bare toes as I wiggle. Sinking down on the blanket next to Christos, I’m surprised to see he’s discarded his shoes and socks and rolled up his jeans.

  I stare at his feet, for a man they are nice, strong-boned and masculine. It feels intimate and familiar somehow to be sitting here with him, our feet bare, sharing the light blue blanket I keep in my office for just this occasion. I don’t want to think about what’s happening or where this is going or where we’ll end up.

  All I want is to enjoy the moment and not worry.

  I raise my face to the sun, close my eyes and breathe in deep. The smell of the lake, the warm breeze, the waves gently lapping against the shore mix with the sounds of the city to create a melody. For the first time in what feels like forever, my muscles uncoil, loosen and relax.

  When I can no longer ignore the man sitting next to me, I open my eyes and stare out into the water. Without looking at him, I say, “You’re staring.”

&nbs
p; “I can’t help it.” He wraps his strong fingers around my wrist. “You’re beautiful.”

  Uncomfortable with his praise, I shake my head. “You don’t have to keep saying that.” I wave my hand in the air, encompassing the scene around us. “You’re winning.”

  Instead of rising to the bait, he shrugs. “I’m winning because you want me to. I’m telling you you’re beautiful because that’s what I think.” He gives me a wicked grin. “Haven’t you heard I have impeccable taste?”

  I had actually, but I roll my eyes instead of affirming his statement.

  Tracing a finger over the fine bones in my hand, he says, “Once you know me better, you’ll see I call it like I see it.”

  “Oh?” The day is too perfect to ruin, I lose the steam to argue. “So what would you change about me in this moment?”

  His lips quirk and he gives me a long, slow once-over that has my toes curling in the sand. “Right now just one thing.”

  Most men would give a “not a thing” line that would be as transparent as cellophane, but not Christos. A tiny grain of what feels a lot like trust worms its way into my heart.

  He trails a hand up my bare arm and touches the band holding my dark-blonde hair back. “I like your hair down better.”

  He slips it out of the tight, sleek ponytail before I can answer.

  The luxurious sensation of strands slipping free of their binding to fall loose and free around my shoulders has shivers tingling the length of my spine.

  Strong fingers tangle in my hair as he combs through the locks. I tilt my head back, close my eyes to the bright sun, and let him do what he wants.

  How long has it been since I’ve been touched like this? With care?

  While I know he wants me—the sexual tension between us grows by the second—his touch, curiously, holds no expectation. “Do you remember the Solutions Inc. presentation?”

  “Of course.” I’d had to sit in an enclosed room with him for over an hour, with a bunch of high-powered professionals in black suits. We’d been positioned across from each other and my attention kept drifting off the men responsible for the decision-making and onto the man across from me.

  That had been one job I hadn’t wondered why I lost.