Pride & Surrender

by Jennifer Dawson

  Right out on my front stairs, we go at each other as if we were victims of starvation who’d been presented with a feast. Hot, primal noises escape our throats to mingle in the air as we fight our way up the steps while refusing to break contact.

  I arch into him, and when my skirt gets in the way of what I want most, I beat my fists on his chest. He wraps his arms around me, so tight I can’t breathe, as he lifts me up another step, our mouths still frantic.

  Demanding. Consuming.

  I can’t stop.

  We make it to the landing. I have no conscious idea of how he manages to unlock my door and push me inside, but he does.

  My foyer swings around me as he presses me up against the first available wall. Buttons fly everywhere as he rips my blouse like it’s a piece of flimsy paper. My fingers find the buckle of his belt and I fumble on the clasp, my hands shaking with need. I finally get it undone and slide down the zipper as he yanks my skirt up over my hips. When I reach for his cock, he pushes my hand away, instead shifting his knees to rock his erection between my legs. My cunt spasms and I grip his shoulders for support.

  All the while we never break the kiss.

  We groan into each other’s mouth at the contact.

  At the friction.

  My fantasies don’t come close to the passion between us.

  The raw hunger.

  The pounding desire.

  The brutal lust.

  Hands fly. Bodies strain and twist. Mouths and tongues meet and twine. Fuse together and refuse to part.

  He hooks my knee on his hip and fumbles into his pocket.

  The crinkle of foil sounds on the air as he rips open the condom. I drop my knee, twisting to move out of his way. His knuckles brush over my wet panties, and I jerk as the pleasure spikes.

  Yes. Jesus, his touch. It’s so good. So right. I want more. Now.

  I’d thought I’d been wild with lust before, but something breaks inside me and I go mad. I try to climb up him. In him. Passion consuming me with a heady haze so I forget everything.

  I forget to be scared, to be nervous.

  Forget to think about how I look or if my stomach rolls.

  I forget to hold back.

  Everything spirals out of control until we are almost fighting each other in an effort to get closer. I yank at his shirt. Our mouths cease contact for a fraction of a second as he helps me pull it off before his lips are back on mine.

  He flicks open the front clasp of my bra, ripping away the cups to free me. His thumb brushes over my nipple for one second before he crushes his chest against them so my breasts flatten against his solid strength. I hiss at the contact. My nipples scrape along the fine hairs.

  I scratch his back with my nails.

  He tears my panties clear from my body.

  I reach between us and wrap my fingers around his cock that actually seems to swell even harder beneath my touch. I guide him to the wet, slippery folds and he slams into me. With the shock of his entry, I cry out, the sound lost in my throat.

  The orgasm rips through me as my muscles contract around him, eliciting a growl.

  He pulls out and plunges back in.

  Powerful waves of pleasure storm through me as he pounds into my body.

  He doesn’t let up.

  He drives into me harder and harder. Faster and faster. Over and over. Allowing me no recovery from the orgasm still rocking through me. The pulsing contractions never stop, only coil tighter until I come again, convulsing so hard around his cock it’s almost painful.

  My second climax triggers his own. The force of it slams through me as if I’m connected to him on some visceral level. My mouth catches his shout of release and he rides me until he’s deeper inside me than anyone has ever been before.

  Strangely, I’m reminded of the storm in the photograph in my office. That whipping of wind, the pelting of rain, the release of all that thunder and lightning in the sky, and I wish there were a way to capture this feeling, but how can I?

  It’s indescribable and absolutely beautiful in its violence.

  We slump against each other. He holds me up, bracing me against the wall as our breathing calms and the kiss gentles.

  He’s given me what I’d wanted, what I’d asked for.

  He’s fucked me. Possessed me. Filled me up.

  And his mouth never left mine.

  7

  The kiss transforms from hot and frantic to slow and erotic. A drugging melding that almost has a dreamlike quality. Strong fingers stroke my hair, my temples, cup the back of my head while he has his way with my mouth.

  I surrender. Completely. Relaxing into him in a way I never have with another person. Almost limp, my arms drape over his shoulders, his cock inside me, our bodies locked together.

  Time stands still. It could have been a single minute or hours later, but we finally come up for air. He brushes a lock of hair from my cheek and his eyes meet mine. “I knew I was in trouble that first time we kissed in the bathroom.”

  A heated flush climbs up my neck and over my face. In light of what happened between us, I have no idea why but shyness overtakes me all the same.

  He drags a finger over my cheek, looking slightly amused. “I meant what I said, kissing you is better than sex.”

  I have no idea what to say, my emotions lodge in my throat, strangling me. Both fighting to get out and fighting to remain tucked safely inside. Once again I blush like a schoolgirl.

  “That was, until now.” As if to demonstrate, he licks my bottom lip and whispers, “I didn’t mean for this to happen. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

  “W-what—” I clear my throat of all its breathless hoarseness. “What was it supposed to be like?” I want to look away, but I force myself to stare into his green eyes as though somehow that will ensure I’ll be told the truth.

  He smiles. Grins actually, all white flashing teeth and boyish charm, and my heart just melts into a big puddle of goo.

  I can’t help myself. Deep down where I don’t want anyone to look, I’m soft.

  His thumb strokes over my lower lip and I don’t need a mirror to know it’s swollen and red. “I’d promised myself I’d go slow. Seduce you. Take my time. Give you what you deserved.”

  What I deserved? How is that possible? It had been earth-shattering. But I don’t say any of this. Instead I remain mute, blinking at him like a deer in the headlights while I try to figure out a way to get the use of my limbs back.

  “I wanted to lay you out on the bed and make you crave me as much as I crave you.”

  Is he crazy? How can I crave him any more than I already do?

  His palms run down my arms and over my hips before resting on my legs. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

  Reality snaps back and I stiffen. Vehement in my rejection of that idea, I shake my head.

  “Yes, Juliet.”

  It’s odd—the way he speaks—he doesn’t raise his voice or turn arrogant or smug. Instead, his tone is a matter-of-fact obey me.

  And somehow, I want to listen.

  I let him lift me off the floor, and the next thing I know, my ankles are locked at his waist.

  I mutter, “If you get a hernia, it’s your own fault.”

  “Duly noted,” he says with a chuckle. “Where’s your bedroom?”

  “Upstairs, second door on the right.”

  He carries me, bounding up the stairs as though I weigh nothing.

  When we get to the bedroom, he lays me on top of my crimson comforter like I’m fine, breakable china. As if I’m his most precious, most cherished possession.

  He kisses me, soft and sweet, before sitting on the edge of the bed. “I knew it.”

  Confused, I ask, “Knew what?”

  “That behind the ice queen lurked a woman whose bedroom looked like this.” He sweeps a hand over the decadent gothic headboard with its intricate iron scrolls, the deep red velvet of my comforter, the dark-chocolate-covered walls with an accent wall that matches my bed.
It’s a cave. My sanctuary. A place that holds all of my most secret desires. One very few people ever enter.

  Of course Christos looks exactly right here—all dark and sensual, a sensory delight. Befitting since he is my most secret desire.

  He points at a photo. A black-and-white garden filled to overflowing with flowers as far as the eye can see. Only one flower is in color, a close-up of a single, blood-red rose open in full bloom. Each delicate petal velvet-soft, touched with morning dew. It’s one of my favorites, and it takes up a huge expanse of one wall.

  Indulgent, maybe, but here I can allow myself to be.

  He smooths his hand down my bare stomach. “Another of yours, I see.”

  Feeling exposed and vulnerable, I discretely shift to cover my bare breasts with the tattered shreds of my blouse. He catches my wrists and holds them tight. “No. Don’t do that. I want to see you.”

  He lets me go and runs his fingers over the silk, pushing the fabric away to reveal my naked body. I try my best not to think about how I look, compare myself to those sure-to-be twenty-somethings in his past. I should be proud—I look like a real woman—but that’s the problem, I am still a woman.

  I worry about the sag of my breasts, the curve of my belly, the spread of my hips, and like most women, conclude that the tautness of youth is more desirable. My head rejects the notion as absurd and embraces all the feminist war cries, but in my heart, I worry.

  Despite my fears, I don’t fidget as his gaze sweeps over my thirty-five-year-old body. I care what he thinks. I see how women look at him and know he has his pick. Part of me is terrified, part of me expectant.

  Now that I’ve given him what he wanted, what if he no longer picks me?

  He traces the lines of my collarbones, down between the swells of my breasts, my nipples beading despite my trepidation. A surprised giggle escapes my throat when he circles my bellybutton.

  His eyes met mine. “Ticklish?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “You are beautiful, Juliet.” He shifts, stretching out next to me.

  That broad, bare chest beckons. My fingers twitch and tighten into fists.

  I’m afraid to touch him. Afraid of what it will mean, of what he’ll think if I do.

  Missing nothing, he takes my clenched hands and pries them open, revealing the half-moon crescents I’d made in my palm. He leans down and kisses each one. My heart skips a beat as the strands of his hair shift over the sensitive skin of my inner wrist.

  He lifts his head and peers at me. Heat and desire glimmering in his clear green eyes. “My heart stops just looking at you.”

  I flush all the way down to my toes and stammer. “I’d never have taken you for a romantic.”

  “I’m Greek,” he says with a smile, as though that explains everything. “And it’s the truth.” He brushes his lips against my mouth. “I’m crazy for you, Juliet.” Another brush. “Mad with desire.” His tongue licks. “Hot with lust.” He meets my eyes. “Completely devoted.”

  I search his expression, frantic in my almost desperate hope to find the subterfuge, to spot the deception—and find nothing but acceptance. Fear pricks at my skin, I want so badly to believe him, and I’m so sure I’ll be wrong.

  “Tell me, why do you have such a hard time believing?” He strokes my jaw.

  My throat closes over and I slam my lids shut. I don’t want to reveal any more.

  He grasps my chin, his grip strong and sure. “I know it’s hard for you, but I need you to let me in.”

  “Why?” I ask in a strangled whisper.

  “If you don’t, how can I prove that you can trust me?” He releases my chin, caresses the line of my jaw and down the cords of my neck until I’m no longer squeezing my eyes. “Open up, Juliet.”

  My lashes flutter open, and he gives me the most brilliant smile. “It’s one of life’s little ironies.”

  Mesmerized, I drink in the lines of his face, his straight nose and full lips, those strong features combining to make him so captivating. As if he’s been designed with me in mind—he possesses all my favorite traits, appeals to all my tastes and senses. “What’s that?”

  “You have to take the leap of faith in order to get the proof. I can’t prove I won’t hurt you unless you allow yourself to be in the position to be hurt. Unless you let me in, there’s no way to trust I won’t leave.” He trails a path over my belly, and I’m thankful the light from the day has dulled to a muted gray.

  He’s right of course, but I don’t want to admit it. No longer in danger of bursting into tears at the first syllable, I say, “I have faith.”

  One dark brow rises up his forehead. “Why do I have a bad feeling?”

  I shrug. He won’t like it, but in this I can tell the truth.

  “What do you have faith in, my lovely Juliet?”

  “I have faith that you’ll get bored and leave.”

  Like a sudden summer thunderstorm, his face clouds over. He pounces. Rolling over on top of me and straddling me in a way that makes my breath come fast. Before I can blink, he manacles my wrists above my head and hovers over with me with such menace all I can do is melt under him.

  The response shocks me. I’m not that type of woman, but with his legs squeezing me tight, his fingers like a vise grip, I’m ashamed at how it thrills me. Desire zings along my nerve endings as heat pools between my thighs.

  Way deep down, I can admit this was one of the things I love about him. This ability of his to be equally gentle, romantic and ruthless in equal measure.

  He puts his face close to mine so we are mere inches apart. “You know, you could be the one to leave.”

  I scoff. The sound escaping before I can bite it back.

  “You don’t think so?”

  The idea is absurd. Can’t he see I have no power to resist him? But instead of revealing this, I ask a question of my own. “Why would I fight this hard?”

  “Exactly, Juliet.” And then his mouth claims mine.

  He strips me of my defenses as he kisses me with that possession I love and desire.

  He’s mine.

  Mine, mine, mine.

  My heart chants the words like the beating of some ancient drum.

  I sink my fingers into his hair, in this, I can surrender. Weeks ago, this too would have been impossible, but now he’s been inside me, and my body welcomes him, craves him.

  His lips sweep down the line of my jaw, to the valley of my throat, and I push all the questions and fears niggling around the edges of my mind away.

  In this moment, I choose him. In this minute, I’ll savor him.

  Lids drifting closed, I moan when his teeth scrape over the pulse pounding in my throat. He soothes the spot with his tongue, then seals it with his lips before moving to my collarbone.

  I let my fingers wander, stroking over his neck and shoulders, marveling when the muscles bunch beneath my touch. I trace a path over his biceps, across his chest. Thumb brushing over his flat, brown nipple. He rewards me with a harsh hiss of breath followed by a low growl so deep it vibrates the cords of my throat.

  “Juliet,” he says my name like a reverent prayer. “My Juliet.”

  The sound of his desire, his longing for me, so much like my own desperation, it resonates deep inside me. As his mouth brushes over the curve of my breast, sweeping over the heated skin, I remember what he’d said to me in the bathroom—We match.

  Two halves of the same whole, that’s how it feels. His touch, his whispered voice, the care, the look in his eyes, the fast beat of his heart under my palm forces the first pieces of belief to lock into place. Hope blooms inside me like the blood-red rose in the picture I took, exposing the soft vulnerable center I’ve always kept protected.

  The fear rushes in. I don’t want it. Don’t welcome it. It no longer feels like protection but a barrier.

  But I can’t stop it any more than I can stop any force of nature.

  As though sensing the change, he lifts his head and his gaze meets mine. I expe
ct frustration to shine there, but that isn’t what I see at all. Instead I see the soft glow of understanding. He expels a breath of air, shifting up my body to stroke a long finger over the line of my jaw. “It’s all right, Juliet.”

  I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches, and let the tightness in my throat ease before I speak. “You’re too good to be true.”

  “No, Juliet, I’m not. I’m flawed, just like you.”

  “But…” To my horror my chin quivers.

  “But nothing.” He kisses me, soft and tender and heartbreaking. “I’ll tell you what, tomorrow night my family is having a birthday party for my niece. Come with me, my mom and sisters will be happy to give you a list of my shortcomings.”

  I shake my head. No, that’s too much, way too much. Too fast, too soon. “No, I can’t intrude.”

  “Are you kidding? They’ll be thrilled.” Amusement twinkles in his eyes. “I suspect they’re beginning to think I’m gay.”

  The idea is so preposterous, so crazy and absurd, I laugh, and it edges the fear back where it belongs. “Why on earth would they think that?”

  The twinkle fades and his expression turns serious. “Because I’m forty-one and rarely bring women home.”

  “Oh.” My pulse flutters and my belly dips. “And you want to bring me?”

  “Yes, Juliet.” He kisses me again, his fingers playing over the rapid beat in my throat. “Only you.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I want you in my life, a part of it, sharing it with me.” He smiles. “I’m planning on keeping you, it doesn’t matter if you believe, I have enough faith for the two of us.”

  My heart gallops in my chest like a thoroughbred.

  His grip tightens on my neck, and the sensation makes my nipples pull into tight buds. “You like that. My keeping you. Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Desire darkens his eyes to evergreen. “You like my hand on your neck.”

  I swallow hard, feeling his fingers there. “Yes.”