Expecting Surrender (Dominion Trust Book 3)

by Trent Evans

  “Good girl,” he murmured, squeezing her wrist.

  Kirsten smiled when she realized it.

  She’d never let go of her poor, crumpled robe.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Do you think she’ll agree to it?”

  “I think so. Things have been… really good.” Keihl twirled his racket on a finger, eliciting raised eyebrows from his soon to be opponent.

  Tom opened the gate to the tennis courts. Though Keihl’s comment earlier that month about meeting at a neutral place was in jest, it was apparent his friend had taken him literally indeed.

  The courts, a group of four of them, were situated in the middle of what appeared to be a massive business park. Nondescript office buildings, none of which were more than two stories tall, surrounded a central, park-like open space. Within this park, nestled in a stand of Douglas fir and red cedar was the tennis court Keihl found himself standing on.

  Tennis courts were never as immaculate as these were, the lines so bright and stark, Keihl wondered if they were ever even used. This, combined with their location, seemed a little, well, odd.

  The day’s oddness would prove to be just getting started.

  “Is Sharon coming?”

  “She’ll be along,” Tom said, seating himself on one of two wooden benches that hugged both sidelines of each court. The benches looked positively pristine. No public court this.

  He would actually be okay if Sharon wasn’t coming after all. Some pure unadulterated competition would make for a nice change of pace. Keihl was fairly certain he was about to lay down an ass whooping on the old man.

  There wasn’t a single cloud in the clear, azure sky. The morning was warm, and with the sun high and strong, the day looked set to get a lot warmer, and fast. A light breeze whispered through the courts, the surrounding trees of the park sounding a muted hissing as the wind passed through their branches.

  “Well, this won’t really be a fair fight, will it Tom?”

  “What’s that?”

  Keihl pointed at him with his racket. “Kinda hard to play tennis without one of these isn’t it?”

  Tom jerked his head toward the gate. “Told you she’d be along.”

  Sharon pushed her way through the opening, a positively massive black racket bag slung across her shoulders. The strap from the bag dove between her high breasts, the dark nipples prominent under what looked to be a paper thin white cotton blouse. She looked up at the two men as she pulled the gate closed behind her, the bag clanging against the chain-links of the fencing. She hurried over to the benches, her face flushed a fetching pink.

  “Just lay them down over here,” Tom said, pointing at the bench next to him. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry, Sir.” She winced slightly as she looked at the impassive face of her husband. “I got stuck on the Av.”

  “Yes, well we’ll deal with that later,” Tom said, glancing at Keihl. “First, Keihl gets his teeth kicked in.”

  Sharon set the bag down on the bench, and stood in front of her husband, expectantly. She clasped her hands behind her back, her chin raised, standing at what Keihl swore looked like a military parade rest. Her blonde plaits, tied into two loose braids, moved with the breeze.

  Keihl cleared his throat. “Warm-up?”

  “Sure.” Tom reached into the mammoth bag and retrieving two bright yellow balls. He laid them on Keihl’s outstretched racket, then stood, addressing his wife.

  “You need to warm up too, girl. Get to it.”

  “Yes, Sir.” She grabbed the waistband of the black striped white warm-ups that hugged her hips. Before Keihl could say anything, she’d skinned the pants down to her ankles, using her husband’s shoulder to balance herself as she extricated her tennis shoes from the twist of fabric.

  Keihl was amused to see that, rather than something scandalous, she wore a brief, but tasteful white skirt. The color set off the smooth, tanned legs, and not for the first time, Keihl smiled at the clean, lithe beauty of the woman. How she’d had three kids, and still looked as great as she did, he’d never know.

  “Off you go,” Tom said, smacking Sharon on the ass.

  She jumped, then took off on a jog, her blonde plaits bouncing in time with her skirt. Keihl and Tom watched her a moment as she circled the perimeter of the court, running along the inside of the fence. Her stride was that of a natural athlete, graceful and confident.

  “She’s gonna boil in those long sleeves, Tom.”

  Keihl didn’t really know if her wardrobe was dictated to her by her husband, but Tom certainly didn’t offer any denials.

  Tom opened the huge black bag that contained his numerous rackets, fishing one out and zipping the bag up.

  “She won’t be wearing it long.” He winked as he stretched his shoulders with the racket across his back. Keihl limbered up too, stretching his thighs as Tom’s beautiful wife jogged laps around the court.

  “Faster,” Tom urged as the men walked to their respective baselines. Sharon picked up the pace, speeding to a full run around the court. Her cheeks were becoming rosy as her exertions increased. Tom appeared wholly unconcerned with it, however.

  “Let’s hit a few,” Tom said. His gaze followed the bouncing rump of his wife. “You can stop now. You know the drill.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said, breathlessly. She dropped to a knee at one end of the net, crouched over with her hands flat on the court surface.

  Keihl’s eyebrow quirked. “A ball girl?”

  “Better her than me, don’t ya think?”

  “Faster than you, that’s for sure.”

  “Better scenery, too. Fringe benefits of owning a slave.” Tom’s grin was as bright as the late morning sun.

  * * *

  Tom cracked a topspin forehand along the line, making Keihl scramble to run it down.

  Keihl returned the ball with a backhand, the impact of the shot too close to the base of the racket’s handle, sending a harsh vibration through his hands.

  “Got it,” Tom grunted, dropping another forehand right on the baseline. Keihl gave chase, but couldn’t put his racket on it.

  The two men waited; Tom at the baseline, his expectant, appreciative gaze on the nubile form of his wife running across the court. Keihl wanted not to look, but he was after all, a man.

  You can’t very well have a beautiful woman scampering across the court and not expect him to look.

  He wondered if Kirsten would offer the same sanguine assessment of his motivations.

  Sharon found the ball, scooping it up and trotting back to her waiting husband. He took it, dismissing her with a pat to the briefest of brief white skirts Keihl had ever seen. It covered about as much of her as a small towel wrapped around her hips.

  Okay, maybe not even that much.

  The crack of Tom’s racket snapped him back to the game. Fortunately for Keihl, the serve was errant, catching the tape at the top of the net. He watched Sharon position herself on one knee, her hands on the ground before her, just as the ball boys and girls did at tennis tournaments on TV.

  Though this particular ball girl would have caused quite a stir at the All England Tennis Club or Flushing Meadows!

  The sun beat down hotter as the match went on longer. After each point, the bewitching sight of Sharon chasing down yet another yellow ball made Keihl forget why he was out there. She’d flash him a quick smile now and then, the sweat darkening the cotton of her shirt, a tiny bright pool of it gathering above her upper lip.

  “Switch over on the next game,” Tom said, cracking yet another serve Keihl couldn’t even get a racket on.

  “You’re a fucking ringer, is that it?”

  “Oh only if we were betting, my friend.” Tom grinned at him, his teeth bright, eyes sparkling. He wiped sweat from his forehead, bouncing the ball at his feet. “We could change that you know.”

  “Oh now you float that idea,” Keihl said, snagging Tom’s weaker second serve and blistering a backhand into the opposite corner. For once, the fle
et of foot doctor couldn’t return it.

  Sharon leaped up, bounding down the sideline, her skirt flying in the breeze, revealing toned, tanned buttocks, bisected by a tiny thong.

  Interesting tennis attire.

  “I’ll make you a bet then.” Tom bounced the ball on his racket, hand on his hip. “You win, I get you a meeting with Conall.”

  “Already met him, asshole.”

  Keihl shook his head, trying to suppress the questions already at his lips. Of course he wanted to know what the hell the Dominion Trust was. He always believed knowing was better than not knowing — especially when it came to those with power.

  And he suspected the Dominion Trust as well acquainted with power.

  “You met him, sure. But this is different, my friend.” Tom bounced the ball again, readying to serve once more. Sharon knelt, as if a setter might, awaiting the crack of the gun, the exhortation of its master to find the prize shot from the sky.

  Great, Keihl. Comparing the woman to a fucking dog.

  “Conall’s one of the most powerful members of the Trust on the planet. Believe me, you want a meeting with him.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me on that, Keihl. You want to.”

  “And if I lose? What do I give up?”

  Tom rocketed a serve into the net, cursing as he dug a second yellow ball from his pocket, his gaze following the bouncing rump of Sharon as she rushed out to grab the errant shot.

  “You spend the weekend with Sharon and I — and we show you what I know you’re dying to see.”

  Tom’s second serve loped over, and Keihl crushed it, sending it right at Tom’s feet, jamming him, the ball clanging off the neck of his racket. He looked at Keihl, his brow raised.

  “Something I said?”

  “Just serve the ball, dickhead. Thirty, Love.”

  They went back and forth for a few minutes, both of them thinking on it, and what hung in the air between them. Both of them wanted something here, but Keihl couldn’t get a handle on his friend’s motivation, on the whys of things.

  You know what to do here, Keihl. Yet you aren’t doing it. Why?

  “Let’s take a break, my man.” Tom trotted up to the net, then looked over at his still kneeling wife. He gave her a jerk of his head. “Go get some shade, girl.”

  She gave him a small smile, then rose to give him a quick kiss before walking toward the corner on Tom’s side of the net. Dark green fabric was interwoven through the chain link fence at either end of the courts, wrapping partially around each side at the corners. This cast shadows across the court at one corner, and it was here they watched Sharon stop.

  Tom grinned, waving him over with the racket. “I think she’s on to something. Come on.”

  “I’ll get some water. Hang on.”

  He grabbed two bottles from his bag, slanting a glance toward the corner as he zipped it up. Sharon was kneeling, her back to the fence.

  Oh shit, here we go.

  Keihl wondered how the fuck he was going to hide his hard-on in his shorts.

  He pressed one of the bottles into Tom’s hand, his friend standing over his wife. She peered up at him, her hands on her thighs. Keihl was struck by the pose, her knees together, her tennis shoes neatly tucked under her buttocks, her braids blowing in the breeze as her blue eyes watched her husband.

  “You’re soaked,” Tom said, running a finger along the low neckline of her shirt, the cotton sticking to her sweaty skin. Her nipples were hard points, clearly delineated by the wet fabric. Keihl noted that she hadn’t worn a bra, shocked at how sanguine he was at the sight, arousing though it was. Considering what he’d seen this week, such things were becoming less and less surprising to him.

  You need to go home, Keihl.

  “Take off that shirt, girl. You look like a contestant in a wet t-shirt contest.”

  The flush at her cheeks deepened and she lowered her eyes, her hands grasping the hem of her shirt.

  “Wait!” Keihl stepped forward, looking to either side. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking off my shirt, silly.” She beamed at Keihl, pulling the wet clothing up, her heavy breasts bouncing as they dropped from the clutch of the fabric.

  Tom glanced back over his shoulder. “It’s okay, Keihl.”

  “Dude, we’re in public. There are fucking buildings all around this place.”

  “Not really public, actually.”

  “The hell it—”

  Keihl looked around, then back at Tom, trying desperately not to look at his friend’s bare breasted wife kneeling three feet away. “The... Trust?”

  Tom nodded, giving him a wink again.

  “Someone — someone could walk up though.”

  “Someone won’t.” Tom turned back to his wife. “Reach up and grab the fence, girl. Higher. Stretch. There you go.”

  Her limbs raised skyward, fingers entwined in the steel chain links, the long muscles of her arms leading down to the generous breasts, the bright pink nipples standing up, her blush darkening her chest and throat. She dropped her head, one braid falling down over her breast. Tom knelt, flicking it away.

  “You could’ve run faster today, don’t you think?”

  “I ran as fast as I could.”

  She raised her eyes, looking at her husband through long lashes.

  “Tell me the truth,” Tom said, grasping one of her nipples, stroking the very tip with the pad of his thumb.

  “I-I could’ve run faster.”

  She sighed, the movement of her breasts making Keihl’s cock begin to harden.

  Stop, Keihl. Stop now.

  “See?” Tom looked back at him, a mock frown on his face. “She’s being lazy today.”

  “Tom, it’s like eighty degrees out here. Give her a break.”

  “She knows better though.” He raised her chin with a hand, his thumb stroking her jaw. “What do you think should be done about this, Sharon?”

  “I don’t know.” She swallowed. “Sir.”

  Tom tilted his head. “She knows all right.”

  He stared at his wife a moment, then slapped her breast. She drew a sharp breath. Then he slapped the other one, sending both breasts swaying.

  “She wanted to get them done after the third child,” Tom murmured, slapping her other breast again. “I told her no way. Breast implants don’t have the movement I like.”

  Jesus Christ.

  But what was he protesting? The fact that Tom was slapping his wife’s tits around in broad daylight? Or was it the fact that Keihl’s cock was a hard as a steel bar at the sight of it?

  Tom slapped her right breast, harder, and Sharon yelped, a dark blush deepening across its slope. Her nipples looked painfully hard now.

  This was wrong, somehow, but Keihl couldn’t isolate why. He took a step backward.

  “When I get her home, I think I’ll flog them for her. She screams when the cords hit those nipples, but her cunt drips afterward.”

  Tom smacked her left breast from the underside, the heavy globe bounding upward. Sharon closed her eyes, a tear tracking down her cheek.

  Go, Keihl. Go now.

  Keihl watched Sharon as she knelt there, Tom punishing her breasts, her nostrils flared, a moan escaping her tight lips as her husband sent her breasts swinging under his blows.

  Now Keihl saw Kirsten kneeling there, looking up at him, her dark eyes wide with hurt and lust, her belly hugely swollen, milk leaking from her nipples, a fine white spray as his hand struck their vulnerable curves.

  No, Keihl. NO.

  He couldn’t do this, no matter how turned on he was, no matter how much the animal inside him wanted it. All he could think about was her, and what he needed to do, what she needed from him. Yes, it had to be this way. This was the right way.

  The Game would have to end.

  “Keihl. Keihl, you okay?” Tom was standing once more, wiping off the handle of his racket with a white towel, his brows raised. “Where are you going?
We haven’t even finished the first set.”

  Sharon, still holding the fence, peered at him from behind her husband, concern in her eyes, even as tears shone on her cheeks. Her breasts were flushed a deep mottled red, a distinct pattern of hand prints just visible on her inflamed skin.

  “I can’t do this, Tom. Any of it. I need to be with her. She needs me to be with her.” Keihl picked up his bag, shoving the racket in and zipping it closed with shaking hands. “I’m sorry.”

  Tom just watched him though, not saying anything, a bemused slant to his mouth.

  Keihl opened the gate, taking one last look across the court. Incredibly, Sharon stood, clutching herself to Tom’s side, watching Keihl go, her naked, swollen breasts pressed to Tom’s shirt as he stroked her hair.

  Tom raised a hand, warmth, even understanding, in his eyes, as he called out to Keihl.

  “Make her yours. We’ll be here when you’re ready for this, ready to talk. Me, Sharon, the Trust, all of it. We’ll be here. Don’t be afraid.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the sea of expectant humanity at the security cordon, Keihl waited for her. She didn’t know he’d come to meet her. He liked it that way, for it gave him a chance to watch her. The people around him pressed forward as the steady stream of passengers began rounding the corner, coming into view of their waiting loved ones. Keihl watched their tired faces, the relieved eyes, the matted, tousled hair from snoozes rudely interrupted by the jar and bounce of touchdown. In every direction the people moved, seeking out their families. A young soldier in the mottled tans and greens of his desert BDUs, strong jaw shadowed with stubble, stopped, searching the crowd, grinning as his pregnant wife rushed forward to embrace him. The rapid-fire, excited cadence of the family in front of him erupted as they hugged a tall teenager sporting a shock of shaggy black hair, his mother and father peppering the boy with questions in Mandarin.

  Then he saw Kirsten.

  She stood tall in her heels, her striking dark hair pulled up with the sticks she knew he loved. Perhaps she suspected he might meet her?