Surrender (Harris Brothers Book 4)

by Amy Daws

  Thankfully, the three of them begin talking soccer, so I can concentrate on breathing normally. This is why I’ve been avoiding Gareth. Because sex changes things. Because now I can’t look at him like a normal guy. Now he looks…different.

  I steal another glance at him, trying to figure out what it is about him that’s so sexy. Other than the whole chiselled abs thing because, seriously, how are those even real?

  He’s not classically handsome by any means. He’s not even adorable like Hobo. And he’s definitely the complete opposite of Callum’s privileged prep school boy appearance. Looking at Gareth’s features individually, he’s extremely flawed. He has a bump on the ridge of his nose; his teeth are slightly imperfect; and the scruff on his jaw is a patchy mess. Honestly, he’s what I’d call rogue.

  But then there’s the dark smattering of hair on his chest. And the deep lines of his hips that disappear into his joggers. And the way he carries himself is something I can’t help but notice. It’s confident without being cocky. Couple that with his thick dark hair and he’s like a delicious, tall, dark, and handsome bad boy dessert that’s the perfect blend of crunchy and creamy. A real-life glistening gladiator.

  “So, has Sloan helped you guys out?” he asks, directing his smouldering hazel eyes at me.

  “Definitely!” Hobo replies jovially.

  “She has some cool ideas,” Brandi states a bit more muted.

  “That she does,” Gareth concedes and smiles knowingly at me. Have his lashes always been that long?

  “I have a suit for you,” I bark out, suddenly desperate to give it to him now and not have to go back to his house. The sparks. The tension. The attraction. It’s all still there, and if we go back to his house and he smiles at me like that with those naughty eyes, I know what will happen.

  “Brilliant,” he replies and begins moving down the hall toward the back of the house. “Bring it by when you’re done here.”

  “You can just take it now,” I say to his retreating frame. “It’s just in my car…Where are you going?”

  “I’m on a run.” He hooks his thumb toward the sliding glass door. “Hobo and I have a hiking trail between our properties.”

  “It’s nicer than jogging out on the roads where the nosey buggers all try to take pictures,” Hobo adds. “Although, they don’t give a shit about me. It’s Mr. Award Winner that they care about these days.”

  “Award winner?” I ask, swerving curious eyes at Gareth.

  He pauses in the hallway and grips his neck with a sheepish grimace. “It’s nothing. I’ll see you soon, Sloan.”

  Anxiety squeezes my insides. He looks way too good for me to be alone with. “Maybe I can just leave the suit here and you can pick it up later?”

  “I guarantee I’ll beat you home and have time for a shower.” He winks and takes off like a shot out the back door.

  My gaze stares wistfully at his back muscles, sliding and shifting beneath his skin as he hustles down the deck staircase and runs toward the rolling hills.

  Why did he have to mention a shower? What am I supposed to do with that information? Was that an invitation or something? Oh my God, I’m so out of practice.

  And so screwed.

  A throat clearing beside me has my head snapping back to Hobo and Brandi. “So, do you have any other questions?”

  It’s about thirty minutes later when I pull onto Gareth’s property. I may have parked on the gravel road and done some deep breathing exercises I learned in yoga. Not that it helped. Regardless, my palms needed time to dry off before I could grip the wheel safely.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been back to Gareth’s home, and I can’t help but gawk longingly at it as I drive down the gravel lane. I’ve always marvelled over how modern it is. Most homes around here are old period estates like Hobo’s or Callum’s.

  Gareth’s estate is a beautiful piece of art. Clearly some architect’s passion project nestled perfectly in the lush, green countryside. A perfect snow globe in the oasis of nature. The inside is as stunning as the outside. It’s richly styled with lots of comfortable furniture. Fun, funky accent pieces. And just enough unique tchotchkes to make it feel like it’s not simply ripped out of a catalogue.

  I asked Gareth once if he built it himself and remember feeling a smidge disappointed when he said he didn’t. But he said as soon as he laid eyes on the property, he had to have it. He said it was important for his home to be completely different from where he grew up.

  I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but I didn’t get the impression he wanted to share. I’m always acutely aware of when to push for more information and when to stop asking. My mom used to joke that I was an empath because I can sense a person’s mood and adapt myself until they feel comfortable. It’s not a skill I’ve ever honed. It’s just what comes naturally. I enjoy keeping the peace. Peace is good. Peace is calm. Everyone loves peace. Myself included.

  It also means that I tend to avoid conflict, which is why it seemed easier to avoid Gareth for so long. But with how our last couple of interactions have been, I’m hopeful we can resume the peaceful existence we once had.

  Gareth is standing on the front step of his house, waiting for me as I park. He’s dressed in a dark green sweater, his strong hands jammed into the pockets of his faded jeans. His scuffed leather Oxfords tie in perfectly. I bought everything on his body right now, and something about that makes my chest purr with pride.

  That and I love Gareth’s style.

  Yes, I realise I’m the one who selects all his clothes. But I have meetings with all of my clients to figure out their style before I purchase a single item for them. Gareth gravitates toward classic, masculine, and understated luxury. You wouldn’t know he’s wearing thousand dollar shoes unless you knew high-end clothing. There’s a beauty to that because he can go for a walk in a park or sit down in his agent’s office and always fit right in.

  Callum only wore a few of the things I purchased for him. He always mixed and matched my things with his own selections. It annoyed me because he liked to think his style was superior to mine. The first night we met, he smirked down his nose at my Target dress.

  When we moved to Manchester, he started asking me why I couldn’t dress like so-and-so’s wife. If it wasn’t for Sophia, I wouldn’t have lasted a month with him.

  “You came.” Gareth’s deep voice vibrates in a place between my thighs as I nearly trip while climbing the stairs toward him.

  “You pretty much forced me,” I reply, tossing his suit over my shoulder and trying to stop the blush that rushes through me as our eyes connect.

  “Hardly,” he replies with an unamused look. “You look well, Sloan.”

  “Um, thanks.” I tug at my sleeve, wondering why this feels like a freaking date all the sudden. “Here’s your suit.”

  I hold it out to him. His eyes narrow conspiratorially for a brief moment before he smiles. “Why don’t you come in?”

  I look up at the sky and pray for strength. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Gareth.”

  He chuckles half-heartedly. “Why? Do you think something’s going to happen? You can’t trust yourself around me? Is that it?”

  The challenging twinkle in his eyes has me squinting my gaze at him. “I can trust myself just fine.” It’s my libido I’m not so sure about.

  “Come on, Sloan. I’ve missed you,” he goads, reaching out and taking the garment bag from my hand. “Get your arse in here and let’s catch up.”

  Exhaling heavily, I follow him through the foyer. My eyes immediately land on the large staircase that leads up to his room. Flashes of that night pummel me like a ton of bricks.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, snapping my attention to him standing beside me. “Water? Coffee? I don’t have any alcohol here.”

  Frowning, I reply, “I’m working anyway.” Even though a stiff drink might help make this interaction a smidge more bearable.

  “Right.” He grips the back of hi
s neck and looks over his shoulder. Gesturing to the long, dark wood dining table located under a modern Edison bulb fixture, he says, “Let’s sit.”

  He pulls out a tufted seat at the head of the table for me to slide into. Then he takes the spot adjacent to me.

  “So, how are things?” I ask, desperate to fill the heavy silence. “How are you liking your clothes this season? Any texture issues? I know you hated that one Burberry cashmere sweater I thought might work for you—”

  “Sloan”—Gareth’s voice stops me mid-thought—“I didn’t invite you in to talk about clothes.”

  My eyes drop to the table. “I knew this was a mistake,” I murmur.

  “You knew what was a mistake?” His voice is so smooth, I have to take a deep breath to keep myself sane.

  “Me coming out here,” I reply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  Gareth shifts to the edge of his seat, his masculine scent hitting me like a wrecking ball as images of him naked fight their way to the front of my mind. “Sloan, you can’t just act like that night between us didn’t happen.”

  “I most certainly can!” I argue, sitting back in my seat and feeling a nervous flush wash over me. I’ve been trying so hard not to ruminate over the memories of that night. With some success, I might add. “What happened between us was so long ago, Gareth. Honestly, why are you still thinking about it?” Surely he’s had at least a dozen other women since then.

  “Because I can’t stop thinking about it.” His eyes are dead serious. They strike right through me, saying words I never could have imagined him saying. “I’m not a bullshitter, Sloan. I don’t play games. I don’t chase women. But if I go a year and still can’t stop thinking about a person, I’m bloody well going to do something about it.”

  “Like force your friends into a consult,” I retort, wondering if poor Hobo and Brandi even wanted a consult with me.

  “I didn’t force anybody,” he replies. “Hobo asked me for advice about Brandi, and I know you have connections in the industry. You seemed like the natural place to start.”

  Silence casts over us, so I begin picking at the cuticle on my nail to avoid Gareth’s gaze. That furrowed browline of his is going to be the death of me. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Are you saying you never think about that night we had together?” His voice is like warm honey dripping into my mouth.

  My shoulders lift. “Of course I think about it,” I snap.

  He exhales through his nose. “And are they positive thoughts?”

  I look up and he’s concealing a smile that makes the creases around his eyes look divine. “No…Sometimes…Maybe.”

  He shakes his head, clearly annoyed. “Well, I’ve never felt anything like that in my entire life.”

  I touch my lips to ensure the words didn’t come from my own mouth because he’s voicing my thoughts exactly. But it doesn’t change the fact that what we did was wrong. He is a client!

  The humour in his expression dies when he asks the next question. “Look, have you been trying to ghost me? Are you trying to cut me out of your life so I leave you alone?”

  “No,” I reply, anxiety pricking all five of my senses. “Gareth, I want to keep working with you.”

  “You just don’t want to fuck me again.”

  My nerves boil over. My eyes cast downward as I suck in a large breath of air. That word out of his mouth is like an instant zap inside my panties. The way his teeth grab hold of his lower lip to utter the sound of the letter F is spine-tingling. I know he said all sorts of naughty things that night we had together, but it’s been so long now, and I was in an alternate universe then. I’ve compartmentalised that night into a dream. A fantasy. This is reality, yet all I want to do is ask him to say that word over, and over, and over.

  “Don’t say that word again, please,” I groan, running my hands through my hair and pressing my thighs together as I try to ignore the fact that his lower lip is slightly thicker than his upper lip.

  “What word?” he asks, seemingly sincere.

  “The…naughty word.”

  Careful, Sloan, your mom jeans are showing.

  “Naughty word?” This makes him chuckle.

  How can he be laughing right now? My body is racked with tortured awareness of how close we are sitting beside each other. His knee has brushed against mine under the table three times in the past five minutes, and all I can think about is how badly I want it to happen again. I cover my face with my hands to avoid looking at him.

  He leans in and whispers, “You mean the word fuck?” The soft click of the K causes me to peek through the crack between my fingers. His eyes are intense on me as he adds, “Sloan, all I’ve been thinking about for months is how badly I want to fuck you again.” His lips dampen as he slides his tongue across them. “Fucking you was the highlight of my year, Treacle.”

  “Gareth!” I groan his name in frustration, dropping my hands and jerking back from his honest words. “This is so insane…and inappropriate!” And wonderful, and sexy, and frustrating.

  “Why?” he asks, looking incredulous. “Because you don’t like it? Or because you’re not over your ex?”

  “I’m definitely not thinking about my ex,” I reply with an immature eye-roll and fight off the shuddering thought of still being tied to Cal.

  “If it’s because I’m your client, I don’t give a toss. It’s clothes, Sloan. What we have is far more important than fashion.”

  “It’s not about the clothes,” I defend.

  He narrows his eyes. “Do you regret that night we shared?”

  “No,” I answer reflexively, then want to cover my mouth with mortification.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know!” I reply quickly, knowing I can’t tell him the truth. That I avoided all his attempts at contact because I was in the throes of a custody battle for my daughter whom he doesn’t know exists.

  “You’re giving me a mess of mixed signals.” He slices his hands through his dark hair, mussing it up so beautifully, I itch to touch it. “You’re saying you don’t regret it, but you’re over there twitching. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “I’m freaking mortified!” I bellow.

  His face falls. “Whatever for?”

  I blink rapidly. “What for? You want the list?”

  “Top five at least,” he volleys back.

  “Well, I’m ashamed of how I treated you,” I answer honestly. If he wants to hear the list, I’ll give it to him. “I yelled at you, and clawed you, and threatened you.”

  “So, does that mean you didn’t like it?” he asks.

  “No, I loved it! I loved it so much I’m humiliated.” God, what’s wrong with me that I liked making him kneel in front of me? I know this lifestyle exists, but I’m a mother and business owner. I’m a people pleaser! This isn’t me.

  “If you loved it, what is there to be ashamed of? I wanted you to do it. I…loved it, too.” He hesitates when he says the last part, seemingly a bit uneasy as well. He’s been so calm and collected thus far. Seeing him falter is comforting on some weird level. “Look, Sloan. We are two consenting adults. What’s the harm in any of this?”

  “I don’t understand why you liked it.” I look at him in question, wanting to know why a strong, sexy, hugely famous athlete would let a woman take control over him.

  Having the attention turned on him brings him pause. He shifts uncomfortably before steeling himself to reply, “I maintain control in so many aspects of my life. I liked giving it up to you.”

  I nearly snort. “Do you do this with all your women?”

  “Women?” he repeats, rubbing the back of his neck in irritation. “You say it like there are loads. First of all, there aren’t. Second of all, I’ve never done anything like that with any other woman. Only you.”

  Only you.

  I repeat his words in my head and they feel good. Comforting. A small smile pulls at the corners of
my mouth. I can’t help it. There’s something incredibly empowering about this information. Only me.

  Gareth is smirking now. He’s smirking, and he’s so dang handsome it’s difficult to focus. “Did you like being in control?” he asks, his body language coaxing me to open up.

  I nod woodenly. Nervously. Cautiously.

  “Then why don’t we do it again?”

  “Right now?” I bark, horribly unladylike.

  The low chuckle that vibrates in his chest is thigh-clenching. “Not necessarily. I just mean, perhaps we can make this a thing between us.”

  “I have so much going on, Gareth. I seriously don’t think I’m ready for this.”

  “Ready for what?” he asks.

  “A relationship with Manchester’s most popular soccer player for starters!” I run my hands through my hair, trying hard to stop the trembling that’s happening in my body.

  “Footballer,” he murmurs under his breath and leans across the table to clasp my hands. “And I already told you last week, I’m not suggesting a relationship, Sloan.”

  My spine straightens. “What exactly are you asking for then?”

  “You just got out of a crap marriage. I’m not interested in being committed.” His hands freeze on mine as he looks down at our embrace and searches for the right word. “So let’s just call this freedom.”

  He rolls my hand in his and runs his finger down a line on my palm. My skin is so pale and soft against his battered, weathered grip, but his touch is warm and comforting. And it’s doing things to me. Naughty things and enticing things.

  I release a shaky breath and whisper, “What kind of freedom?”

  He half smiles at me, a look of hope brightening his dark eyes. “The kind where we both get to explore these newfound feelings…together.”

  “What kind of feelings are you referring to exactly?” I ask, my pulse thumping so hard he can probably feel it in my finger.

  “The kind where you have all the control like you did with me that night…over…and over…and over.” He pulls one of my hands to his mouth and presses his thick, pouty lips to the tip of my index finger.