The Surrender of Nina Fontaine (Awakening Book 2)

by Michelle St. James

  But the park was silent and alive, the trees bearing witness to the people who came and went, the sounds of the city muffled by the park’s borders. Nina settled into it, letting her thoughts turn, as they so often did, to Jack.

  It was impossible to think of him without finding herself in a state of arousal, without having flashes of their lovemaking: the scarlet rope wound in increasingly complicated — and restricting — configurations around her body: Jack’s eyes, flat and cold as he gave his orders: his face, nearly expressionless as he came inside her.

  He was still gentle during aftercare, still made a point to remain with her in the tub or shower, to rub salve on the red lines that crossed her body immediately after sex. But while he still talked to her, he said less and less about himself, his emotional openness shrinking in proportion to the experimental nature of their sex.

  And it was experimental — for her at least. It wasn’t just the shibari, which had progressed to complex knots and loops that looked suspiciously like a harness. She never knew what Jack had in store for her.

  Never knew what he would do to her.

  She knew only that whatever it was, she wouldn’t use her safe word. Knew only that the further he pushed her, the more she wanted, until she began to wonder if she had any limits at all.

  He withheld orgasm from her for increasingly long periods of time, bringing her to the brink again and again during a single night — and sometimes over a period of days — until she wanted to cry with the frustration of it.

  She’d considered masturbating to release the tension until Jack (was he reading her mind now?) had made it clear that was against the rules.

  She could have disobeyed. How would he know? (“Don’t try to hide from me, Nina. I know your body like I know my own. I’ll know.”)

  But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Even when she was screaming for release, when it was almost painful to walk for the additional friction between her legs, it felt imperative to follow Jack’s rules.

  No, that wasn’t right.

  She wanted to follow the rules. Knew doing so would make her pleasure more total later. It was a kind of discipline she could never have imagined imposing on herself, a discipline she couldn’t have imagined would be so simultaneously painful and erotic.

  It wasn’t just the rope. He made her say dirty things, made her beg for what she wanted. In the moment, she felt no shame. She was too desperate for his hands, his mouth, his cock.

  Too desperate to obey, to achieve the pleasure that came with obeying.

  But later her face would burn with humiliation, her sexual appetite looking seedy and dirty in the harsh light of reality.

  She gave very few details to anyone. Even Karen was given only the morsels Nina thought wouldn’t bring judgement — Jack liked to tie her up, he sometimes made her wait for orgasm.

  She couldn’t bring herself to confess her own dark desire, her arousal at being dominated, her willingness to obey Jack’s orders.

  “Good evening.”

  Nina looked up, surprised to find that an older woman had appeared on the other side of the park bench. Nina had been so lost in her own thoughts she hadn’t heard the woman approach.

  “Hello,” Nina said.

  “It’s a lovely evening in spite of the cold,” the woman said. “Or perhaps because of it.”

  Nina smiled. “Yes, it is.”

  The woman’s figure was hidden beneath a fur coat, her face fully made-up under an elaborate hat rimmed with flowers. Nina thought she spied a fake bird nestled among the blossoms.

  “I love the park at night.” The woman turned to her. “By the way, I’m Judith Chambers. I believe you’ve been looking for me.”

  Nina sat up straighter. “I’ve been… Are you the photographer? The one who leaves pictures here?”

  The woman returned her gaze to the park. “It’s an eccentric pastime, I’ll admit.” She laughed and Nina saw that she must have been extraordinarily beautiful in her youth. “I suppose the younger set might even call it creepy.”

  She said the last word with a trace of careful emphasis, as if it were unfamiliar to her.

  Nina smiled. “If I’m being honest, I thought the same thing at first.”

  Judith turned to look at her. “Honest. I like that. What changed your mind?”

  Nina thought about it. “For something to be creepy, it has to be either secretive or imposing. Your pictures are so… honest, so respectful.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Judith said. “I admit to a certain pause when I first started taking them. It was never my intent to intrude.”

  “What was your intent?” Nina asked.

  It took a moment for her to answer. “To document.”

  “To document solitude,” Nina said.

  “Solitude among women,” she said firmly.

  “Yes. I felt that,” Nina said. “They’re lovely pictures. Still but… emotional.”

  Judith’s mouth curled into a smile in spite of the fact that she kept her eyes facing forward. “And what of you, my dear?”

  “What about me?”

  “Why would a beautiful young woman like you be at the park alone on such a cold night, chasing down an old woman with a camera?” Judith asked.

  It had been a long time since anyone had called Nina young. “In the beginning it was just about the photos. I work at a gallery. I thought you might be interested in a show.”

  “I am not.” Nina tried to hide her disappointment. “Please continue.”

  “Later I just wanted to know your story, why you do it.” Nina looked around the park. “And I started to enjoy the park alone at night. My mind’s so busy. It’s quiet here. Peaceful.”

  “I understand,” Judith said.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “Can I ask why you’re not interested in a show?” Nina finally asked. “Your photographs are so beautiful. I think they’d find an appreciative audience.”

  Judith’s laughter seemed to echo though the park. For a moment, she looked forty years younger. “Oh my dear, I’m not at all interested in an audience.”

  “But… such beautiful work should be shared.”

  Judith looked sharply at her. “Who says so? Isn’t that my decision?”

  Nina nodded. “Of course it is. I’m sorry. That was presumptuous.” She looked out over the park. “Anyway, I haven’t been at the gallery very long. If you were going to show your photos, you’d be better off with a more experienced curator.”

  She was surprised when Judith reached out to pat her gloved hand, her own encased in ivory leather.

  “Experience is never a substitute for passion, dear. Don’t let them tell you any differently.”

  Nina smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “What did you do before this gallery? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

  “Not at all,” Nina said. “Although I’m afraid it isn’t a very interesting story.”

  “All stories are interesting,” Judith said.

  “I was married for nearly twenty years,” Nina said. “Then I wasn’t. I had to start over.”

  The woman inhaled deeply. “I adore starting over.”

  Nina laughed. “It can be exciting — and slightly terrifying.”

  “Ah, but the excitement is in the terror, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” Nina said.

  “And how have you found it?” Judith asked. “Starting over?”

  “It’s been… interesting.”

  “Marvelous. Can there be higher praise for a life?”

  Nina smiled. “I suppose not.”

  Judith rose suddenly and Nina got to her feet, suddenly desperate to keep her a little longer.

  “Wait…” Nina dug around in her bag for a business card and held it out to Judith. “In case you change your mind about the show.” Judith hesitated and Nina continued. “Or if you want to tell me your story now that I’ve told you mine.”

  Judith took the
card, looked down at it, and slipped it into her bag. “It was nice meeting you, Nina.” She was making her way slowly down the path when she turned around. “Are you a photographer as well?”

  Nina shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  Judith tipped her head, looking at her with renewed interest before continuing down the path.

  15

  Nina filled her coffee cup and walked to her living room. She and Moni took turns manning the gallery on Sundays, and Nina settled into the sofa with a sigh, happy to have the day off with no plans. Jack would be back the next day and would undoubtedly expect her to be available.

  Not that she didn’t want to be available. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since he’d left. Her body, used to multiple sessions of mind-blowing sex a day, was amped like an engine in fifth gear with nowhere to go. She tossed and turned in her bed as scenes played across her closed eyelids.

  Jack between her legs, his dark head moving as he worked her pussy with his mouth.

  The rope crisscrossing her body as Jack’s cock disappeared inside her.

  The knowing expression on his face when he filled her with a vibrator while he fucked her ass, when she screamed her orgasm into the room, as if he’d known all along she’d been filled with these dirty desires.

  It had gotten difficult to focus on anything but him, on the hours they spent after dark wrapped in each others arms, pushing the limits of her inhibitions, which seemed increasingly nonexistent. She’d lost more weight and waited eagerly for her shifts at the gallery to end, her appetite for Jack and the things he did to her overwhelming all others.

  In the throes of it she didn’t care at all. Nothing else existed for her but the sensations rocking her body, the lust that flooded her veins when he made her do things she would not have done for anyone else.

  It was only at times like this, in the pure sunlight shining through the windows, Virginia purring on the couch, the apartment quiet and comforting, that it seemed unseemly. Then she couldn’t help the self-disgust that heated her face, the sense that she was allowing herself to be pulled deeper and deeper into the whirlpool that would eventually push her so far underwater, she might not be able to swim to the surface for air.

  She reached for her computer. She was being melodramatic, falling back into the habits of her conditioning, of the belief that women weren’t allowed to have unconventional sexual desires, that in order to be good, they had to be pure, and in order to be pure they had to be uptight.

  She opened her laptop, pulled up her search engine, and typed in JUDITH CHAMBERS NYC. Nina had been thinking about the woman ever since they’d met in the park Friday night, replaying their conversation and wondering if there was anything more she could have said to convince the woman to let the gallery show her work.

  Nina was surprised when a series of hits immediately came up for the name. She’d expected the woman to be obscure, her story difficult to find.

  Nina clicked on the first entry, an old article from the New York Times titled NEW YORK GRAND DAME AUCTIONS HUSBAND’S ART COLLECTION. The article detailed how Judith Chambers, wife of transportation magnate Samuel Chambers, had given the rights to auction her husband’s collection to Christie’s in 2012. The collection had been built over a period of decades and included two Picassos, a Monet, and three Renoirs and was valued at well over five hundred million dollars.

  According to the article, Judith had been a well-known pinup model in the 1950s. Apparently her marriage to Samuel had been scandalous at the time: a New York City blue blood forgoing a plethora of wealthy socialites eager to become his wife in favor of an unknown pinup, a profession that was considered seedy by the standards of the era.

  Samuel had passed away in 2005, leaving Judith a fortune estimated to be worth at least ten billion dollars. The article featured not a photo of Judith, but a stock photograph of Christie’s and an accompanying photo of a painting described in the caption as Algerian Landscape by Pierre Auguste Renoir.

  Nina took a drink of her coffee, her mind trying to connect the woman in the article with the one she’d met in the park Friday night. What was a woman with that kind of money doing roaming Washington Square at night, taking pictures with an old Leica, leaving them around for strangers to discover when she’d given up a half billion dollars in coveted art?

  I adore starting over.

  Nina flashed back to the dreamy expression on the woman’s face, proof that she meant it.

  She skimmed through some of the other articles, looking for more information, but it was obvious Judith wasn’t one for the spotlight. Details were sketchy on the fortune she’d inherited and how she’d opted to spend it other than a mention that shortly after her husband’s death, she’d sold all but the New York City apartment on Central Park West and an apartment in Paris. The last article was dated two years earlier, when the world seemed to forget about Judith with her blessing.

  Nina pictured Judith in her mind. She thought of the fur coat, the careful makeup and elaborate hat, the humor that seemed to linger beneath her careful diction.

  Had she changed to become Samuel’s wife? Taught herself to speak and dress differently? Had she been happy? In love with him?

  Nina suddenly wanted the story more than ever.

  She thought of Jack, of all his money and power. The parallels were undeniable. Nina wasn’t a pinup model, and she didn’t consider her status as a divorcee to be embarrassing in the least, not in this day and age.

  But she was taking her cues from Jack, allowing him to introduce her to the ways of the wealthy, feeling alternately excited and uncomfortable with it all. Had Judith felt that way too? Had she loved Samuel so much that it hadn’t mattered?

  Did Nina love Jack?

  The question came to mind all at once. The subject of love hadn’t come up between them. What they had felt more powerful than love, more necessary.

  Was someone like Jack capable of love?

  She considered the question idly. She wasn’t sure she needed Jack to love her, wasn’t sure she needed to label her feelings for him.

  She needed him.

  Needed his touch. Needed him inside her.

  There wasn’t room for much else.

  Her gaze came to rest on the sari photograph near the window. The sunlight was turning gold as they eased toward spring, the light setting the scrap of fabric on fire in the photo.

  She couldn’t look at the picture without thinking of Liam.

  Thinking about him didn’t hurt anymore, not exactly, but longing still filled her chest, the memory of his laughter and kind eyes, the protection of his arms around her promising not security but something deeper and more complex.

  She looked at the blinking cursor on her laptop. She’d avoided any mention of him, had told Moni not to give her updates. It wasn’t that Nina didn’t care. She wanted Liam to be well, wished for him to be happy, but the memory of him was too tender, like a broken bone that hadn’t set quite right.

  She hesitated over the keyboard, then typed Liam’s name into the search bar.

  There were a number of matches from various travel magazines that had used his photographs as accompaniments to their articles, plus a link to the website of Vincent Reynolds, the philanthropist and author Liam had traveled with to Africa.

  She opened a few of the articles and skimmed, looking for any mention of Liam. When she didn’t find anything more than photo credits, she hit the tab for Images.

  The screen immediately filled with images of Liam in various countries, plus more than one of his official photo. His blue eyes seemed to see her through the screen, his smile subtle but sincere. His voice filled her mind.

  Nina…

  She used search tools to refine the search to those uploaded only in the past month. The screen changed, filled now with pictures not of Liam alone, but standing with a blond woman. Thatched roofs appeared in the background, smiling children gathered around them as they took pictures, carried buckets of water, shaped m
ud into bricks to dry in the sun.

  Nina’s eyes caught one picture in particular: Liam’s arm around the woman, both smiling into the camera.

  He looked happy.

  She slammed the laptop shut, took a deep breath, and tried to convince herself the emotion wheeling through her body wasn’t loss.

  16

  Nina spread out the blanket on the grass and started unpacking the wine while Karen laid out the food. They were at Prospect Park, getting ready to watch the 1951 version of Alice in Wonderland, the first of the park’s free summer movie series.

  Karen picked up the wine and studied the label. “Nice,” she said.

  “I can’t take credit for it,” Nina said. “I pilfered it from Jack’s stash.”

  “Still,” Karen said. “Can I open?”

  “Of course.”

  Karen pulled the corkscrew out of her picnic basket and worked the cork, then poured them each a healthy dose in the glasses Nina had brought.

  “Are these Jack’s too?” Karen asked, holding them up to the dying sunlight before handing one to Nina.

  “Yeah. I didn’t have time to go back to my apartment.”

  “I’m not complaining,” Karen said, leaning back on her elbows.

  “Same.” She heard the note of wistfulness in her voice and hoped Karen hadn’t noticed. She was spending more nights at Jack’s apartment than her own, getting by on increasingly less sleep as they expanded their bedroom games.

  And through it all, Liam lingered at the back of her mind.

  She would never forgive herself for looking him up online. She’d been fine until she’d seen him with the woman, until she’d come face-to-face with the things she’d said he deserved all along — someone else, someone who could love him and give him what he deserved.

  “And?” Karen prompted.

  Nina looked at her. “And what?”

  “Come on, Neen. What’s up?”

  Nina sighed. It had been over a month since she’d found the images online and she hadn’t told a soul. “I looked Liam up online a couple weeks ago.”