Black Surrender

by Jasmin Quinn

  “Isabelle!” He growled loudly as he hit his peak, pumping his warm jets of come into her. As he emptied, he stilled for a moment, holding her, caressing her. Then he slid out of her, putting her down on her feet, steadying her, then kissing her, possessively, lovingly. “Fuck,” he said as he rested his chin on her head, then nuzzling her neck before pulling away and tossing her the soap.

  “We have to quit fucking around and get moving.” A playful leer from him, no mention of her shitty blowjob, perhaps knowing that now was not the time, perhaps waiting for another day. It didn’t matter to Isabelle as she ran the soap over her breasts and her belly, to her pussy, staring at Michael as he watched her, his half-lidded eyes smouldering. She smiled at him, she had to. She thought she might be falling in love with him. Shit!

  Michael took the soap from her hand and shoved her under the stream of water, rinsing her off, then opening the shower door and shoving her out.

  “Michael!” Isabelle protested.

  “Get out of here! I can take any more of this.”

  She grinned as she pulled a towel around her and left him to his ministrations.

  Later, after both were dressed, Michael called down to the front desk. “I want to book this room for two more weeks.” He listened, his forehead creasing.

  “No, that won’t work.” Clipped tone and a finger drumming on the desk beside him. “I don’t want to move to another room next Saturday. I want this room for two weeks. And I don’t want maid service unless requested. Do you understand?” He stood at the window, phone to ear, black suit and tie, cerulean blue shirt, leather shoes, polished and scuff-free. His power rippled – from the fit of his jacket, to the rigidity of his back, to the hard tone of his voice.

  “Move them instead,” he growled, but when he glanced at her, his eyes softened, small crinkles at the corners betraying his affection for her. He listened to the voice at the other end of the call, but his eyes were drawn to hers like a magnet and she couldn’t look away, didn’t want to look away.

  He nodded and softened his tone slightly. “Thank you.” He hung up then turned to her. His eyes raked over her as she sat on the sofa, her long legs crossed at the knees. “You are beautiful, Isabelle.”

  He was doing everything right. Perfectly right. But then a sliver of doubt crept in. That’s who he was, a master with words, with charm. It was impossible to know if he was sincere. Her moment of happiness deflated. “Thank you.”

  He raised an eyebrow and strolled toward her, not sitting beside her, instead taking the chair Anto had previously claimed. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in front of him. “That was a rather lackluster thank you. Is it because you don’t believe you’re beautiful or because you don’t believe me?”

  Caught. “Isn’t it irrelevant Michael?”

  “I don’t think so, Isabelle.”

  “Why are you so sure of yourself, Michael? How can you not have an insecure bone in your body?”

  Michael shrugged, everything about him casual, from his face to the set of his shoulders to the way he leaned towards her. “This isn’t about insecurities, is it Isabelle? It’s about trust. I want to say I’m hurt by your lack of trust in me, but that would make me sound insecure.”

  Isabelle sighed, dropping her eyes to her lap and picked imaginary lint from her skirt. “I’m not a romantic. I don’t need to be told I’m beautiful to make me malleable. I accept that you’re helping me for whatever reason.”

  Michael frowned, the crease in his forehead marring his perfect features. “That’s cold, Isabelle. Even by my standards. After our happy hour in the bedroom, I thought maybe you were getting soft on me.”

  Isabelle let his words fall on her. She couldn’t shrug them off, they clung to her, tapped at her conscience. She was out of her depth with Michael. She could play the brash, cool, haughty bitch all she wanted, but Michael saw through her veneer. He knew the difference between bullshit and truth. It put her at a disadvantage. Why not make it real, just a little bit? Enough that Michael understood her reticence. “I’m guarding my heart, Michael,” she said softly.

  Michael leaned back in his chair, letting a breath out. But he said nothing, and the silence hung heavy between them for a few minutes. Isabelle thought about all the things he could have done. He could have dropped to his knees, taking her hands, telling her she need not worry. He could have told her outright that, like all things carnal, this too would pass. He could have raged at her for going down such a ridiculous road so quickly. For adding an extra layer to an already complicated situation. But he said nothing. Another thing to admire about him – his intelligence, emotional and otherwise. Saying nothing said so much, because anything else would have rang false. This would have to wait until her affairs with Jack were settled. In the meantime, she would have to find a way to trust Michael, to believe him.

  Finally, he stood, offering her his hand and pulling her to her feet. He touched his thumb to the corner of her mouth as if to wipe away a stray crumb. “Time to go.”

  Isabelle nodded, picked up her purse and looked around the suite. “Are we coming back?”

  Michael shook his head. “No. And we can’t take anything with us except my briefcase and your purse. We’ll get what we need once we’re sure that we aren’t being tailed by more of Creed’s idiots. We don’t want to ruin another pair of your shoes.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Michael ushered Isabelle out of the hotel room with lust in his heart as he watched her sashay her way to the elevator. She was such a beauty. Tall, elegant, graceful. An air about her that said she belonged here, in this expensive suite, with this dangerous man, and anywhere else she chose to be. He felt a small lump form in his throat as she walked on her four-inch heels, balance, grace and poise, as if the world was a mere inconvenience that she chose to tolerate. Nothing on the outside betrayed the emotional scars she carried. No physical scars. Unmarred, silky, smooth porcelain skin, firm round breasts, mounds that didn’t quite fit into Michael’s hands. And the sweetness of her, his nose couldn’t get enough of her, just the recollection caused unrest in his groin.

  Michael almost groaned; It was going to be one fucked up week. And after the week was over, what then? He knew that’s where her head was. The afterwards. Did he want that? A future with Isabelle? Is that really what she wanted? They’d make a fantastic pair. She was deadly in her own right. Not as merciless as Michael, but she had no hesitation in defending herself. And she was leaning on him more and more, needed him in her space. She wanted an afterward, he was sure of it. The thought stabbed at his heart. He’d never known love but understood that the riot of emotions he had for Isabelle was far beyond a simple fondness. This made him cautious. Could he commit to her? Could he take the risk of loving her?

  He pictured the image of Maria, the last woman he’d kept around too long. Not here in Vancouver, but in Sicily, almost five years ago. He’d never loved her, but she was luscious and easy to be with. They were together almost eight months before she was killed – not just killed, brutalized. She’d been raped, beaten, bones broken, fleshed sliced from her body. Then tossed in the bathtub, hot water blistering what was left of her skin before the fucks held her head under and drowned her. Her body was a clear message to Michael not to fuck with the Italian mafia. It had the opposite effect. A lot of Sicilian men lost their lives over her death. But his loss of Maria made him harder, more solitary, untouchable. Now with Isabelle, his emotions were waking up. And that was the last thing he needed. An afterward with her meant that he would be on edge every moment of everyday, worrying about her safety, fearing the loss of her. It would fuck with his ability to do his job.

  He touched his hand to her back as the elevator arrived, to make sure she was real, that he was not in a coma imagining this perfect woman. Isabelle glanced at him, her eyes questioning. He smiled at her, followed her into the elevator, but said nothing. She didn’t need to know his train of thoughts. It was bad enough he was having them himse
lf. He pushed the sixth-floor button, then the second-floor button, where the gym was, then the lobby. “Keeps them confused if they’re paying attention.”

  “Will they be?” Isabelle was looking at her nails, picking at the pinkie nail she broke yesterday in his apartment. It seemed so long ago. He’d killed so many people this week. First with the cop and then with Isabelle. It was not his style to have such a reckless disregard for life. Yes, he could be heartless, but he did try to be a little judicious about the body count. And he’d almost died this week. That cop, Finn McQueen, saved his life. At the thought, a rush of adrenaline ripped through him and his head thudded. What the fuck was wrong with him? Almost dying used to be just another day on the job, had been since he was fourteen-years-old. And yet, standing here beside Isabelle, watching her as she pointedly ignored him, feeling an awkwardness he’d never felt before, he suddenly knew he didn’t want to die.

  Maybe before Isabelle it didn’t matter. Another reason she was a bad idea. Another thing that would get in the way of him doing his job. So much to her he didn’t know before yesterday. So much depth, so much pain, so much she still wasn’t sharing with him. He knew, in the shower, her on her knees, sucking his cock. He knew she hated it. She was practiced, but she was going through the motions. It was so contradictory to the woman who gave herself to him with such abandon in the bedroom. It puzzled him. He didn’t like puzzles. He wanted to know.

  The elevator stopped on the 8th floor. An elderly couple stepped in and Michael moved closer to Isabelle, sliding his hand across the small of her back. She shivered slightly, and he allowed himself a small satisfied grin. “Are you cold, love?”

  “Fuck off, honey,” Isabelle said elegantly, then bared her teeth at the couple, who seemed somewhat disconcerted by her response. “My husband loves the way I respond to him. He knows if not for your company in the elevator, I would jump his bones.”

  If her intent was to embarrass him, it had the opposite effect. His laughter boomed out from his core. It had been so long since he genuinely laughed that he wanted to savour it. Not let it go. He pulled Isabelle closer to him, his hip bumping against hers, and said to the couple, whose expressions ranged from shock to bemusement. “My wife isn’t telling the whole truth. The merest glance from me sends her panting.”

  Isabelle turned to him, her lips pursed, a little spark of anger in her eyes. Mad that she couldn’t disgruntle him. “All I have to do to get you scuttling into bed is blow on my little finger.”

  “That’s very true, my beautiful. Because I know how well those lips blow.” And then he winced as the colour drained from Isabelle’s face and she slapped him hard on the chest, before twisting away from him. What a fucking idiot, he thought as regret swamped him. Another foreign feeling. That made him cranky. Emotions were so fucking untidy.

  The elevator finally arrived at the lobby, the silence suffocating him on the way down. As the couple stepped out of the lobby, the woman turned to Michael. “I don’t know whether to tell you two to get a room or a divorce.” She shook her head as she left the elevator, muttering to her husband as they made their way across the lobby.

  Michael and Isabelle followed suit, Michael indicating that Isabelle should sit on the chair she’d sat in yesterday. “I’ll get a cab.”

  She nodded tersely and stalked away as he turned to the valet, who promised he would have a cab for them in five minutes. Handing him off a twenty, Michael stared out the doors, a frown creasing his face. The sun was high in the sky and the roads were turning to mush. In another couple of days, it would be like the snowstorm never happened.

  He didn’t return to Isabelle but observed her from where he was standing. She sat with a stiff posture, legs crossed at the knees, hands folded in her lap. What an ass he was to bring up blowjobs. Obviously, it pushed her buttons. Michael didn’t know all her buttons, but he knew that one. And he blithely rolled over it, using it against her. Not intentionally, but now another reason to get as far away from her as possible. Michael never did anything unintentional. And there he was, in the elevator, sticking his foot very thoroughly in his mouth.

  Mercifully, the arrival of the taxi redirected Michael’s thoughts. He beckoned to Isabelle, who made her way over to him, the crease in her forehead and the rigid set to her precious lips clearly told him she had not yet forgiven him for his asinine remark. He took her by the arm and helped her into the back of the cab, then slid in beside her.

  “Where to?” the driver asked as he fussed with the metre on his car.

  “1515 West Hastings.”

  “Not far.”

  Michael couldn’t tell if it was an observation or a rebuke. He didn’t care either way, so he didn’t respond. Instead he took Isabelle’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it gently, tasting her with his tongue.

  “I’m sorry for my crassness, Isabelle.” Fuck, he couldn’t believe he was apologizing again. This woman would have him on a leash soon, following her around like a dog. He was going to need Anto to knock some sense into him, literally.

  Isabelle seemed a little surprised too. She dropped her eyes to her lap, as if mulling over what needed to be said. “I would very much like to blow you, Michael.”

  “Isabelle, stop!” Michael squeezed her hand, hard enough to make her gasp. She tried to pull out of his grip, but he wouldn’t let her go. He was keenly aware of the driver’s eyes on them in the rear-view mirror. Was he hoping she was going to blow Michael in the car, or was he getting ready to kick them out of his cab if he saw so much as a flash of zipper?

  “Let go of my hand.” Isabelle’s eyes flashed daggers.

  But Michael held on. “Are you going to behave?”

  “Isn’t it what you want, Michael?” Then she looked into the rear-view mirror, into the eyes of the driver. “You won’t mind, will you?”

  The driver opened his mouth to respond, but Michael shut him down. “This is a private conversation, asshole. Keep your eyes on the fucking road and get us to West Hastings.” Then he turned to Isabelle, wrapping his fingers through her hair and drawing her close to him, so he could talk into her ear.

  “Whatever the fuck is going on, Isabelle, put a lid on it. You’ve got emotional scars, I get that. But I don’t do silent treatments and I don’t do passive-aggressive. You want to talk about it, there’s a time and a place, neither here nor now. If you don’t want to talk about it, then shut your fucking mouth.” He let her go abruptly and she had to grab the seat to steady herself. Her face reddened, her eyes pooled. Yup, although he was right, he still felt like a complete ass.

  Isabelle echoed his sentiment. “You’re right.” She seemed to choke on the words, maybe hard to admit. “I’ll suck it up.”

  Michael looked hard at her, not knowing if she was intentionally egging him on with her choice of words. But her eyes widened when she realized what had fallen out of her mouth. Then she laughed, and he did too, at her, with her. What was this fucking laughter thing? He didn’t like it one bit. Then they were at 1515 West Hastings and the driver seemed very relieved to see the last of them.

  Michael steered Isabelle through the glass doors of the tall building and over to the elevators. A couple of people stood waiting and he let them enter first, then guided Isabelle in with him. He hoped she’d keep her mouth shut this time. He pressed the 18th floor, the highest number. Waited until the others got off at their respective floors, ushering Isabelle off with the last one on the 12th floor. Before the doors closed, he pressed all the other buttons up and down. And then drew Isabelle to the stairwell.

  “Stairs again?” Isabelle reached down to pull off her heels as Michael opened the stairway door.

  “Down three flights.” They made their way in silence to the 9th floor. There were four suites of offices on this floor and his was tucked in the corner, no windows to see inside, a door with no sign, just a number. 904. He unlocked the door with the swipe of a key card and closed it firmly behind them as they entered, not turning on the lights. The s
uite was spare in furnishings, several empty offices and a boardroom with a cot. A large central area was scattered with a couple of desks, three small round tables and some chairs. The shades on the windows were closed, but enough light filtered through to cast dusky shadows. He watched Isabelle as she peered around, her eyes taking in everything. She stayed rooted to the floor as Michael approached one of the desks, opened the top drawer and fished about for another access card.

  “Come and sit down.” Michael motioned to one of the small tables with soft leather office chairs tucked around it. Isabelle took a seat and he sat down in the chair next to her.

  “What is this?”

  “There are only three people who know about this suite. Me, Anto, and now you.” He passed her the access card he’d taken from the desk. “It’s a safe house if you ever need it. It has supplies, a kitchen, fridge, microwave. A bed. Everything you need to lay low for a few days. If you’re hurt, on the run, need rest, need help. There are burner cells in the desk, first aid supplies in the bathroom.”

  Isabelle nodded, still looking around her, eyes narrow in the dim light.

  “I rarely turn on the lights. In case we were followed and I’ve no doubt we were.”

  “You’re very careful.”

  “I would think that in your line of work, you would be too.”

  Isabelle cocked her head to one side. “I’m stealthy and quick. But you know all the tricks to elude people. And hide from them.”

  Michael closed Isabelle’s fingers around the access card in her hand. “Keep it in case you ever need it.”

  Isabelle nodded as she slid it into her purse. “What now?”