Pride & Surrender Read online

  Christos’s attention snaps to me, surprise flickers over his expression before he twists around and pulls my legs apart so once again the climax fades to something just beyond my reach. He slides off the bed and shakes his head at me. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

  I force myself to meet his gaze. I know how I look, spread open, bound, body flush, chest heaving. I’ve never experienced arousal like this, where every touch threatens to tip me over the edge, where my body tingles on the very pinnacle of orgasm, where I no longer care about anything but release.

  I’ve never needed something so great I prayed for it to stop.

  Or pleasure so intense I prayed it never would.

  “Scarves?” he asks in an almost guttural tone.

  My gaze flicks to my closet.

  He takes a step, then turns back, leaning down to my ear to whisper, “Keep those legs open.”

  I nod, so wet now I can feel a trickle down my thigh.

  He palms my breast, circling my nipple so I keen at the sharp ache. “This wasn’t the plan.” He rolls the hard bud between his thumb and forefinger.

  “What?” I manage to gasp.

  “I’m down to monosyllables, and if I squeeze your nipples just so, you’ll come. It’s so tempting.”

  As if to prove his point, he takes one nipple in his mouth and bites down while pinching the other, the climax threatens to carry me away. He is right. One more touch and I’ll be over the edge, thrown head-first into the abyss.

  But of course he moves away.

  I moan, rolling my head on the pillow.

  He shakes his head. “Fucking, unbelievable.”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I take it as a compliment. He turns on his heel, pushing the off button on the stereo before disappearing into the closet to rummage through my things.

  While he’s gone, the heat of my skin consumes me.

  The pull of muscle in my arms.

  The cool air on my wet nipple in contrast to the sting of the other.

  The metal rasping my skin.

  The desire in my belly.

  The quiver in my thighs.

  The way my cunt practically weeps.

  The pounding of my pulse.

  The scent of my arousal.

  Never have I been so hyperaware of every nuance of my body.

  I roll my hips, unable to stop myself. It’s intoxicating, even with my legs spread open.

  I do it again.

  And again.

  Moaning. Twisting. Rocking.

  Lost in my need and desire, I’m completely wanton.

  And that’s how he finds me.

  11

  My eyes fly open and meet his stunned gaze. I flush, embarrassed by my display but unable to quell my moving body. “I, um—” I stutter, licking my dry mouth.

  “I have never,” he says, in a strained voice, “seen you look more gorgeous.”

  He kisses the tip of each breast before he straightens, taking one foot and wrapping a scarf around my ankle before fastening me to the bed. In silence, he walks around to the other side and repeats his actions.

  I’m completely helpless now. At his mercy.

  And I love it.

  He walks to the center of the footboard and stares at me, face dark with lust.

  I raise my hips and offer myself to him.

  He pulls his cock free from his boxer briefs. He drips with pre-come. He strokes, and my mouth waters. I moan. Straining.

  His shaft disappears into his fist. “I want to keep you like this for hours.” The head of his cock appears again through the circle of his fingers. “But that’s not possible.”

  He walks around the bed, grabs a condom and strips off his pants and briefs. I keep my eyes glued to his erection, watching as he slides the latex ring down his shaft before climbing onto the bed and kneeling between my legs.

  Bending over, he licks my cunt. Soft. Over and over. His tongue circles my clit and I cry out. He hardly exerts any pressure, but it doesn’t matter, my body is on a mission. Desperate to come. Bright and sharp, the climax begins to roll through me only for him to pull back once again.

  I twist, lifting my hips, blowing out a frustrated, “Christos.”

  “I have plans.” He stares at me with hooded lids. “But I can’t help it, Juliet. I have to fuck you.”

  “Yes please,” I hiss, raising my hips as best I can.

  The head of his cock presses against my wet, swollen folds. “You make me crazy,” he says in a strangled voice and drives deep within in one strong, fluid thrust, pushing me into the mattress.

  I come. Hot rushes of screeching pleasure crash in on me.

  “Oh god, yes!” I yell so loud I’m sure my neighbors will hear me and I’ll have to move.

  Over and over, he fucks me, his cock stroking me.

  Our hips slam together.

  Another wave of vicious contractions roll over me, just as the last ones are fading out and I moan as it threatens to consume me, burn me up until there is nothing left but ash.

  He’s right behind me, roaring as he pounds into me with such force I’m surprised we don’t break my bed. There is no finesse. No choreographed tenderness. It’s a hard, fast, furious fuck.

  The violent mating of two people who’ve been pushed over the edge.

  I pant for breath as he collapses on top of me.

  Into the crook of my neck, he mumbles, “Jesus Christ.”

  A type of giddiness overtakes me and I laugh.

  He groans. “This isn’t funny, Juliet.”

  “It kind of is.” The words are breathless and full of mirth. I’ve never felt this good in my life. Light and free and unencumbered.

  He reaches over my head and works me free of his belt, stopping as soon as my hands are loose enough to slip free. They tingle as blood rushes back to my hands, and I wrap my arms around him.

  He raises his head and kisses me, pushing my sweat-damp hair off my cheek. He grunts and moves to untie my legs, slipping off my shoes and tossing them with a thump onto the floor before rolling next to me and pulling me close. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  My cheeks grow hot. That knee-jerk part of me, so used to self-preservation at any cost, thinks I should be mortified by my behavior. Images of my actions flash through my head like a slide show so I’m able to point out every flaw in what I’d done.

  But I’m riding on some sort of euphoric high and I kick that bitch to the curb, slamming the door shut on her and locking an imaginary deadbolt.

  She’ll be back, after all she’s been with me for a long time, but for now I want to be free and enjoy the peace and quiet.

  I shiver as Christos’s fingers trace a path over my back, kissing my temple. “You know, that was supposed to go much differently.”

  I smile, brushing my lips over his chest, marveling in my ability to touch him as I choose. A luxury I never dreamed I’d have. In a happy voice, I ask, “How was it supposed to go?”

  “Well, for one thing.” His tone is ripe with exasperation. “I was supposed to be cool and in control.”

  “You did a pretty decent job.” I run my nails over his stomach and his muscles jump in response.

  He pinches my ass, making me yelp. “And I’d counted on being able to speak full sentences.”

  I cluck my tongue. “Poor baby.”

  This time I receive a smack that causes a flutter low in my belly.

  I’m not remotely surprised when his cock stirs.

  “In my fantasies,” he continues, all disgruntled, “I make you beg, keeping you on edge for hours as I take you.”

  I shrug. “I liked this way better.”

  He laughs. “You like a hard, fast, three-minute fuck that most teenage boys could top better?”

  “I came.” I state the obvious.

  “You did.”

  “You’ll do better next time.”

  Once again his palm swats my ass, causing the most erotic sensation I shameless
ly want to explore. “God, you are such a brat.”

  I prop my chin on his chest. “But you like it.”

  “That I do, my Juliet.” He squeezes me tight. “You know, someday soon, I’m going to ask you to marry me, and when I do, you’re going to say yes.”

  A huge grin splays over my lips, so big and wide it hurt my cheeks.

  He’s not asking now because we both know it’s too soon, but he’s telling me what he wants.

  I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Maybe.”

  That’s enough of an answer for both of us right now, and we fall silent. I snuggle in close, burrowing deep into the crook of his arm, resting my head on his chest. I breathe in his scent, run my hands over his flat stomach and listen to the slow, steady beat of his heart. The entire time, he just strokes my back in slow circles.

  “I love you, Juliet,” he says in that low sinful voice of his.

  “I love you too, Christos.”

  The tears burst from out of nowhere, deep racking sobs that shake me to my very core. Christos says nothing, he just keeps rubbing, kissing my temple and murmuring nonsense as tears pour down my cheeks and fall onto his strong, capable chest.

  I’m so happy I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s like something has released in me. A dam has broken, and now everything is rushing out.

  For a long time, I cry. Not pretty tears. Not gentle weeping. No, I cry hard. My body shaking, my nose stuffed, I can feel my eyes swelling with each passing second.

  All the while, Christos holds me close and lets me get it all out, never asking me any questions or tensing at the onslaught of my tumultuous emotions.

  At long last, I calm, sniffing into his chest.

  The invisible weight I’ve been carrying for as long as I can remember is gone, leaving behind nothing but lightness. A cathartic release, I’m washed anew.

  Somehow Christos has given me some secret part of myself and I feel whole. At peace. Warm in all those places that had been cold.

  I’d weathered the storm and survived.

  I’d taken the leap, and he’d caught me, just like he promised.

  And in this moment I understand that loving Christos doesn’t make me weak, doesn’t strip me of who I am.

  Instead, loving him sets me free to be the person I truly am without all the barriers and walls I’ve put in my way.

  I start to laugh. A deep belly laugh that shakes me as much as the sobs had. Like the tears, I can’t stop.

  Finally Christos rolls me over to stare into my sure-to-be-puffy face. “Would you care to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “I’m happy,” I say, simply.

  “Good.” He looks boyish and charming and rumpled. “I am one lucky man.”

  I tilt my head and smile, no longer afraid of what I see reflected in his expression. “Yeah, you are.”

  We fall silent and I once again relax into the curve of his arm. I watch the even rise and fall of his chest, my mind racing like a thoroughbred at the Kentucky Derby.

  I can’t settle. I should be exhausted, should be sated and limp, but I’m not, I’m filled with an almost boundless energy.

  I glance up at him, his eyes are closed, the lines of his strong features soften. “Hey, are you bidding on the Mason project?”

  His lids slit open and he glances down at me.

  “Yes,” he says, slowly.

  I grin, sitting up and straddling his hips. He’s going to have to do something about all this or I’ll be forced to run a marathon.

  I plant my hands on his chest. “Yeah? Me too.”

  He scrubs a hand over his face. “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”

  I scrape my nails down his chest and he rewards me with a quick intake of breath. I lean down and kiss him, slow and long. A kiss of dreams and hope before I raise my head to stare deep into his eyes.

  “I have a feeling you’re about to see a decline in revenue.” I slide down his body, licking the head of his hard cock, sucking him deep into my mouth in one enthusiastic gulp.

  He moans, thrusting his fingers into my hair. “Sweet Jesus, I created a monster.”

  Hey there!

  Thanks so much for reading.

  * * *

  I hope you enjoyed PRIDE & SURRENDER. Way back when I wrote several novellas under the pen name, Julia Devlin and this is one of those stories. So here’s a little known fact, this is the first story I ever wrote in first person. I’d wanted the reader to be able to touch and taste, Juliet’s struggle. I remember it being strange to be so into a character’s head but now I can’t imagine writing any other way.

  * * *

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  Want more books? I’ve got something for everyone.

  The Undone Series

  Romantic Erotica that’s all about the journey.

  Crave

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  The Something New Series

  Small town, contemporary romance with a big city twist.

  Take a Chance on Me

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  For when you like your romance erotic & emotional…

  Chapter One

  Eleven P.M.

  * * *

  Two months. Five days. Twenty-one hours.

  It’s my new record although I have no sense of accomplishment. No, I’m resigned as I walk down the dark, deserted alley. The heels of my knee-high, black patent boots click against the cracked concrete in echo of my defeat. The distant sounds of the bass thuds in my ears in time to the heavy beat of my heart.

  My own personal staccato of failure.

  I’m not sure why it’s always a surprise. Maybe because, at first, my conviction is so strong. By now m
y pattern is long and established—I vow, I crave, I give in.

  Rinse. Repeat.

  But, like any good addict, I always swear this time is the last.

  Of course, I try. My therapist has given me “management tools” to get me through the hard times, and like a good patient, I follow her instructions to a tee—I meditate, do yoga, and write all my crappy feelings in the journal she insists I keep.

  Only, it’s backfired and become part of the ritual. When the cycle starts, it’s a matter of time before I end up here.

  I’m sure when John brought me to this underground club the first time, he’d never envisioned I’d be back on my own, wandering through the crowds, looking for my next fix. The club reminds me of him, and I wish I could go somewhere else so I wouldn’t be confronted with my betrayal, but I don’t have a choice. There aren’t ads for places like this. Or maybe there are and I don’t know where to look.

  Swift and sudden, anger clogs my throat, and for a split second I hate him for changing me so irrevocably, and leaving me so permanently. Fast on the heels of anger, the guilt wells, so powerful it brings a sting of tears to my eyes. In the pockets of my black trench coat, my nails dig crescents into my palms.

  I push away the emotions. Exhaling harshly, my breath fogs the air as I spot a hint of the red door that signals both my refuge and my hell. I hear the muffled hum of music that will crescendo once I’m inside to pump through me like a heartbeat.

  My pace quickens along with my pulse.

  As much as I hate giving in, I can’t deny my relief. Once I step through that door, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to be normal.