Pride & Surrender Page 5

  He sweeps my hair to the side and moves to kneel behind me. A soft brush of lips along the curve of my neck has me going stiff. Those large palms of his run over my shoulders and begin to knead tight muscles until I relax under him once again. When his thumbs press a knot in my shoulder and circle, I’m unable to hold back the moan.

  “Feel good?”

  “Yes.” Is that my voice? All soft and sweet?

  “Good,” he says, and increases his pressure until the knot magically loosens and releases. “At the presentation, you had your hair bound into this tight twist at the nape of your neck.” His fingers brush over the spot as though remembering. “And all I could think about was taking those pins out, one by one, until your hair looked exactly like it does right this second.”

  “A mess?”

  “Yes,” he says simply. “I like you messy.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because it makes you real.” His thumbs find another knot and begin to knead. “I might have had some other impure thoughts.”

  The sun warming my skin and his hands on my back has my muscles like liquid; a smile tugs at my lips. “I’m not touching that one.”

  “Chicken,” he says with a chuckle. His mouth drops down to the shell of my ear. “What if I tell you anyway?”

  “I think we’ve already proven I can’t stop you.” My breath catches in my throat as I sit perched on the edge of expectation. Wanting to know his thoughts but unwilling to ask for them.

  “The suit you had on was this dark gray number with a wide belt and sky-high black heels that made you look like you’d stepped out of the Maltese Falcon.” The seduction in his tone makes my nipples pucker tight. “In my fantasy, after I took down your hair, I would strip you of your belt, that jacket, and rip your blouse right off.”

  Mouth suddenly dry, I lick my lips, tasting the summer air on my skin along with my desire. His hands slide down my back, working out the kinks. Anticipation flows in my blood like fine wine. “All I could think about was pushing your skirt over your thighs and spreading you across that table. I can picture you there, arms stretched wide, your legs spread, cunt wet. I’d like to pretend I thought about lavishing your body with the attention it deserves, but that would be a lie.”

  My lungs begin to burn and I realize I’ve stopped breathing. I suck in air and attempt to calm my pounding heart. Liquid heat pools between my thighs with each passing word he speaks.

  “Do you want to know what I imagined?” he asks, his mouth still next to my ear while his fingers massage the bumps of my spine.

  “Yes.” The word is out before I can stop it. Unable to help myself, I lean against his chest, as I’d wanted to all day.

  Teeth gently scrape the line of my jaw and his arms come around my waist so his large palms slide over my stomach. He shifts behind me, bracketing his thighs with mine until his cock nudges my lower back.

  Reflexively, I stiffen, and his fingers stroke as he murmurs nonsensical sounds in my ear until I once again fall limp.

  “I wanted to take you,” he says. “Fuck you. Possess you. Fill you up until my come spilled onto your thighs.”

  Legs quivering, I bite down on my bottom lip, thankful I’m sitting down.

  His fantasy had been my fantasy too.

  I want what he wants. I want to be claimed. Filled.

  That day, I too had thought of him spreading me over that glossy mahogany conference table. That day, as we’d been sitting across from each other, we’d been thinking the exact same thing.

  Although, unlike him, I’d never have admitted it.

  Behind me, he moves, and all his heat leaves with him.

  I sit up, straightening my back until my posture is once again proper. Loss washes over me as the mood breaks and I cool in an instant. I fear I’ll never be that relaxed with him again. That somehow if there’s ever a time I’m going to give in, it’s right now.

  Irrational anger that it’s been stolen away pricks over my skin.

  A large palm strokes my spine. “Relax, Juliet, I’m not going anywhere.”

  I hate that he sees me so clearly. Sees everything—my need for him, my fear and my hope. Vulnerable is not good, he can crush me, and I’m letting it happen. Before I can say anything scathing, he stretches out his legs and pulls me down to his lap.

  Brows snapping together, I glare at him. “What are you doing?”

  “I thought you’d be more comfortable.” His fingers curl around my wrist. “You need to eat.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Obviously.” Irritation flashes in his eyes and he rakes his free hand through his hair. “Christ, Juliet, a man needs the patience of a saint with you. Now get over here.”

  His disgruntled expression calms me in a way that softness couldn’t have.

  I need his humanness in the face of mine. Especially when I’m so far from perfect.

  In answer, I shift until I lie on my back and place my head on his thigh.

  He brushes my hair off my cheeks. “Was that so hard?”

  “Yes.” I meet his gaze. “But it was easier than it should be.”

  “Progress.” He reaches into the bag next to him to pull out one of the sandwiches he’d brought to my office. Green eyes flicker to my mouth, cling for a moment before he hands it to me.

  Our fingers touch and a jolt of awareness runs up my arm. Damn chemistry. It’s so strong between us, almost a live, tangible thing. It messes everything up, makes him impossible to resist.

  For today, I decide, I don’t need to think about it. The truth is I want to be with him, in this moment. I want to forget all the reasons I’m sure he’ll hurt me. I’ve been aching for him and now he’s here.

  I’ll treat it like the gift it is. For now.

  I unwrap the paper that holds the lunch he’s brought me. It’s a girl sandwich, stuffed full of vegetables and some sort of white spread on multi-grain bread. Suddenly my stomach growls and I realize how empty it is. I take a bite. It’s delicious. I moan with appreciation. When I swallow, I say, “This is so good.”

  “I got it from a store by my office, the girl at the counter insisted you’d love it.” He toys with a lock of my hair as he smiles down at me.

  “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I will later.” He chuckles. “I’m assuming you don’t want stray crumbs falling over your face.”

  “True enough, but I can get up.” I move to sit, but the palm of his hand flattens over my stomach, pushing me back down.

  “Don’t even think about it.” His thumb strokes the under curve of my breast and my nipple beads in response, as though begging to be touched. “I’ve pictured you lying like this a million times, and you’re not ruining it for me.”

  I blink up at him. “You have?”

  “Yes, Juliet. I have.” He trails a finger over my ribs, between the swells of my breasts, over my collarbones before shifting strands of my hair through his fingers. “I don’t just want your body—although I want that almost to the point of desperation—I want you. All of you.”

  And today, I want him to have it.

  * * *

  The afternoon passes with a laziness I haven’t experienced in a long time. To my surprise, Christos is fun to be around, funny even. As the hours slip away, so does my guard, and I find myself relaxing. In all the ways I’ve pictured being with him, lying comfortably on a beach isn’t one of them.

  As we talked, he told me about his family, his mother and father who’d come over as Greek immigrants to rear him and his two younger sisters in America. He entertained me with stories of summers in Greece and even managed to slip in wanting to take me there. He said his family lived in a tiny village off the sea and it was the most beautiful spot in the whole world, and I believed him.

  I listen with rapt attention, asking him questions I’ve always wanted to know but never dared I’d get a chance to ask. His parents are still alive and he goes to their house for dinner every Sunday night. He’s close to hi
s sisters and their families. He has three nieces and two nephews he adores and lavishes with so many gifts he is often admonished by his sisters.

  He laughs. “My sister Anna didn’t appreciate it when I bought Peter a drum set.”

  A wide grin splits my face, and I shake my head. “He’s the nine-year-old?”

  “Yes. Demetrius,” he says, rolling the word over his lips so it is pronounced with an accent, “is eighteen months, a little too young to be a drummer.”

  I tuck a lock of hair behind my ears. “You know she’ll pay you back someday.”

  “That’s her promise.” His expression is resigned but his affection is clear in his tone. “I’ve gotten my fair share of drum solos left on my voicemail.”

  Since the day I met him, I’ve built him up in my mind as someone remote and untouchable. To find him so incredibly down to earth makes my perception shift. It’d been swaying for weeks, but now it settles. For the first time I look at him and see not the adversary, or the untouchable Greek god, but the man.

  Turns out he is human after all.

  Those green eyes catch mine and the world melts away. Silence and heat take the place of the cars and people. The waves lapping along the sand fade into the background and it’s just us.

  His eyes darken, and a subtle alertness tenses his muscles. Full lips fall open, as if to say something, but no words come. Amazed, I watch the intake of his breath expand his chest before he presses his mouth closed.

  I do this to him. Me. I put the desire and hunger in every line of his face.

  I give up. Right then and there in the middle of Oak Street beach, I touch him. Reach for him. One finger traces the path over the line of his strong jaw.

  I marvel as he stiffens under my touch.

  I touch a spot under his ear, smooth over the cords of his neck, skim down his Adam’s apple, into the hollow of his throat. His mouth beckons, and I run the pad of my thumb over the curve of his lower lip. Smooth and slightly damp, the brush of his skin acts like an electric shock that rockets up my arm.

  Tension radiates off him, and I can feel his power in his restraint.

  I love the coil of his muscles, the pull and bunch under my fingertips. Revel in the way he holds himself in check as he lets me explore. Dominance is part of his nature and I know how hard it is for him not to take over.

  It makes me want him all the more. Moreover, it makes me want to feel that passion unleashed and unrestrained.

  I dip my head so our mouths are only a fraction of an inch apart, but instead of kissing him, I lick. Run my tongue over his bottom lip. Stroking. Teasing. Pleasure and desire spiral through me as his fingers dig into my thighs, but he remains absolutely still. Letting me have my way.

  I nip. My teeth sinking into the plump flesh as I run my palms over his chest, loving the way he flexes like a panther ready to pounce.

  I brush my mouth over his and whisper, “I want something.”

  “Anything,” he says in a hoarse voice.

  I lift my head and meet his gaze, wanting him to understand this isn’t a joke. “I want what you described from your conference room fantasy.”

  The late-afternoon sun pours over his hair so it gleams blue-black and his eyes flash. “Tell me.”

  “Fuck me.” I brush my lips against his. “Possess me. Fill me up.”

  Dark lashes close as he breathes in deep, and moments stretch between us. When he looks at me again, my stomach clenches.

  The predator is out.

  And I want him more than I want air.

  Long fingers grip my chin. “If I do, you’ll be mine. And I’ll never let you run again.”

  It’s exactly what I want, what I need—not to be allowed to run, but I don’t say any of this. Instead, I meet his gaze and say simply, “I know.”

  6

  Neither of us speaks. I stare out the window of the cab, my fingers pressed to my lips, watching the endless parade of buildings and people. A car honks in the distance accompanied by the screech of tires against asphalt. The sounds of the city are a low buzz in my ears. All the while, my concentration is fixed on the press of Christos’s solid frame against mine, the heat of his body warming my skin, the feel of his attention focused on me.

  His large palm comes to rest on my bare leg and I about jump out of my skin at the contact. He squeezes, shifting closer, his fingers brushing the inside of my knee. He strokes. Toys. Dallies in a spot I’d never thought was sensitive until every brush of his fingers against my skin makes my cunt clench. My nipples bead so tight, the sensation almost painful it’s so keen.

  I feel like Michelle Pfeiffer in The Age of Innocence, in the back of that carriage as Daniel Day-Lewis slowly unbuttons the catch of her white glove and plays over the pulse in her wrist.

  One innocent touch capable of creating so much havoc.

  I’m sure Christos can hear the pounding of my heart, which beats so hard and so fast, I can feel it between my legs. Pulsing and throbbing for attention. Need so acute I don’t know how to handle it as it strums through me.

  It’s pure agony.

  A tiny gasp escapes my throat and he seems to understand because his gentle touches still. Heat sears me as he drops his lips to the shell of my ear. “Shh, it’s okay, I’ll take care of you.”

  A couple of weeks ago, that statement would have been met with claws, but instead I dig my nails into the purse clutched tightly in my lap and don’t say a word.

  His fingers move higher. My skirt slides up my bare thigh. I glance nervously in the rearview mirror, expecting to see the eyes of the cabbie on us, but to my surprise, he seems not to be paying any attention as his hands beat against the steering wheel in time to the music.

  It’s odd to be in so much turmoil, wrapped in so much lust, and have it be oblivious to the stranger in the front seat.

  “Don’t worry about him.” Christos nips at the lobe of the ear. “Open for me.”

  In response, my legs clamp tightly together and he chuckles—a low, wicked sound that sends another surge of wetness between my legs.

  “Look at me,” he says in a tone so soft and yet so commanding.

  I have no choice but to obey.

  Slowly I turn to meet his eyes, almost frightened by what I’ll see.

  His gaze is hot, filled with passion. “Open.”

  I do. My thighs part and his fingers stroke up my skin. I swallow hard when he touches the soft, plump curve of my inner thigh, but instead of moving higher as I expect, he starts that relentless playing again.

  Our gazes lock as he circles his fingers over my flesh.

  Again and again and again.

  My pulse beats wild and erratic in my throat, matching the squeezing pull of my pussy that wants his hard cock. His fingers. His mouth. Anything he will give me. I’m desperate with greed. Sweat beads at my temples as I clench my teeth, my hands clasp so tight on my purse I’m sure I’ll gouge the leather.

  His breath has also quickened, and I sense the strain in his body as he keeps up his playing. Out of nowhere a sharp stab of pleasure makes me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. Shocked, my eyes widened as I realize I’m close to orgasm. My mind rejects the idea as impossible, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s true.

  I’m coiled so tight, my cunt throbbing, need spiraling higher and higher until I’m on the verge of exploding, and all he’s done is touch my leg while he stares into my eyes.

  The intensity frightens me and I start to move back. Suddenly he has a vise grip on my leg.

  “No.” The word a hard, harsh sound on his lips. “I want it all, Juliet. You will not hide from me.”

  “But—” I say, only to be cut off by a brutal kiss that’s over too quickly.

  With the hand not stroking my quivering inner thigh, he pries my fingers off my purse and presses my palm to his cock. He’s hard, his erection like steel through his jeans. “This is how it is with us. There’s nothing we can do but give in.”

  I wrap my hand a
round his shaft as best I can. He presses his forehead into mine and mutters a low, “Jesus.”

  All I want is to feel that satin-smooth skin on my hand. Bare. Naked. No barrier. I circle the head of his cock like he circled my inner thigh, and his eyes close. “It’s hard to make a point here with you doing that.”

  And with that, my fear ebbs away. It’s exactly what I need to hear. This thing between us that I refuse to name, it’s okay as long as he’s there with me.

  In this moment, I believe he is.

  The car sways to a stop, throwing both of us off balance. I glance out the window, almost surprised to find us in front of my red-bricked townhome.

  From the front seat the driver says, “Twelve fifty.”

  Christos shifts to lean back on the black vinyl seat, cracked from age and overuse, and I huddle against the door. He lifts his hips to withdraw a folded stack of bills. As he rifles through the money, nerves kicked in.

  He pulls me from the taxi, his grip sure and strong, comforting in my sudden distress. Before I can gain solid footing, he’s yanking me up the stairs, practically running. I fumble after him, my head swimming with lust and fear.

  A heel catches on a crack and I stumble, using the concrete banister to catch myself. Breathless, I yell, “Christos.”

  He freezes, looking back at me over one shoulder, a frown on his lips. Suddenly, he shakes his head as though clearing it from a daze and rakes his hand through his hair.

  “Fuck.” He walks back down the two steps and holds out his palm. “Give me your keys.”

  “I’ve got it.” I start to rummage through my purse, finding them shoved in the bottom corner.

  Before I can speak he plucks the set from my fingers and splays the keys out like a deck of cards. “Which one?”

  I point to the middle one.

  With a nod, he takes a deep breath that fills his chest and slowly exhales before he cups my chin. With infinite care, he dips his head and brushes my mouth with his.

  It’s like kindle burst into flames.

  I think he’d meant it to be a gentle, calming kiss, although I can’t be sure. One second his lips are soft against mine and the next our mouths are crushed together. A hard, brutal bruising of lips and tongue and teeth that has me clutching at his shirt and his fingers digging into my hips.