The Beauty of Surrender (25 page)

She turned and led him into the kitchen; it felt safer than the living room. All too easy to make out on the sofa.

When was the last time she’d made out with a man on the sofa?

She gestured, and he sat at the table, looking larger than ever in her apartment, sitting in the white-painted ladder-back chair. She went to the refrigerator, returned with a bottle of San Pellegrino and two glasses with ice, set them on the table.

James picked up the bottle. “Allow me.”

He poured for them both, and she sat down in the chair next to him.
Too close. Not close enough
.

“So,” she began, “you wanted to talk about last night.”

“Yes. Last night. About what’s happening with us in general. About what happens to me when … when you tie me up. I want to tell you. It feels … significant.”

“Tell me, then.”

He paused, watching her, and she felt as though he could see right inside her, could see how her body heated under his gaze, how damp her panties were already, with him simply sitting next to her.

But he was talking again and she had to concentrate. “When I came to you I wanted something very specific. To hit subspace, to go really deeply in, to lose myself. To find peace.” She nodded. “We discussed all of that at our first meeting.”

“Yes. But I didn’t know exactly what it was I needed until it happened.”

“Are you saying you’ve found that peace already?”

“In a way. But it didn’t happen the way I expected.”

“What do you mean?”

He ran a hand through his dark hair, leaving it a little mussed and spiky on top. “I was looking for a way to find a sort of mindless space, an escape. But what I needed, ultimately, was to face the shit going on in my head. The part I didn’t want to face. The anger.”

“I felt that in you last night.”

“I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

“No, not at all. You seemed to be able to channel it.”

He leaned in a little, and she caught the male scent of him. Something about the way this man smelled … She took in a slow, deep lungful, careful that he not see what she was doing.

Lovely
.

“Marina.” His voice was low, a little rough, urgent, making the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up as he reached over and wrapped his hand around her wrist. “I need to go there again. With you. Tonight, if possible. I know I am not in a position to make demands.”

Oh, if he only knew.

“No, I mean … it’s fine. I’m glad I’m able to help.”

“Marina, stop it.”

“What?”

“Stop trying to remain so damn aloof. We both know you’re not so indifferent. This is not a pro job, for God’s sake. I feel something, with you. Something powerful. I don’t even know what it is. But this dynamic could not happen unless we were on the same page. And I’m pretty damn sure I’m not making it up, that this is not something my mind has invented. This is the power play, but it goes beyond that usual kind of being in sync. Tell me you don’t feel it, too,” he demanded. “Tell me.”

He was gripping her wrist hard, and she had to resist the urge to pull away. It was all too intense, suddenly. But he was right.

“Okay. Yes. There is something happening. And yes, I feel it, too. Of course I do.”

He sat and stared at her, unblinking, his eyes liquid gold and chocolate brown in the bright light of the kitchen. She couldn’t look away.

“I need to do it again.” He said it once more, quietly. She nodded her head once, stood. He came up with her, still holding on to her wrist.

“Take me there, Marina.”

Chapter Eight

J
AMES WATCHED
M
ARINA
as she worked, bent over him, moving her hands as though in some sort of dance: kinky, beautiful. She’d stripped him down with her own hands, and he’d been hard before she laid the first rope on his body. Now he was bound to the long, narrow bench in her guest room. He was on his back, so much rope on him he was immobilized. He felt that sliding sensation as his mind let go, yet he was acutely aware of Marina at his side, her soft hands on him, working the ropes, the occasional stroke of her fingertips against his skin.

Fucking amazing, what this woman’s touch did to him. And even as conscious thought began to slip away, his mind to loosen, the awareness of his state of arousal anchored him in his body, holding him to the earth.

He took one last look at Marina, the fall of auburn hair around her shoulders, her cool, crystalline gray eyes, the silken curve of cheekbone. The softness and concentration of expression on her face. He felt her watching him, and watching over him. As soothing as she was stimulating.

He was going warm all over, his skin heating, as it often did
when he was bound. It crept over his body and into his head, and he opened himself to it. He felt himself drifting and had a moment of panic, that fear of letting it all go, but Marina was right there.

“James, you have to let it happen if this is going to work. Do your breathing. Come on, follow my voice, my breath. You know how to do it.”

She wrapped one hand around the back of his neck; her palm was warm. His cock grew harder, but it didn’t distract him from what was happening in his head. If anything, it made it easier somehow.

Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper. “Good, James. You’re going down.”

He sank into it, into subspace, letting his vision blur, fade into blackness, his mind emptying even faster than it had with her before. Her hand was still on the back of his neck, keeping him in his body, so that his mind was free to roam.

The places came first in a jumble: Baghdad, San Salvador, Angola, Timor, Bosnia, and finally the red dirt road leading out of Bujumbura.

There was a small herd of goats, a brown-and-white kid kicking up its heels as it followed its mother, the only happy creature he’d seen in Burundi—hell, anywhere he’d been in Africa—and it made him smile.

That was the last time he’d smiled for a very long time.

The Jeeps racing up the road from behind them. Three of them, driving up alongside their van, the rapid demand over and over for them to pull over. So many of them, dressed as soldiers, spilling from the Jeeps almost as though they were clown cars. Except there was nothing funny about it. It was hard to tell if they were government troops or guerillas. Didn’t matter. Things happening in a blur after that: yelling; he didn’t know what they were saying, just the certainty that this was going to be very bad.

They were pulled from their van, forced to their knees on the side of the road, lined up like paper targets in a shooting gallery.
Brian Reynolds first, being pushed face-first into the red dust, a booted foot on the back of his head, then the first gunshot, God damn it, and Reynolds was dead.

His gut clenched.

God damn it!

Blood everywhere, the metallic smell of it, mixing with the dust. Fucking helpless, not a damn thing he could do, just watch out of the corner of his eye as they shot their Burundian guide in the head. Then squeezing his eyes shut while they killed Foster and Garman, waiting for his turn.

It never came.

Blood everywhere, and none of it his. Those fuckers driving off, just leaving him there with his hands clasped behind his neck.

But no, it was Marina’s hand at the back of his neck.

“James, it’s okay,” she whispered.

No, it was not okay. It was fucking not okay!

He tried to bolt, but the ropes held him. Held his body so damn tightly he couldn’t move, but he fought them anyway.

“Shh
, James. Just breathe.”

Didn’t she know he couldn’t breathe? He could not fucking breathe!

Rage tore through him, twisted his gut into a tight knot, poured through his system, hot and white. Like lightning in his veins.

He. Could. Not. Breathe.

He gasped for air, but his lungs were so damn tight. Didn’t matter; he should die right here. He’d missed his turn.

Struggling against his binds, his muscles strained until they hurt. Pain all over his body, the rope biting into his flesh. He was breaking a good, hard sweat.

He’d missed his fucking turn!

But no, that was ridiculous. Was that really what he’d felt all this time? What he’d been hiding from himself?

God, he hated those motherfuckers, those murderers! Not a
damn thing he could have done about it, with their guns pointed at his head, the long machetes in their hands. Not a God damn thing.

He yelled “Fuck!” and opened his eyes, found Marina watching him, her brows drawn together.

He was panting, dazed, but the rage was melting into a hot pool. It simmered in him still, but the ropes helped him contain it. But only for so long. It had to go somewhere eventually.

He said through clenched teeth, “Okay, Marina. Let me out.”

He thought she’d argue with him. That she’d be afraid. Hell, he’d be afraid, if he were her right now. But she just nodded, and in moments he was free.

He wasn’t even hard anymore. He just …
needed
.

With a growl he grabbed her, pulled her tight, and closed his mouth over hers. Her lips were sweet, so damn sweet, and he opened her up with his tongue. She was going loose already, and he was hard again instantly. He ground his cock against her, started to tear her clothes from her body.

Have to see her, touch her, fuck her
.

He could feel her trembling, could feel her desire coming off her like waves of heat as he stripped her bare. Then he thrust a hand between her thighs, found her wet.

“Christ, Marina.”

“Come on, James. Come on …”

Lord, to hear her beg like that. To hear her need, almost screaming at him, drowning out the shit in his head. Yeah, just be with her, inside her body, feel her need, feed his own. Feast on her.

He pushed her down on the bed, spread her thighs, and lowered his head between them. He took her with his mouth; first with his lips, then with his tongue, drawing it over her wet hole, the hard nub of her clit, sucking on her flesh: clit, pussy lips. She was grinding into his face and he wanted her to, wanted her writhing as she was now, making little mewling noises.

He pulled back long enough to demand of her, “Come, Marina.”

“Oh …”

She spread her legs wider for him and he dove in once more, sucking, licking, using his hands, pressing two fingers inside her, her pussy like wet fucking silk. He worked her hard, thrusting with his fingers, curving them to rub against her G-spot. And she was moving her hips, really shoving her beautiful pussy against his face, loving it, needing it.

Then she was coming, her insides clenching around his fingers, her hips pistoning, and there was a rush of liquid, soaking his hand, his face, sweet and hot. And still he worked her, still she came, calling his name.

“God, James! James, James …”

Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. He left her long enough to find his pants, to pull a condom from the pocket and roll it onto his cock. He was rigid as steel, his own touch as he slipped the condom on almost too much as he watched Marina on the bed, her breasts flushed, her mouth soft and loose. Her hair was everywhere.

He laid down on the bed beside her, rolling to his back, pulling her on top of him.

“Fuck me now, Marina.”

A small smile from her, a touch of triumph in it.

“You are not in control here,” he told her quietly.

The smile was gone immediately, replaced by something softer, more yielding. And she went loose in his hands as he gripped her hips hard, guided her onto him, her long legs straddling his body. One sharp thrust upward and he was inside her, impaling her. And he held her tight as he pumped up into her.

“Fuck me, Marina,” he told her again, and she began to move, her hips arching as she took him in, ground down onto him. So damn good, pleasure rolling over him like thunder. And she kept at it, riding him, bucking and lunging like some wild thing, riding his anger as much as she was his body.

He reached up and took her nipples between his fingers, felt
them harden, watched as they went a dark red. He pinched, she cried out, her head falling back, her lips parting. He pinched harder.

“James, fuck!”

“Am I hurting you?”

“Yes … please … hurt me.”

He twisted that tender flesh harder, pulling, pinching. She was grinding against him, her pussy holding his cock like a gauntlet of pure pleasure. And he felt the anger flooding out of his body and into hers, then dissipating, fading away.

She was coming again, that hot sheath clenching his cock, milking him. And he thrust deeper, fucking her, fucking her. Needing to hurt her just a little.

“Oh … James, God …”

His climax hit him like a blow to the gut, pleasure ramming into his system, his body convulsing. He was coming so damn hard, pumping the anger into her as he came. He was shuddering all over, and it was so damn good, almost too good, almost painful.

Only when it was over did he see how his fingers had dug into her hips, leaving dark red marks on her pale skin. But there was something beautiful about it. Something about it making her
his
.

She collapsed onto him, her lithe body stretched out over his. He felt dazed, light, as though his brain had been wiped clean.

No need to think about anything at all right now
.

Fucking bliss.

He lay with her for a while, maybe dozed for a few minutes. When she sighed he turned his face, held hers in his hands, kissed her. She was pliant, still. And there was something about seeing her that way, feeling that yielding, that made his cock stiffen again. But there was no more animal in him. He just wanted to
be
with her. To touch her. Just … touch her.

He’d think about what the hell that meant later.

“Marina. Come into the shower with me.”

“Yes …”

They got up and he took her hand. “Show me where.”

“This way.”

She led him across the hallway, through what he realized vaguely must be her bedroom, which felt oddly intimate to him. Just seeing her space, the place where she slept. Light filtered in from the hallway, dimly illuminating the room, and he glanced at the big bed covered in a deep, plum-colored silk and piles of pillows.