Slow Surrender (25 page)

Becks had clearly come to the same conclusion. She was crying a little. “You had unbelievable epic hot sex with the most wanted man in the world…and you scared him off,” she said. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I do know that first thing Monday morning, I’m going to report Renault for being a pervert.”

Beyond that, the whole future was murky, like clouds in a crystal ball. Of handblown glass.

Cecilia Tan is the award-winning author of eight novels and three collections of erotic short stories, including
Black Feathers
,
White Flames
,
The Siren and the Sword
,
The Prince’s Boy
, and
Daron’s Guitar Chronicles
. Nearly all her fiction features erotica, love stories, and BDSM in some form, and they are not entirely “fictional.” Tan is the winner of the National Leather Association’s “Lifetime Achievement” award and the Pantheon of Leather “President’s Award” (the equivalent of being the Kinkster Laureate), and she is a past recipient of the NLA: International Writing Award. Susie Bright has called her “simply one of the most important writers, editors, and innovators in contemporary American erotic literature.” She has a masters in writing from Emerson College and lives and blogs in the Boston area.

See the next page for a preview of

I
stepped off the plane in London, already tired and sleep-deprived. By the time I got through customs, it was even worse. Martindale said I should tell them I was there on vacation and not to mention work, but the customs agent seemed so friendly, inquiring about my visit, it hadn’t occurred to me it was anything more than idle chitchat. I mentioned looking forward to the show at the Tate. His questions got more and more pointed until I finally had to say I was there for a job interview—just an interview!—and that if I got a job, the Tate would be handling the paperwork. I guess there was a terrible glut of art historians looking for work in the UK if they were out to protect their jobs so fiercely.

Either way, it was a lie. Reginald Martindale, the museum curator James had introduced me to, wanted me as a tour guide for special groups through the pre-Raphaelite exhibit they were opening in a week. Only a temporary job, but it was still a job of sorts, and a good excuse to leave New York.

I still didn’t have my degree. After I’d reported my thesis advisor for sexual harassment, all hell had broken loose. I told the truth: He’d said he’d approve my dissertation if I granted him sexual favors. He lied and said that I was the one who came on to him, trying to get him to pass me in exchange for favors instead of rewriting my thesis. The full inquest period was sixty days, which made me miss graduation anyway. At this point, my thesis draft was in the hands of the department for evaluation and Renault was being forced to take academic leave until the inquest was over. I wasn’t hopeful about the thesis. It was a first draft—I’d expected to work on it after he read it—and I knew I had cut corners in it. On top of that, he had friends and allies in the department and the dean’s office who defended him and didn’t believe me. Some had called for a misconduct investigation of me. Others had called me a slut.

Right now, I had done all I could do and had taken all I could take. It was a good time to get away from school for a while.

As soon as I got through customs, I bought a refillable phone from an airport vending machine and studied the “top up” instructions for a long time before I figured out how to use it. You’d think it wasn’t English, but maybe that further proved how tired I was. I went into the small newsstand and paid the cashier, who gave me a receipt with a code on it. I texted the code to the number and magically, the phone worked.

I sat down on a bench with my suitcase and texted a number I’d memorized:
I told a lie today, but it was sort of a necessary one. You know I try not to tell them at all, but it was a customs officer at Heathrow giving me the what for. I was afraid he’d send me right back to New York City. I’m in London.

When I sent the text, it made a pleasant whooshing sound, as if it were flying through the ether directly to James’s ear.

James Byron LeStrange. I had no idea if I would ever see him again. I clung to a few ragged hopes that I would. For one, the phone he had given me never died. Someone was still paying for it. Maybe he hadn’t noticed, in his vast riches, that the account was still being paid? But maybe not. I had hurt him badly the last time we saw each other. I knew that now. But in the months that had passed since that fateful night, I had not stopped loving him.

I sent him a text every time I told a lie. Sticking to the rules. Being a good girl. Even if Stefan, his driver, was the only person who saw the texts, I hoped he’d relay the messages since he was the last person with the phone. The texts never bounced, anyway. And Stefan knew all about me and how James had abandoned me, so I didn’t mind him seeing the messages, if he still had the phone in his possession.

I hoped they weren’t breaking Stefan’s heart. He was a nice guy and a friend when I needed one.

I figured out how to get a transit card and then caught the Underground to King’s Cross, where I had booked two nights in a cheap hotel. The place was barely a step above a hostel, with shared bathrooms, but at least I would have a private sleeping room.

It was nearing the end of August. I hadn’t seen James since the beginning of April.

At the hotel, the clerk was a young Indian man, unfailingly polite, his shirt buttoned all the way up the collar but with no tie. He explained what time breakfast was, apologized that the water pressure in the shower was not very good, and handed me a card with the Wi-Fi password on it. When I got up to my room, I found it was so small I literally could not get in without crawling onto the bed.

The window was open and I could see the towers of the St. Pancras train station at the end of the block.

I decided to try out the old phone and see if it worked internationally. I turned it on and found the hotel’s Wi-Fi signal. I decided not to chance running up a huge roaming charge and connected that way.

I texted:
I got called a slut and a whore for reporting sexual harassment at the hands of my thesis advisor. Yet when I rode naked in the back of a limousine and screamed from orgasm as we drove through the streets, I was cherished and praised finally. I know which world I’d rather live in.

The next morning, I made my way to Martindale’s office. Here’s where I confess I told another lie. I had told Martindale I was coming for the job. I had jumped at the chance to see this major exhibit, 150 paintings, and to get out of New York, but I had one more ulterior motive. I was there to pump him for information about James. Rumors were swirling through the Lord Lightning fan community that he was in England somewhere and that he might not be retired after all. If he was here, maybe I had a chance. And if Martindale knew anything, maybe that furthered my chances.

I had to find out.

I was in my best clothes, rumpled from being crammed in my bag on a transatlantic flight. Martindale was also unfailingly polite and didn’t mention the wrinkles. He sat behind a desk strewn with
objets d’art
and I recognized a paperweight as James’s work. I waited until we had gone through all the formalities, and I’d given him the briefest sketch of how strife in the art history department had led to me leave the university without my degree in hand.

“You think you’ll have it eventually?” he asked.

“It’s mostly a matter of paperwork,” I said. “I may have to go back to defend, if they’ll let me. It’s very political.”

“Well, I certainly understand how political both the art world and the university system can be. For what it’s worth, I thought your doctoral dissertation to be top-notch. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Thank you.” I blushed a little from the praise. “I have a favor to ask, though, if I could?”

“Of course, my dear, what is it?”

“Our mutual friend, the man who introduced us. I’ve…fallen out of touch with him. I would love to at least know how he’s doing? If that’s not too much to ask?”

Martindale folded his hands on his stomach. “Yes, the enigmatic J. B. Lester. Well, you know, he can be a bit of a recluse.”

“I know.”

“He’s been impossible to reach lately. And he owes me a piece.”

“Oh,” I said, since I didn’t know what else to say.

He stared at his hands for a long moment. “It’s funny you should ask about him today, as I did get a small package in this morning’s post. It contained no letter, no explanation, just some photographs.”

“Photographs? You mean, like actually printed on photo paper?”

He barked with laughter. “Yes, dear, actual photos. Take a look and tell me if you think they look like his work.”

He handed me the envelope and I shook out a small stack of four or five pictures. My breath caught the moment I saw them. I had no doubt they were from him.

The pictures were of a shoe. A slipper. A glass slipper.

Black Feathers

Daron’s Guitar Chronicles

The Incubus and the Angel

Mind Games

The Poet and the Prophecy

The Prince’s Boy

The Siren and the Sword

Telepaths Don’t Need Safewords

The Tower and the Tears

The Velderet

White Flames

Twenty-something Londoner Natalie Bowen is envied by many, but her personal life is a disaster until she hears about an exclusive weekend retreat called The Haven, a place that specializes in introducing people to pleasures they could never have imagined. Once at The Haven, Natalie meets the enigmatic and disciplined Simon, a man who is used to getting what he wants. And he’s decided he wants Natalie…

Romantics everywhere have been enthralled by Emily Brontë’s classic novel of the tragic love between beautiful, spirited Catherine Earnshaw and dark, brooding Heathcliff. Set against the stark, raw beauty of the English moors, Heathcliff, an abandoned orphan, recognizes his soulmate in wild, impulsive Catherine. And she cannot deny the all-consuming desire she feels for him, despite his low birth. Together they engage in a fiery affair—one that will possess them, enslave them, and change their destinies forever…

He steals her away to a deserted island, to the one place she’s dreamed of being—the one place she can’t go. He’s used to buying whatever he wants, but he can’t buy her. And how can she resist the magnetism of his body, the longing ache deep inside her? She wants him to take her but on her terms. Every attempt he makes to love her only hurts her. How can they go on like this? This is the story of how she was…taken.