Surrender (5 page)

Again, she turns around. This time she places her hands on my shoulders and dips closer and closer. Until I lock my arms around her waist.

“Is this your typical table dance?” I hope not.

She shakes her head and starts to back away, but I won’t let her go.

“Please, answer me.” Jealousy floods my heart.

“No,” she says. “It’s not. What the hell do you think I am?” I get the
you stupid asshole
look.

I release her and she swoops down to retrieve her dress.

“I’m sorry.” I reach for her hand.

“Don’t be,” she says. “Meet me outside in an hour.”

With that, she storms out of the VIP, leaving me with a raging hard-on.

It’s ten o’clock when Robyn exits the club. She’s alone. I get out of my truck and walk toward her. She’s not happy, but she joins me.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Drive me to the beach.”

I walk to the passenger door and open it. “Get in.”

She does so without hesitation. We drive in uncomfortable silence, barreling across the JFK Bridge at a hundred miles an hour. We hit the end of Whitecap Boulevard and I stop feet from the water.

I’m beyond frustrated—almost angry that she’s put me in this position. I’m very protective of women. But I’m also a man. “Why are we here?” I ask.

She swallows, obviously uncertain about what to do.

“Do you accept rides from strangers often?” I know she doesn’t, but I need to be the only one.

She looks at me incredulously. “No.”

“Are you involved with someone? Is that what this is all about?” Again, I know the answer. My questions make her more uncomfortable. She’s squirming, throwing me death looks.

“If I were,” she says, “I wouldn’t be here.”

I believe her. She’s a good girl. “How long has it been?”

She shakes her head. “Why can’t you ask me normal questions? My last name, or what I like to do?”

“Is that why we’re here, Robyn? To make small talk?” I hate speaking to her like this. But I refuse to take this to the next level if she’s scared. “How long?” I press.

“Too long,” she whispers.

The truth speaks volumes. She’s afraid to let go. I shove the seat back all the way and turn toward her. “Come here.” It’s not a friendly request.

She responds immediately, straddling me. Our mouths collide violently. I’d suck her inside me if I could. She whimpers as I plunge my tongue inside her mouth. My hands work frantically to get underneath her soft cotton T-shirt. She’s braless and I clamp onto her breasts possessively, filling my hands with soft flesh. She’s all over me, pressing against me, raking her teeth across my lips. She’s unbelievable. She melts into me, and I shift underneath, guiding her lithe form across my crotch. Our kisses grow deep and desperate. She tastes like vanilla. And her velvet skin sets my fingers on fire. I relieve her of her shirt. My hands and mouth claim her firm breasts. I suck violently on both nipples, moving from one to the other in a blind frenzy. She throws her head back, moaning with pleasure.

“Robyn . . .”

“Don’t stop now!” she cries.

Her hand burrows between my legs. I clench my teeth as she massages my dick through my pants. I’m glad I didn’t wear Levis tonight. The soft material doesn’t inhibit her hands. She grabs a handful and rubs me up and down. I feel liquid seep from the head of my cock. I flip her over, laying her across my generous front seat. She looks as helpless as a virginal sacrifice. And I want to sink my dick inside her—it’s killing me to hold back. I lean down, running my tongue up her flat belly, following the curve of her body until I reach her slim throat.

She’s incredible.

Our mouths meet again, and I nip her bottom lip. “I want you . . .” I whisper near her ear.

She’s breathless. Hot and ready to go. But it wouldn’t be right. I know it. And I punch the ceiling. Care first, sex after. Especially if I want to see her again. We need more time together.

It startles her. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” I say fiercely. “And nothing.”

Tension emanates from her tiny body. A minute ago we were approaching the point of no return, yet now she’s staring at me, wondering if I’m going to blow her off. I don’t want to sabotage this. The attraction between us is staggering. But I know myself too well. If I start, I won’t be able to stop.

She reaches for me, but I grab her hands. I see the need in her eyes. “Wait,” I say. I curse myself a hundred times.

“But . . .”

“There’s time. Don’t rush into something you might regret later.” I don’t know how long I’m willing to go without fulfilling our needs. But I won’t screw this goddess in the front seat like she’s a nameless whore. Something about her drew me in the other night.
I’m an asshole
. Her eyes are wide with confusion, her lips swollen from my passionate kisses. Those perfectly shaped breasts heave every time she takes a breath.

I cup her face between both hands. “Will you trust me?”

Her hands slip up my waist, stopping on my chest. “With what?”

“Time,” I say.
And you . . .

Chapter Four

My alarm clock blares as loudly as a tornado siren. I flip over and smack the snooze button. Ten minutes later, I do it again. I don’t want to wake up. I most definitely don’t want to remember what
almost
happened last night. Whatever Garrick thinks, there was more to it than mindless sex. I’m just not sure what to call it yet. As soon as my head clears, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee gets me out of bed. I didn’t turn on the coffeemaker last night, but I know who did. Only one other person has a key to my apartment: Macey.

I grab my red silk robe off the back of the chair near my bed and put it on. I let it hang open. I’m wearing a tank top and panties. I go into the bathroom, flip the light switch, and stare in the mirror.
Yuck.
I look like a raccoon—there’s mascara smeared underneath my eyes. I wet a washcloth with warm water and gently wipe it off. Then I grab a scrunchie from the vanity drawer and slap my hair into a ponytail.

“What are you doing here at nine in the morning?” I call down to Macey. My apartment is loft style; the only thing separating my bedroom from the bottom floor is a cast-iron railing.

“I haven’t spent quality time with you all week,” she answers. I hear her clanking around in the kitchen.

I pad downstairs. The drapes on the sliding glass door are open, revealing that it’s overcast outside. I frown at the lack of sunshine and turn to the kitchen. There’s a large breakfast bar and I can see Macey through the opening. Turkey bacon sizzles loudly in a pan and I hear the toaster pop. “Breakfast, too?”

“Nothing’s too good for my girl.”

I slide onto the nearest bar stool. Macey is impeccably dressed. She’s wearing a vintage Dior ribbon dress and pretty flats. I shake my head; my friend dresses up to go shopping at H-E-B. We’re complete opposites in that respect. I adore jeans and boots.

“You look like shit,” she says, setting a mug of steaming java in front of me.

“Thanks.” I sip delicately.

“So what’s going on, Robyn?” She places her hand on her hip and gives me a look.

“Nothing,” I lie.

“Craig told me he saw you take off with some guy in a brand-new Silverado last night. You skipped out on your shift again.”

“He saw me?” I dodge her question.

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “What did you expect? He’s your shadow.”

“Did he tell anyone else?”

“No, he didn’t tell Henry.”

Our bar manager doesn’t like girls to leave with customers unless it’s a prearranged party through the business office. “So what’s the problem?” I ask.

“You were late to every stage—sat in the VIP with a hottie—and left with a customer. Isn’t that enough?”

She has a point. “I met someone.”

“Don’t make me fish for answers.”

I groan at her choice of words. “It’s complicated.”

“I know how secretive you try to be.” She takes a long drink from her cup and swallows loudly. “But you’re a creature of habit. Whenever you do something different, Robyn, everyone notices. It’s not a secret anymore.”

I sigh. For a high school dropout, my best friend has more common sense than most people.

“Who is he?”

“Garrick.”

She crinkles her nose. “What kind of name is that?”

I roll my eyes. “Just a name.”

“If you’re an English lord from a historical romance.”

“Screw you.” I laugh. “There’s some really good stories out there.”

“Yeah,” she teases. “And if you were having sex regularly, you wouldn’t need to live vicariously through romance names. Who names their kid Garrick?”

“An Irishman?”

“Is he Irish? That’s hot.” She raises a perfectly shaped brow.

“Maybe.”

“What’s his last name?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

She snorts. “You took off with a guy and don’t even know his last name?”

“You’ve
fucked
a guy and didn’t know his
first
name.”

“Touché.” She laughs and turns to the stove.

I watch her scoop bacon onto a plate, then butter toast. “Are you staying for breakfast?”

“Yeah.” She serves me. “I’m going to watch
you
eat.”

Robyn Rosary Gonzalez, born September 18, the same night she ran into me on the beach. After she drove away last night, I reviewed employee profiles in the business office at the club. Part of my duties include keeping track of all the dancers. In the three years she’s been employed at the Devil’s Den, Robyn has been written up twenty times. I smile. Every incident report reads the same: unidentified customer makes a rude remark or touches Robyn in an inappropriate manner and instead of reporting it to security, she throws a punch. Additional comments from the manager include
This behavior must be corrected immediately or the club may face serious litigation in the future.

She’s half-cocked and dangerous—just the way I like women.

It’s quiet this morning; Gretchen spent the night at her fiancé’s. I roll onto my side and stare out the window. Why can’t I get this girl out of my head? I press my lips together, realizing what a loser I am for stopping her before we had sex last night. I grab the pillow from the empty side of my king-sized bed and smash it against my face to stifle my groan.
Fuck.
I can’t take a piss with a hard-on. Throwing the pillow across the room, I slide out of bed. I walk downstairs to the kitchen and open the dishwasher. I swipe a mug from the top rack and knee the door shut.

I walk across the kitchen and roll my eyes. Gretchen insisted on getting one of those Gevalia coffeemakers last month and my morning brew hasn’t tasted the same since. It makes individual servings and the only flavor left is hazelnut. I’ll do without. I put the mug on the counter and go to the fridge. There are a couple of Whataburger taquitos left over from yesterday, and I throw them on a plate and stick them in the microwave. I’m starving.

I’m meeting Wesley Herschel at the gym at ten and can’t be late. I wash the taquitos down with some OJ and head upstairs to get dressed and brush my teeth.

A few minutes later I’m on the road. Morning traffic is getting worse in Corpus. The south side has grown at an alarming rate. I’m still not used to driving around after being away so long. My last stint ran five months. After the big oil spill, all senior engineers were put on extended duty. That’s part of the reason I resigned—I hated the hours. I flip the bird at an aggressive driver who nearly cuts me off as I turn right onto Staples Street. The parking lot is packed and I take the last available space. I grab my gym bag from the backseat and head inside. Wesley is hitting on a cute blonde in the back. I sign in, stash my bag behind the reception desk, and walk back there.

“Garrick.”

“Hey,” I say. We shake hands homie-style and I head to the Smith machine to do squats. Wesley joins me a few minutes later.

“What’s up?” he asks. “Looks like you haven’t slept in a week.”

I slam the last hundred-pound weight on the bar and shoot him a look.

“That bad?” He almost sounds sympathetic.

“Worse.”

“Who is she?” he asks.

“No one you need to know,
yet.
”

“Afraid of the competition?” He flexes his arm.

I grew up with Wesley and his twin brother, Winston. We played football together in high school and raised hell from San Antonio to Rockport. “No,” I laugh. “She likes men—not women.”

Wesley sticks his hands under his shirt, then extends his fingers from the nipples so it looks like he has tits.

The workout starts slow, but I gradually get into it, completing eight sets of squats. Next, we move to the leg press. Wesley racks three hundred pounds. It’s already 90 degrees outside and I’m sweating. Wesley grunts exaggeratedly as he extends his legs, and I laugh. He’s a total muscle head, and if there’s a girl watching, he’ll play it up.

We finish by noon and I head to the locker room to take a shower. I towel dry and put on a blue T-shirt and jeans. I comb my hair, then put on some Clive Christian 1872 cologne. I meet Wesley up front. “What’s going on tonight?”

“Wanna grab a beer at Doc Rockit’s?” he asks.

“Who’s playing?”

“Not sure.” He shrugs.

“Yeah, I’ll meet you at eight.” My cellphone rings. I answer while I’m walking outside.

I don’t know how Macey convinced me to get showered and dressed in under an hour, but she did. I’m wearing a miniskirt and white lace blouse with sandals—to the grocery store! And instead of heading to the school library to meet my lab partners, we’re on the hunt for football-shaped pasta for her party next Sunday. The Philadelphia Eagles (my team) are playing the Cowboys—in Dallas. If Macey could pull it off, she’d get box seats.

I glance at my watch. “If we’re not out of here in an hour,” I say curtly, “my classmates are going to report me as a no-show to my professor. If that happens, Macey, I’m billing you for the semester.”

Instead of acknowledging my tight schedule, she shrugs nonchalantly. “After we find the party favors I’ll drive you to school.”

“Really?” I should know better; Macey’s priorities revolve around how much fun she can have. As we scan the shelves, I see a familiar face in my periphery.