The Beauty of Surrender (21 page)

He leaned into the tiles behind him and began to thrust. This was no slow, even pace; no, he was far too impatient for that. It was a hard plunge into his soapy fist, then another, and another, too fast and rough to keep any rhythm. And pleasure pouring through his system, Marina’s hot little mouth in his head.

He could imagine her taking him into her mouth. But no. It was him shoving his cock between her lips, making her eyes water, with her on her knees. Sucking him, sucking him, while he fisted a hand in her hair.

Marina!

His cock gave one hard throb, come flooding between his fingers, spraying the wall of the shower. And he kept coming, his body shaking.

Marina …

Finally it was over. He leaned his weight into the wall of the shower, letting the water wash away his sticky seed. His cock was still half hard.

Closing his eyes, he drew in one deep breath after another, trying to calm down. But it was no good. He needed her. Fucking
needed
her.

Not okay
.

He’d never needed anyone. Not like this. All he needed from her was her skill with the ropes, her knowledge of trance states, her ability to make him clear his mind of all the shit that had been layered there over the years. Years of war and violence and unbelievable emptiness. Everything he’d seen and felt, and especially everything he’d tried so hard
not
to feel.

He was feeling now.

God damn it
.

Marina Marchant was his one savior. And his worst nightmare. A woman he could fall for. A woman he could feel for. One he already did.

Chapter Five

A
NOTHER
M
ONDAY MORNING
, and it felt like a Monday, the sky outside the window of Marina’s office on Union Street a dark, threatening gray. Downstairs, the co-op gallery she rented office space from was just opening. The streets outside were quiet, still, the only crowds at the coffeehouses that dotted the street, two and three to a block.

She loved her office in the old brick building. It was small, but she didn’t need much space. Just her computer on the enormous antique desk in the bay window, a phone with multiple lines on which she brokered art for her upscale clients. The red leather-bound book where she kept her most precious information: her contacts around the world, people who knew the hottest up-and-coming artists, those mysterious folks who could find almost anything, no matter how ancient, how rare.

She could have worked from home, but she liked getting out of the house, liked being out in the world. It made her feel more connected, more plugged into the city, into life. But all week she’d been totally disconnected, had felt nothing from the city around
her. Nothing but a constant obsession with James. Where was he? What was he doing? Why the hell hadn’t he called her?

Nine days since James had left her house. Since he’d tried to kiss her. Since she’d let him.

He hadn’t called, hadn’t answered the e-mail she’d sent.

She should have been furious. With any other submissive she had agreed to train this would have been reason for dismissal. But she knew there was far more to his sudden disappearance than mere disobedience. This was much deeper. For James. For her.

She’d felt his fear that night. Felt her own. And she was more compelled than ever to explore things with him, the electric dynamic, the astonishing chemistry, the sense of connection, of knowing who he was. Of absolute wanting.

She couldn’t remember feeling so frustrated in her life, so damn helpless, except when Nathan had died. She didn’t like it any more now than she had then. Helpless was one thing she didn’t do well.

It was the one thing that prevented her from calling him: She couldn’t let him see her powerlessness. It would make it all too real. But she didn’t know how much longer she could stand not to see him, talk to him. And it was her responsibility to follow up with him, after a scene that had ended badly. She shouldn’t allow this lack of contact to continue. She owed him that.

That’s what she told herself, anyway, as she reached for the phone and dialed the number she’d memorized, just as she had every angle of his face, the curve of muscles in his long back, the scent of him.

She picked up a pen and tapped it against the wooden desk as the phone rang.

He probably wouldn’t answer it. She should leave a message, reminding him how important it was that they talk about what happened when she’d bound him.

God, the sight of his strong body in the ropes, his shoulders bunching …

“Hello.”

“Oh.” The pen dropped from her hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor at her feet. “James.”

“Marina?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet a moment. She couldn’t seem to get her brain to work, to speak to him.

“Are you there, Marina?”

“Yes. I’m here.” Her body flooded with relief, with heat. “I … we should talk, James.”

“I know. You’re right.”

No apology. But she hadn’t exactly expected one. Hell, she hadn’t expected to talk to him at all.

“Meet me tonight.” His voice was a little rough. Commanding. She couldn’t believe the way her body was melting.

Get ahold of yourself!

“Tonight’s not good for me,” she lied, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “Tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes, tomorrow, then. We should talk in person.”

He was taking over again.
Damn it
.

“Yes. Tomorrow. Come to my place.”

“We should meet in public, Marina,” he said softly.

“What? Why?” She was getting annoyed now.

He paused, a long silence that seemed to stretch interminably. “Because I don’t trust myself with you.”

She melted a little, unable to help that she loved the vulnerability in his admission. That mixed with his commanding tone a moment before. It was too good. She didn’t understand the effect it had on her.

“Alright, then.”

“Do you know a bar on the corner of Gough and Hayes called Absinthe?”

“Yes, I’ve driven by it. I’ve never been in.”

“Meet me there at eight, if you can.”

Ah, a small concession, a bit of manners, rather than him giving in to her.

She loved it, that he didn’t really give in to her. But that was all wrong, wasn’t it?

“I’ll be there,” she told him.

Another long pause. Then he said, his voice still low, “I’m looking forward to seeing you, Marina. And dreading it.”

Her stomach knotted. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t explain it any more until I see you.”

“Okay. I understand. A bit, at least. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

They hung up, and she was left gripping the phone in her hand. She felt oddly elated and empty at the same time.

What would he have to say to her tomorrow night? Would he tell her why he couldn’t see her again? Was that what this conversation would be all about? She couldn’t stand the thought of that.

Have to see him
.

Yes. See him, talk to him
.

Touch him
.

One more day. She could wait that long. But just barely.

J
AMES WALKED THROUGH
the light evening rain, passing the lit windows of the small shops, galleries, florists, and hair salons that lined Hayes Street. He didn’t mind it; he loved the rain. And this was no torrential downpour. There was just enough of it to make the streetlights gleam on the pavement, to bring out that smell of old, wet concrete and musty wood that was found in certain old cities. Always in San Francisco. It reminded him that he was home. And now, after everywhere he’d been, all the things he’d seen, that was all he wanted.

Except the woman he was about to meet.

A quick two blocks and he arrived at Absinthe. Small hammering in his chest, wondering if Marina was there yet.

Absolute pounding when he saw her, sitting by the window, the streetlights outside washing her skin in silver. Her hair was a fall of dark red, heavy and lush. It looked like pure silk. Her fingers were wrapped around a martini glass. Two olives, he noted, as he made his way through the press of small tables. The place smelled of good vodka and the faint scent of burnt caramel from the lavender crème brûlée the bar was known for.

She’s just a woman
.

A woman who twisted him all up inside. A woman who would set him free, if he could allow it to happen.

Fuck
.

Just sit, talk with her
.

“Marina.”

“James. Hi.”

She smiled, her mouth a red pout that widened slowly. She had a dimple in her right cheek; he’d never noticed it before. And he felt … charmed by it. That was the only word he could find to describe it.

He pulled out one of the cane-back chairs and sat down. A waitress approached immediately, and he ordered a Scotch before turning back to Marina.

“Thanks for coming. I know I don’t deserve it.”

She was quiet a moment, watching him. She didn’t look angry, but her eyes were a dark gray, flashing with some emotion he couldn’t identify.

“You’re right, you don’t.”

“Why are you making an exception, then?”

She glanced down at the glass in her hand. “I … don’t really know. And maybe that’s why I’m here. To find out.”

He nodded. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, either. I don’t know why I left your house the way I did.” He rubbed both hands over his thighs. “Fuck. No. I do know.”

She looked up, that cool, gray gaze on his. “Tell me.”

Where to start? How much to reveal? How much would
anyone want to hear about this shit? “Do you have a while? Because this is no short story, and I … I’d really like to explain myself. I’d like to try.”

She nodded. “Go on.”

Oh, she wasn’t giving him much, was she? But she was here, willing to listen to him.

“You know what I did for a living. That I traveled all over the world, reporting on the most horrific events. I spent years in all the war-ravaged countries, all of those places that are forgotten about once the war is over. And it’s never really over in those places, no matter what the governments say. I’ve been in El Salvador, Laos, Serbia, Iran, Africa.”

He paused as the waitress delivered his drink, took a good long swallow, let it burn its way down his throat.

“After a while, you think you’ve become numb to it. You pretend, anyway. That’s the only way to survive it. The things I’ve seen were … too awful to write about. Oh, I wrote my articles, then my books. But the worst of it just sits in my head. The worst of it I can’t even talk about. And after a while it … builds up.” He stopped, drank again, shrugged. But his fingers were tight around the cool surface of his glass, so tight it hurt a little. “I don’t know, maybe it’s different for other people who do this for a living. But this is how it is with me.”

“It sounds terrible, James. I don’t know how you did it. I couldn’t have.”

Had her eyes gone a little liquid, or was he imagining things?

“Someone had to do it. Someone had to tell those stories. Someone had to be willing not to forget about those people. Children and old men, the women the only ones ever left behind to care for everyone. Or try to, with no resources. They are so desperate, these people. You have no idea. Shit, now I’m starting to sound like one of those commercials asking for money for UNICEF. That’s not what I wanted to say.”

Marina leaned forward, put a hand on his arm. She wasn’t angry with him any longer; he could see that. And he really had not meant to use this stuff as some form of manipulation. It was simply part of his truth.

Her touch was warm …

He went on. “What I want to say is … I want to explain to you what goes on in my head.”

“Yes, tell me.”

He looked into her eyes. He read sincerity there. No pity. He couldn’t have gone on if she’d pitied him. This whole thing would never work if she did anything out of pity. Still, his stomach was in knots.

“You need to know this stuff is always simmering at the back of my mind. How it underlies everything I think, everything I do. That I got out because I couldn’t take any more. And I’m not ashamed to say that.”

“There’s no reason why you should be. There’s only so much anyone can take. And these other people, these other reporters, maybe their threshold is different than yours because they don’t feel as much. And I don’t believe that’s necessarily something to be proud of.”

“No. Neither do I.”

She smiled then, encouraged him to go on with a nod of her head.

“I don’t know if you can imagine what it’s like, to witness that kind of absolute suffering.”

“Yes. I can. Not on that scale, perhaps, but yes, I have been witness to terrible suffering.” She glanced away but not before he saw her eyes going damp, glossy. It was several moments before she turned back to him. “And after, sometimes all we can do is … withdraw. From the world. From ourselves …”

“Marina?”

“No, don’t mind me. I didn’t mean to say that to you.”

“But you did.” He leaned in, and when she would have looked away once more, he took her hand in his, felt a small shiver go through her. But he held on. “What is it?”

She shook her head, silent.

“I saw it, Marina. I saw something in you when we first met. I mentioned it, that dark place. It was one reason why I knew we could … work together. Why I knew you would have some understanding of me, of what I was searching for.”

“I remember,” she said quietly.

“Tell me.”

She shook her head again.

“Alright then. I’ll tell you more. And then maybe you’ll be willing to share with me whatever has hurt you so badly.”

She looked at him, her eyes flashing, haunted, her lush mouth trembling the tiniest bit. He didn’t let go of her hand.

“On my last trip I was in Africa. Burundi. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it; most people know more about Rwanda. They had a war in Burundi for twelve years. More than three hundred thousand Burundians died. Half a million people became displaced. It’s the same story as in so many other African nations. Poor drinking water, little or no food, no medical care. Rampant HIV. And even after the war was over, there was conflict between the ruling government and rebel forces. And it’s always the innocent who pay.”