The Beauty of Surrender (4 page)

He groaned.

That was exactly the problem. He wanted it too much with this girl. What he wanted most was fucking with his head for the first time in his life.

D
ESMOND WOKE TO
the sound of the telephone. He opened one eye and peered at the clock. Eight a.m. He was usually an early riser, but last night he’d been up until at least two in the morning, getting himself off over and over again. In the shower. In his bed. His body couldn’t seem to get enough. He couldn’t get her out of his mind.

Damn it
. He had to answer the phone; it could be a client.

“Hale here.”

“Desmond, it’s Marina.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Ah, a little grumpy this morning?”

He shoved a few pillows behind his head and leaned into them. “You are the only person on this earth who can get away with saying something like that to me.”

She laughed. “That’s because you don’t dare to contradict me any more than my playthings would.”

“Don’t push me, Marina. Someday I could have you in my ropes, you know.”

“Hardly. I’d just as easily tie you up.”

“It’s a standoff, then.”

“As usual. So, tell me, why the difficult morning?”

“I was up too late.”

“Work?”

“No.”

“You’re being very closemouthed, Desmond. You know damn well I called to talk about Ava, to see what you think about her.”

“I offered to work with her; you were there.”

“Yes. And?”

“And what?”

“Oh, come on, Desmond. I
was
there. I saw the way you looked at the girl.”

“How exactly did I look at her?”

There was a brief pause. “Like you were going to eat her alive.”

“Maybe I was.” He had to smile at that.

“So, you’re pleased with her?”

“So far. Yes.”

Marina laughed. “You really are keeping your thoughts about this one to yourself. Alright, I’ll let you do that. For now.”

“No one ‘lets’ me do anything, Marina,” he said, his voice low, mock-threatening.

“I’ll be sure to remember that. Meanwhile, let me know how it goes, will you?”

“I’m sure you’ll be talking with her, too.”

“Of course. I sent her to you. It’s my responsibility to follow up.”

“Of course.”

“You don’t sound pleased about that.”

“What? No, it’s fine. I understand perfectly well that this is how we operate.”

Marina was quiet a moment. “You’ll have to tell me what’s going on in your head sooner or later.”

“I’m not exactly the sharing type, Marina.”

“Maybe not. Neither am I. But still …”

“Alright, look, we’ll talk more later.”

“Yes, we will.”

He usually enjoyed these little battles of will between them, but this morning he was getting irritated.

“I need to get ready for work, Marina.”

“I’m being dismissed, am I? You’re in too lousy a mood to talk anyway. I’ll call you in a day or two and check in.”

They hung up. He ran a hand over his hair, pushing it back from his face. He
was
in a lousy mood. And he didn’t understand
why. Four orgasms last night shouldn’t make him wake up on the wrong side of the bed. Thinking about Ava certainly shouldn’t. Everything about her was good, great. Exciting. Thrilling as hell.

And maybe that was the problem. Maybe what was really bothering him was the dark suspicion that this girl was the one who could actually make him lose control for once in his life. For the first time since …

No, he didn’t need to think about that now, that awful night with Lara, and everything further in his past that experience had brought up. It had been ten years; why was he thinking of it now? He’d put that all behind him, had chosen a different path, made certain that loss of control would never happen again.

Don’t think about it
.

No, all he wanted to think about was Ava. To figure out what his response to her was about and how to get himself reined in.

Yes, definitely a little out of control where this girl was concerned.

Impossible. Unacceptable.

And quite possibly true.

God damn it
.

Chapter Three

A
VA SAT WITH
her laptop at her tiny painted kitchen table, a cup of coffee next to her keyboard. Wicked sat in the chair across from her, carefully using his paws to wash his face, his fur dark and gleaming. The cat was a silent companion, which she preferred. He was a little distant, occasionally demanding attention but mostly keeping to himself. He watched her, she thought, in somewhat the same way Desmond did: carefully, intently, with glossy green eyes she couldn’t fathom.

She had Desmond’s questionnaire in front of her, had been working on it since he’d called right after they’d met two days ago.

She’d done a few of these things before. The questions were usually the same: Did she like to be tied up? Spanked? Humiliated?

Yes, maybe, and no.

But some of the questions were more interesting this time, and she had to really think her answers through.

When had she first thought about bondage in sexual terms?

That was easy: almost from the beginning, as a young girl. Those early fantasies had caused that tingle between her thighs
even before she was able to understand what it meant. But they’d already talked a bit about that over coffee. She searched deeper.

She didn’t know where the rope fetish had come from. She remembered playing cowboys and Indians with the neighborhood kids, or pirates, that distinctly sexual thrill when she’d been the one tied to a tree. But that was just a childhood game. Or was it?

She closed her eyes and caught the fragment of memory at the edge of her mind: being tied to the tree in her neighbor’s yard, one of the boys running the ropes around and around her legs, in between her thighs, pressing against her summer shorts … that exquisite pressure, and the friction as he pulled the rope a little tighter.

Yes …

Her body was heating up, that lovely sensation returning as though she were ten years old again. She could almost feel the bark, rough and scratchy against her back, through the thin cotton of her tank top.

She forced her eyes open, typed it all onto the questionnaire, tried to focus on her task, to ignore her wet, needy sex. Next question.

What did she hope to learn from the ropes?

Ah, this one was much harder. She wasn’t quite sure how to answer. All she knew was that Desmond was going to teach her. About Shibari. About finding that space in her head she yearned for. And much more. She could feel it.

Desmond. So hard to concentrate with his image in her mind, with her body burning for him, burning for the ropes. She was submissive enough to really want to do this for him, answer these questions, but he was distracting her from her task every bit as much as he drove her need to do it and do it well.

Her head was spinning.

She sipped her coffee, tried to concentrate.

What did she hope to learn? She wanted to find a way to shut off the outside world, to focus inward. She wanted to learn to truly
give herself over to the process. Even if the idea scared the hell out of her.

She shook her head, picked up her coffee mug, stared out the window. The fog hung heavy in the air, low and close to the apartment buildings across from hers. If it hadn’t been for the fog, she’d be able to see the rising moon hanging over the ocean a dozen blocks away.

It was easier to think about the fog, the moon, than it was to think about what she was so afraid of, and why. But the seed had been planted and she couldn’t shake it off.

Michael.

She tried not to think about him too much anymore. She’d moved on with her life, she really had. But at times like this, when she was doubting herself, afraid to go after what she desired, she couldn’t help but remember the things he’d said to her, the way he’d made her feel. Dirty. Abnormal. Oh, yes, he’d used those words when she’d confided to him that she wanted to be tied up. But he’d done it, hadn’t he? Only the way he’d gotten off on it hadn’t been about sex. It had been about having power over her, and not in a good way.

She’d known even then that wasn’t how it was meant to be. And it hadn’t stopped her; she’d stayed with him for a year. But she knew her experiences with him had held her back on some level. Still did.

The problem was, she’d loved him. And that was what had made her so vulnerable to his judgment of her. That and the judgment she’d lived with her entire life from her family. It had all melded together: being judged by the people she loved. Or tried to love.

Michael had hurt her. And still she’d stayed. Until the hurt had become too big and she’d finally had the sense to leave him.

Picking up her coffee mug, she got up to refill it from the pot on the old green-tiled counter.

She loved her tiny kitchen, her small apartment in the old
stucco building. She felt safe there. Cozy, surrounded by her grandmother’s antiques, the bits and pieces she’d collected herself, combing flea markets and estate sales. She even loved the uneven wood floors, that scent of old wood and musty plaster so common in the older structures in San Francisco. The history of it held some sort of odd familiarity for her, as though these old buildings were solid, unchanging, regardless of the life going on around them.

Why was she being so philosophical today? And with her body still burning from her memory of being tied to the tree, with the relentless image of Desmond’s face in her mind.

She shook her head, sat down, and looked once more at the questionnaire. Maybe this was part of it, getting her to really
think
. To access those old buried memories, the moments everyone stored in their brains, all of those things that affected the subconscious mind in subtle ways. She knew a good dominant used the whole mind-fuck thing as much as they did anything physical. She understood that was part of how they broke through a bottom’s reserves. Or maybe she was simply mind-fucking herself, trying to analyze this?

Her cell phone rang on the table next to her. She looked at the caller ID. Desmond.

Her pulse accelerated, her blood pumping so hard she felt dizzy. Exhilarating to see his number, to know it was him on the other end of the phone. Terrifying.

She took a breath before answering. “Hello?”

“Ava, you’re there.”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t received the questionnaire I sent you yet.”

A small, lovely threat in his low, even tone.

“I’m filling it out right now. I called in sick to work today so I could focus on it.”

“Ah, very good. Since you have it in front of you, we can discuss it.”

A hard lurch in her chest, in her sex. Swelling. Pulsing.

“Ava, are you there?”

“Yes … yes, I’m here.”

“I’m going to ask you some questions. I want you to think carefully about your answers.”

“Yes, Desmond. I will. I have been.”

“Tell me which sexual acts are acceptable to you while you’re bound or sceneing?”

“Oh.”

He jumped right into it, didn’t he? Her head was spinning, her body yearning. On fire.

“Why don’t I give you a list, Ava? That will be easier. All you have to do is answer me: yes, no, or maybe.” He paused. “What about breast stimulation?”

She nearly groaned aloud but managed to murmur, “Yes.”

“Clitoral stimulation?”

Oh, God, how was she ever going to get through this? “Yes.”

“Vaginal penetration?”

“Yes.”

“Anal penetration?”

Her body began to shake, desire flooding her. She was soaking wet, squirming in her chair. She could hardly speak. “Yes, Desmond.” It came out on a whisper. “And all of this with my hands, with toys?”

“Yes, with anything!”

Anything, as long as it was Desmond doing it to her.

He was quiet then. But she could hear his gentle breathing over the phone. How could he ask her these things and remain so calm?

“Let’s talk about something else now.” Another long pause. “Tell me about your hobbies. What sorts of things you enjoy other than being tied up.”

“This is … part of the process?”

“Everything is a part of the process.”

Her gaze wandered to the pair of framed photographs on the kitchen wall of Wicked lying in a shaft of sunlight. “I like to take pictures. I wouldn’t call myself a real photographer, though.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, it’s just something I do in my spare time.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

“Since I was a kid. I especially love black-and-white photography. I love the whole idea of using shadow and contrast … I’m sorry, this must be boring you to death.”

“On the contrary. I want to know about you. And I like that you’re passionate about something.”

“I do love it. I used to dream …”

“About what, Ava?” he asked quietly, as though he didn’t want to interrupt her thoughts.

“I used to imagine I could be a professional photographer.”

“A commercial photographer?”

“No. More as … art. It’s silly, I know.”

“Is it? I don’t see why.”

“You can’t really live as a photographer.”

“There are people who do. Why don’t you feel you can take your desires seriously?”

Why was a knot forming in her stomach simply trying to think of how she would answer his question?

“In my family, you earn your living as a professional. Have a real job.”

“And being a photographer isn’t a real job?”

“No. Well, for some people. Not for me.” Her hand tightened around the phone.

“And what is your real job, Ava?”

He didn’t sound at all sarcastic. He was simply asking.

“I work in the mortgage-and-lending branch of a large bank.”

“And is that a real job?”

“I’m just a contract worker.”

“Do you like it?”

“I hate it. It’s not what I want to do.”

“You want to take photographs.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. But that’s … I can’t do that.”

“Because of your family?”

“Yes. No.”

“I’m sorry, Ava. I don’t mean to judge you. You don’t need any more of that, from the sound of it.”