Surrender: XXX Maxim Book 3 (Club XXX)

by Lana Sky

  “Frankie!” Ainsley rushes to me and throws her arms around my waist. “He made pancakes! And they were good and not burned like Daisy’s—”

  “Shut up,” Daisy snaps, but she eyes me sheepishly. “Morning, Frankie.”

  I blink. The lack of a scoff directed my way might even be her attempt at an apology. Is this a hallucination? I resist the urge to pinch myself.

  “Have a seat.” Maxim pulls out the stool beside him and ladles food onto a plate for me. If I were sleeping, I figure the shock of this moment might snap me awake. He actually made pancakes, not steak, or some variation of bleeding meat. “Eat.”

  My gaze darts around the room as I chew mechanically, uneasy for reasons I can’t name. Maybe the feeling has something to do with the mischievous way Ainsley keeps eyeing Maxim from over my shoulder?

  It’s fucking weird. Normal even?

  Once I’ve cleared my plate, Ainsley nearly bounces off her seat, and the jig is apparently up.

  “So can we ask her now?” she pleads, batting her eyelashes. “Please?”

  Maxim eyes her and sighs. “Your siblings were wondering if you would consent to a day at the beach,” he says.

  And that simple phrase triggers all six kids to start speaking at once.

  “Please?” Ainsley whines.

  “He said he has a boat,” Mikie pitches in. “And a jet ski—”

  “And there’s a cabana,” Daisy adds hesitantly. “I could tan, and—”

  “Okay.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay.”

  “Yes!” They race off, clamoring for the stairs while I try to process the concept with more scrutiny. A day at the beach, like a real fucking family. Have we ever had one of those?

  It doesn’t take long to settle on an answer. No.

  “Lucius is a trained swimmer, as is Tomas,” Maxim explains while piling dishes into the sink. “Both will accompany them for now.”

  I frown at the phrasing. “We won’t?”

  “No.” It takes me a second to classify his expression. Wary? After rinsing the last of the dirty plates, he dries his hands and then heads for the stairs. My only clue as to his intent comes in the form of a single phrase uttered from over his shoulder. “We need to talk.”

  Left with no choice, I mount the stairs in his wake and trail him down the hall. As we enter the bedroom, I can’t suppress a shudder. My eyes find the door to the “other” room. Will he insist on a round two, even in broad daylight?

  Rather than head for that door in the corner, however, he steps onto the balcony. It’s hot as hell out, and the sun beats down ruthlessly, illuminating everything in view for miles—from the terrace, to the beach, to a good portion of the open ocean.

  “We will be able to see them from here,” Maxim explains. As if on cue, a stream of tiny figures darts from the house to the beach, led by a taller person with a body shape suspiciously like Lucius’. “We can hear them as well…” His breath scorches the nape of my neck as he leans in closer to add, “But they cannot see us.”

  I’ve barely processed what that fact could implicate when his fingers find my shoulders and dig into the sore, tense muscle. Groaning, I relent to the pressure. He’s damn good with his hands, kneading stiff flesh the same way he works his stone carvings. Before I know it, we’re seated on the wide lounger, and he’s massaging me in full.

  Despite slipping his hands beneath the neckline of my dress, he keeps the contact purely clinical, focusing his attention where I ache the most.

  “You’re tight here.” A rare hint of emotion colors his tone, leaving me reeling. Sympathy? Or maybe resignation at his handiwork.

  This definitely isn’t the worst state I’ve been in after a night with him. As the seconds tick by, I’m faced with the possibility that his hesitation has nothing to do with my soreness at all. Finally, his fingers still.

  “Last night may not have been ideal,” he starts, “but if you are satisfied with this arrangement, we can continue in this way from now on.”

  Normalcy for the kids by day, kink for him at night.

  I lift my head and scan the stretch of beach until I spot where the kids have made camp. They fan out, darting from the waves to the shore.

  “It could work,” I say cautiously. “As long as Ainsley doesn’t wake up from a nightmare and barge into the bedroom.”

  What I intend as a joke seems to have the opposite effect.

  “Good.” He stands, his hands held awkwardly at his sides. “We should go join the others—”

  “But can we discuss the rules at least? Boundaries?” I can’t forget how he looked last night. Closed-off. Isolated. “If we are to do this. Really do this, then I need to know what we keep in the room and what stays out.”

  He tilts his head thoughtfully and sits back down. “Some things… My past—” His gaze clouds over, distant. “That stays in the room.”

  The things he can’t talk about. Such as Anatoli’s abuse or his way of coping with it.

  For a second, I wonder if it’s worth arguing over—demanding to know more. But then I look at him. He’s stiff, glowering at the ocean as if seeing hell where most people would only see paradise. There’s so much about him I don’t know, but maybe it’s not my place to force him to reveal what he’s not ready to.

  “What about sex?”

  He frowns, and I have his attention again. His fingers cross the distance between us, stopping short of my hip. The simple act conveys the power harnessed by him always. “In the room, I will have control.”

  “And outside of it?”

  “Outside…” As he mulls over the question, he sweeps his hand along my thigh. There’s no possession in this action. Just touching. Feeling. “Does my kitten crave another taste of vanilla?”

  I look away, my cheeks on fire. Do I? Sex with him is one thing when pain is involved—mind-blowing. But without, like what happened in the shed?

  It’s a different taste entirely. One I’m not sure I want to write off exploring.

  “Hmph.” Maxim hooks his finger beneath my chin, coaxing me to face him. “I will admit that I am not familiar with this. Being…domestic.” His accent thickens as though it’s a dirty word.

  The sinful, unknown kind of dirty—the way someone might sound describing his peculiar tastes. Taboo.

  “I suppose that outside of the room, you may decide…” He trails off, seemingly unable to finish the thought. Outside of the room, I could potentially have control.

  Over him.

  It sounds too fucking good to be true.

  “Really?”

  “If it is necessary to your normalcy,” he counters.

  “So, during the day, I can touch you when I want to?” I rise up onto my knees, shifting to face him.

  Dare I say he looks…curious. My heart jumps, rebounding off my ribcage.

  “Touch?” he questions softly.

  “Like this…” My fingers shake as I unfurl them one by one. When I brace my hand over his chest, he doesn’t flinch. Emboldened, I undo the buttons of his shirt, and he shrugs his shoulders to help me remove it. Observing him this way is an experience unlike any other. I take my time, determined to savor every second.

  His scars look ten times more grotesque in broad daylight. Beautiful too. I finger one, aware of his gaze tracking my every movement. Leaning forward, I press my lips against the most abused piece of flesh.

  A low rasp catches in his throat. “You want to touch me in this way?” He sounds so amused by the prospect. As though any warm-blooded woman wouldn’t crave a chance to appreciate his body.

  I murmur in agreement, too intent on my task to form a coherent reply. But the more of him I inspect, the more doubt starts to sneak in. Could someone like him enjoy sex without control?

  Once my hand travels downward, I discover my answer—oh yes. Hard, straining muscle pulses beneath the fabric of his slacks, conveying anything but discomfort. My breaths quicken as I press another kiss to an old wound on his chest. Another. I feel
as though I’m marking them mentally for more detailed exploration in the future.

  I can learn their secrets later.

  Learn more of him later.

  Right now, he’s presenting me with a rare gift I know better than to waste. Patience. Time. Control.

  True to our agreement, he doesn’t command where I can touch him or how. He merely leans back against the cushions, at my mercy for once.

  And I never knew what it could fucking feel like. Having this kind of power over someone. Studying them like an open book—far different from being a receptacle for their cock. I can’t stop touching him. Kissing various parts of him. Learning his taste. The touch he likes—not what he demands, but truly likes. He jumps when I feather kisses over his pecs. Growls when I slide my fingers over his nipples. Inhales, the lower I go.

  Lower.

  Lower…

  A guttural hum revs in his throat when I open the fly of his slacks, finally freeing his cock. This close, I can sense the sheer force of will it takes for him to keep from grabbing me. Forcing me. Controlling the act.

  Were this to go his way, I’d never be able to caress him with soft, featherlight strokes. I’d never test the limits of his body, bringing him to the edge. Heavy-lidded, his eyes find mine, conveying the words he isn’t capable of uttering out loud. Witch, I imagine him hissing. What are you doing to me?

  I’m savoring him in every conceivable way. Like his taste when mingled with the hint of sea salt and the unbearable heat. His size. How thick he can be when barely aroused—and how intimidating he can become once engorged, his body throbbing for release.

  A gasp rips from his throat when I finally part my lips and take him in. It’s fucking music, so beautiful. Noise I never knew him capable of making. This new, restrained Maxim comes complete with his own soundtrack—fabric hisses as he fists his hands in the material beneath us, nearly ripping it.

  My brain buzzes, drugged on the atmosphere of lust, and the heady flavor of him. What would seem debasing in any other context is indescribable now. I take him deep, moaning at his taste. His feel. Everything. I don’t care if I’m forced onto my knees, my ass in the air, my hair fanning out around me like some whore. He doesn’t demand a single fucking thing from me.

  Not even when he’s pulsing against my tongue, practically writhing beneath his skin. I look up, meeting his gaze. Sweat slicks his forehead, his eyes unfocused, his lips parted. God, he’s unrivaled like this.

  But even now, doubt still sneaks in.

  “Is this okay?” I blurt in a clumsy rush.

  “I…” His throat cords around a thickened swallow. “I need to be inside of you.”

  That’s all it takes to melt my brain entirely. A simple plea.

  And I nearly come before I can even lurch against his chest and part my legs. He groans once he’s seated to the hilt, his eyes closing in relief, teeth clenched. His hands find my waist, but he doesn’t set the pace. I’m left to ride him of my own volition with no outside influence.

  Slowly.

  Harder.

  Distant laugher and the roar of the ocean create an odd, unsettling backdrop that feeds the pleasure thrumming beneath my skin. This is insane. Fucking him beneath the sun in broad daylight is insane. Kissing him in between every thrust is maddeningly insane.

  My orgasm hits me before I even register the depth of pleasure. He follows me, hissing partly in satisfaction, partly in agony.

  “Fuck!” His hair frames him like a halo as he falls back against the headboard of the lounger. Utterly spent, I land against him, and his hand finds my hip, delivering a reverent stroke. “I definitely think I may come to enjoy vanilla…”

  Chapter Twelve

  We wash up, change, and join the kids on the beach before noon. The youngest four are making a sandcastle at the water’s edge, while Daisy and Mikie share a jet ski under the watchful gaze of Lucius, who wears his customary suit despite the heat.

  A row of cabanas is positioned with a view of the water, creating a cozy, homey space. Maxim leads me to one, and we share yet another bed-sized lounger—though this time with a safe distance between us.

  It should be so boring in theory. Lazing in the shade, watching the kids frolic in the ocean without a care in the world. To some people, maybe it would be. To me, this strain of peace is a new drug.

  And I’m hopelessly addicted already.

  Just when I think our ‘normalcy’ has reached its peak, we’re accosted by a whining Ainsley who begs Maxim to take her into the water. Which he does, utilizing a gentleness I would have never suspected him capable of expressing. I think he’s surprised by it as well. The tenderness in his voice as he shows her and a bashful Eric how to plant their feet to withstand the waves. The playfulness he exudes while chasing them in and out of the water to help ease their fear of it.

  A part of me keeps whispering that it’s all an act—the real man comes out at night in that dark room. But witnessing him like this easily overpowers the doubt.

  And I realize in the pit of my stomach that nothing else could come close to this. Not the supposed benefits he promised being with him would bring. Not the money. Not the ring.

  I’d trade everything for this.

  This moment.

  This contentment.

  Him, seemingly at peace, even for a second.

  The sun is in the process of setting by the time we return to the house. Dinner consists of leftover hamburgers eaten on the terrace while dipping our toes into the pool—another variation of our previous family meals.

  I sit on a lounger across from Maxim while the kids chatter about random topics.

  “Mermaids don’t exist, stupid,” Eric snipes in response to Ainsley. “But sharks?” He holds his hands up to his mouth, baring the nails like makeshift jaws. “They do, and they love eating little dummies like you!”

  “Knock it off,” I scold, but my voice lacks the old authority it used to. It’s as though the warmth, and the breeze, and the hum of the ocean rob the atmosphere of everything but peace. Lifting my head to shoot them both a stern, warning glance, is about all I can muster in terms of refereeing.

  Luckily, they both retreat.

  “Mr. Sir?” Ainsley climbs from her lounger and crosses to Maxim’s. Before I can stop her, she’s already managed to crawl onto his lap, heedless of the discomfort turning him to stone.

  I scramble to my feet, reaching for her. “Ainsley—”

  “It’s okay.” Maxim raises a hand to halt my approach. One of his arms moves to cradle Ainsley’s waist, keeping her from falling. The stiffness doesn’t leave him, but the way he tilts his head receptively conveys that he’s tolerating the contact regardless.

  Oblivious to us both, she keeps chattering. “If you did marry Frankie, and you have kids. Would they be our brothers and sisters, or—”

  “Ainsley!” Daisy rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “God, you can be such a moron sometimes.”

  “Not uh!” Pouting, Ainsley tugs on Maxim’s sleeve until she has his full attention. “It’s a good question, right? Are you going to have kids?”

  Mikie groans, burying his face in his hands while the twins suddenly seem very interested in their food. The only person seemingly unbothered by the question is Maxim.

  “I… I don’t know.” His voice sounds neutral enough. None of the kids seem to sense the hesitation in it that I do. From this angle, I can’t see his face, just the hard, pulsating line of his jaw. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that question.”

  But I can. That answer is one of the few things he’s provided willingly without needing to be prodded—no. During my first few days with him, he ensured as much by injecting me with birth control without even asking for my consent. You will not get pregnant, he said by way of explanation. That is the one thing you never have to worry about me inflicting upon you.

  Back then, I’d been more than relieved by that reassurance. But now, with the prospect of marriage looming overhead?

  I’m not eve
n sure what I want. But with his past…who knows how much of that affects his viewpoint on the concept of children? Which brings up the very good question as to where my kids fall into the grand scheme that is Maxim Koslov’s fucked-up world.

  “Oh, well.” Sighing, Ainsley scampers off of him and returns to her seat. “I always wanted a baby sister. I hate being the baby—”

  “Shut up, baby!” Eric balls up his napkin and throws it at her. Squealing, she throws it back, and they dissolve into a silent war while Mikie takes the reins of the conversation, steering it back to less volatile topics.

  “How much does a yacht cost?” he demands of Maxim, raising an eyebrow. “Hypothetically speaking, if your only income came from cutting grass in the summer, how many summers might it take to buy one?”

  Once again, we somehow manage to pass the awkward huddle and return to a smooth, easy rhythm of conversation and silence.

  But as the darkness gradually claims the landscape, I sense a palpable shift in the man beside me. His responses slow to silence. His gaze grows more distant, fixated beyond this moment. Eventually, he stands and enters the house with a polite, “Goodnight.”

  At the same time, Ainsley starts rubbing her eyes, and I take the sign as a cue. “Bedtime.”

  The others groan in unison, but I follow them upstairs, surprised by the feeling building in my stomach. It isn’t until I tuck Ainsley in bed and plant a kiss on her cheek that I can name the sensation for what it is.

  Dread.

  That cold, dark room awaits. But it isn’t fear that sends my heartbeat surging as I finally approach the master suite. Maybe it’s a little grief? The open, relaxed Maxim from earlier is dead and gone.

  The figure standing hunched over the foot of the bed is a different creature—the other half of the twisted coin that is this beautiful, broken man.