The Beauty of Surrender

by Eden Bradley

  The doorbell rang and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  Get it together!

  She took a breath, smoothed her hair, and went to answer the door.

  James stood on the other side, dressed in jeans and a black button-down shirt with a little white cotton peeking out at the neck. He looked good. He looked absolutely amazing, all dark eyes and golden skin. She’d forgotten how incredibly good-looking he was.

  That scar on his jaw … she wanted to reach out and touch it …

  “Marina.” He smiled, his teeth white and strong. God, she could swallow that mouth.

  “Hi. Did you find the place okay?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t a problem.”

  She realized suddenly she was standing at the door, staring at him. She stepped back.

  “Come in.”

  Why were her nerves fluttering like a girl with her first prom date? She really had to settle down, get into her role. Do her job.

  Don’t talk. Don’t put it off. Just do it.

  “Do you need anything to drink before we begin, James?”

  “Wow. You really go straight for the kill.”

  “If you like to think of it that way.” She smiled at him, found her sense of balance in having thrown him off.

  He nodded, smiled a little. It was flirtatious, almost a cocky grin, his dark eyes glittering. Then he seemed to understand what he was doing, and the smile vanished, his features going blank. Interesting that he could shut himself down like that. Probably some sort of survival instinct developed on the job.

  “I don’t need anything. Thank you.”

  “As I mentioned in the e-mail, I don’t require that you call me Ma’am or Mistress. This is not about a slave mentality. Call me Marina.”

  “Yes, Marina.”

  His tone was perfectly civil, but there was nothing submissive in it. He would be a challenge. But she’d known that going in. Had loved that idea, really. No docile, sweet subbie boys for her. It would never have worked. Not like it was going to with James.

  A long, hot shiver crept over her skin. She bit it back, steeled herself.

  “Follow me, then.”

  She turned and walked down the hallway, trusting that he would do as she’d instructed, and heard the soft skim of his shoes against the hardwood behind her.

  She opened the door to the guest room; she never let anyone into her bedroom, her private sanctuary. But she’d never had a man in this house other than Desmond and another male friend or two. Never a man she was playing. Never a man she had this sort of chemistry with. She had to brace herself against the small quiver of lust and trepidation that ran up her spine.

  He’s a bottom, like any other, male or female. He is here for the same thing all the women have been these last few years.

  She motioned for him to follow her inside. She’d decorated simply: A canopied queen-sized bed in dark, antique wood dominated the room; she’d left the frame bare of any drapery, preferring the clean lines of the wood. A high dresser in which she kept her ropes and cuffs. A wide padded bench angled in one corner, with eyebolts placed here and there, through which she could run the ropes, or attach handcuffs or ankle restraints. More eyebolts in the high ceiling that she’d had installed for suspension work. But she didn’t plan on doing anything fancy with James. He would have no appreciation for the aesthetic patterns. He just wanted the headspace. Something more basic, primal.

  She bit her lip, watched him standing in the middle of the room. He was eyeing her a bit warily, some emotion flashing across his features; she wasn’t sure what it was. Could it be fear? That didn’t seem likely, and yet …

  Just get started.

  She nodded her chin. “Strip.”

  He smiled, that edge of cockiness fleeting, then quickly unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, revealing a plain white sleeveless undershirt. She’d always loved these shirts, had a sort of fetish for white cotton. On a man. On herself. She always slept in a short eyelet nightgown. And the way the fabric stretched across his muscular chest made her want to reach out and touch him, to smooth her fingertips over the shadows of dusky nipples visible through the fabric.

  She could see his tattoos clearly now, all black and gray work on his left arm. An angel covered his shoulder, wings spread wide, and below it a female Asian figure done in glorious detail, all of it backed by clouds and waves.

  Beautiful and strong-looking, just as he was.

  “Where should I put my clothing, Marina?”

  “Just lay it on the end of the bed.”

  God, he was pure male beauty and grace as he moved to the bed, pulled the white cotton over his head. And made her breath hitch. All that golden skin, taut and fine. His chest and shoulders were pure muscle, the kind of muscles a man got only from working hard at the gym. Heavy, solid. And a long scar running across his right side, along the bottom edge of his ribs. Like the scar on his jaw, it only made him more masculine. More beautiful to her.

  She couldn’t help herself; she reached out, touched a fingertip to the ridge of scarred flesh.

  “What happened here?”

  “Battle wound.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t ever in the military. But my job was … I saw a lot of action, a lot of wars.”

  “You don’t want to tell me how you got this, though?”

  “Yes. Sure. Okay.” He shrugged nonchalantly, but she could sense his discomfort, could see it in the tight pull of his shoulders, his neck. “Machete. Indonesia.”

  She nodded. “You’re really not going to talk, are you?”

  He turned his head away for a moment, and when he turned back his eyes were dark, shuttered. “I came to you to get away from this stuff. I’ll tell you if you want me to, but it can’t be now. I don’t mean to be difficult. Uncooperative. But I can’t pull this stuff out right now and still be able to get away from it. Not tonight.”

  “Alright. I understand.”

  He nodded, kept his gaze on hers. But he wasn’t challenging her. Not in the way some submissives did, testing the strength and will of the top. He was simply searching her face for her response.

  “James, I’m not going to push the issue. You have a right to keep your pain private.”

  “Yes!” he hissed, his eyes shuttering even more.

  “Don’t be so defensive with me. There’s no need.”

  He shook his head once quickly, a sharp motion. “This is … sometimes difficult for me.”

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? We’ll figure it out as we go.”

  He nodded again, his features relaxing a bit. “Okay. Okay.”

  She watched him for several moments as he took a long breath, composed himself.

  “Continue,” she told him, motioning with her chin.

  He kept that liquid, gleaming gaze on her, like melted chocolate lit with amber, as he bent to unlace his boots, kicked them off, the kind of heavy black boots she loved. Then he unbuttoned his jeans, a process that seemed to take forever, as though it was happening in slow motion. Finally he slipped them off. He wore charcoal-gray boxer-briefs under them. She could see the bulge of his cock beneath the tight knit fabric.

  She wanted to see it all, wanted it too much. But she would have to get him naked to make him vulnerable. Vulnerability was the only way she was going to reach this man, make him break down. And he would need to break to get to that place he craved so badly.

  She loved the idea. And hated herself a little for it. But not enough to stop.

  You’re giving him what he wants.

  She licked her lips. “Everything.”

  His thighs were tight with muscle, his abdomen a classic washboard. And when he slipped his briefs off, his cock was hard, ready. Beautiful.

  When she looked up she saw that he’d caught her staring, but it didn’t seem to faze him. He held his head proudly, his shoulders tight. Only the cords in his thick neck, his pulse visibly throbbing, betrayed the intensity of his struggl
e.

  “Lay facedown on the bench.”

  He nodded, his expression sober, a little hard, but he did as she asked. His back was all long lines, his skin gorgeous and smooth except for the tail end of the scar on his side. His buttocks were a perfect curve.

  She clenched her hands, took a breath.

  You know this routine. Take him down.

  “James, I am going to bind your hands to the table before we do anything else. I don’t want you to speak unless you are having some real difficulty, whether physical or emotional, or unless I ask you a question. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Marina.”

  She opened a dresser drawer and pulled out two short lengths of white rope, fashioned a pair of wrist hitches, and took in the sight of his body laid out before her, his arms over his head. The dark, silky hair on his arms, the silky tufts under them. The way the muscle lay beneath the skin. And desire crept, as stealthily as a cat, into her body, into her very bones.

  She licked her lips once more, reached out, touched the back of one wrist. He flinched. But he held still as she bound his wrist to a bolt in the table.

  His skin was like silk, as soft as any woman’s yet more dense.

  She could hardly believe her sex was filling, growing damp, simply from touching his wrist!

  But she moved to the other side of the bench, bound his other wrist.

  Just do your job.

  She bent over him, laid a hand on the back of his neck, felt him tense.

  “Relax, James. I know this is hard for you. But you must concentrate.”

  Concentrate, Marina!

  And not on the luscious feel of muscle beneath her hand, the delicious idea of his inner struggle, which was purely erotic to her.

  “You’re going to do some breathing first. In through your nose, a long, deep breath. Then out through your mouth. I will breathe with you. Follow me. Do you understand what I want you to do?”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  She could tell from his voice that he was all too present, even if she hadn’t known already from the tension in his body. So many submissives began that spiral down into subspace simply from being tied up, from being told what to do. With James, every step would be a battle. But she wanted to see that struggle, to know how difficult it was for him to give himself over. To see how strong he was.

  She leaned over farther, until her breasts were pressed against his back. Lovely. Her nipples were hard, her breasts aching. But this was how it was best done.

  “James, feel my breath. Follow my rhythm.”

  She opened her lungs, drew the air in slowly, ordering herself mentally to calm, felt him pull in a breath beneath her, his chest expanding, his back rising to press against her body. A short hitch, then he did it once more. She could feel the fight in him, even with this simple task.

  “You must give yourself over, James,” she told him quietly. “You know what you have to do if this is going to work. Just do it.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Let it go, James.”

  He wanted to. Lord knew he wanted to. But it was always a damn fight. And now there was Marina pressed up against his back and he was hard as a rock. Which made the process more difficult yet easier to accept all at once. He didn’t understand it. Maybe he didn’t have to.

  He continued to follow her breathing, to try to sink into the rhythm.

  “You’re trying too hard, James,” she said, her voice a low, breathy hum across his shoulders.

  “I know.”

  “Shh. Keep breathing.”

  He tried. Tried to let go, to stop trying so damn hard, as she’d said. It wasn’t working.

  “Marina—”

  “Shh.”

  “No, I have to tell you … this is … I want it to work. But I need more.”

  She was quiet a moment. “Yes, I think you do.”

  She moved away then, leaving a small chill on his skin. His cock was as hard as ever, throbbing.

  She smelled like chocolate and spices. Good enough to eat.

  He had to stop thinking of her that way. As though he could throw off the ropes and ravish her. But he could hardly think of anything else.

  “James, I’m going to bind you very tightly. It’s what you need.”

  “Yes.”

  It was. He couldn’t do this any other way. Couldn’t be taken over. And he had to be.

  “Please just do it, Marina.”

  Was he begging this woman? But his need was knife-sharp; the need to empty all the shit from his mind. Need made more intense by his need to touch her. To fuck her. By the idea that he would be denied that. It didn’t make sense to him. But it didn’t matter.

  He felt the fall of rope soft against his skin, then she really began to work, the ropes crossing over his arms, back and forth, binding them to the table so that they were entirely immobilized.

  Yes, this was what he needed.

  She worked quickly, efficiently, and soon she was laying the rope over his back, binding him tightly to the table. Then down over his buttocks, his legs, until most of the surface of his skin was covered in rope. There was just enough room to breathe, to twitch a muscle the tiniest bit. And no matter how strong he was, how badly he might panic, he could not move.

  Comforting. Terrifying.

  His body pulsed with lust, with nerves. And he felt a small, smooth opening sensation in his brain as he let go just a little. It was fucking going to work, with her.

  Oh, yes, he was losing his mind already, and all she’d done was tie him down.

  But it was Marina. This incredible, beautiful creature whose scent made him wild with need. Who emanated a strength he’d never encountered before in a woman. And he was really going to do it. To begin to give himself over to her.

  It was really happening. Finally.

  Chapter Four

  MARINA FELT his breath quicken, felt his body relax just the slightest bit, a small loosening of muscle so subtle she would never have caught it had she not been pressed so close against him. A small victory, but still, it was a start.

  She let him just be in the ropes, kept up the breathing, lulling herself a little in the process. It lasted only a few minutes; then she felt a small, sharp jerk of his bound body beneath her.

  He was fighting it again. Thinking too much.

  “Shh, James. Let it go. Let it happen.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. You’re choosing not to.”

  “Maybe.”

  He took a deep breath, and she could feel him making the effort to relax. It didn’t work. His skin grew hot as a small sweat broke out on the back of his neck.

  “Marina. Fuck …”

  “I think this is all you can do tonight,” she said quietly.

  He didn’t say a word, unable to give himself over enough to admit defeat. The muscles in his back were growing tighter and tighter, his breath quickening.

  “I’m letting you out, James.”

  “Okay. Yes. I can’t … please just do it.”

  She pulled at the knots, slipping the ropes through her hands, but he only seemed to grow more tense. He was panicking; she knew the signs.

  “It’s okay, James. We can try it again. Almost done.”

  He was silent, trying to be stoic. But his breath was a raspy pant, his back absolutely rigid.

  When she’d removed the last of the ropes he held still for a moment, as though he was challenging himself. Then he sat up.

  His face was flushed, his eyes dark and glittering. Dangerous. His cock was still iron-hard. He was almost too beautiful to look at.

  He stood suddenly, startling her, his eyes flashing. She took an unconscious step backward. Then he was advancing on her, backing her into the wall. She didn’t have time to think about it; all she knew was the heat coming off his naked body, the menace in his eyes that was pure sex. Power. The scent of him male and musky and making her wet, damn it. Then he had her against the wall, one hand on either side of her wais
t, pinning her there as thoroughly as his burning stare. He moved in, a harsh growl coming from somewhere deep in his throat. Her knees went liquid. She was absolutely soaking. In shock. In need.

  There wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  He leaned in, lowered his head until she could feel his breath warm on her face. She could almost feel his lips … almost …

  “God damn it, Marina,” he whispered. “I’m going to touch you.”

  “Yes …”

  She tilted her chin, parted her lips. She needed to taste him, to feel his flesh on hers. She couldn’t think of anything else.

  He moved his head, and she felt the lightest brush of his lips. Oh, yes, too good, making her melt, making her sigh against his mouth.

  “God damn it.” His words were a heated whisper on her skin. Then he pulled back, ran a hand through his hair, turned away from her.

  Jesus. What the hell had just happened? What had she allowed to happen?

  She was no longer in control of the situation, and they both knew it.

  She still wanted him to kiss her. She didn’t give a damn who was in charge.

  “James …”

  “I’m sorry. Fuck. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have … I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  What if I want it to?

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  “No, it’s … okay.” She paused, drew in a breath, tried to calm her racing pulse, the damp heat gathering between her thighs. “Get dressed,” she told him.

  Yes, back in charge of things, issuing orders.

  Tell him to kiss you. To take you to bed. He’ll do it.

  She was really losing it.

  But he had already pulled his boxer-briefs back on over his raging hard-on, was slipping into his shirt, his pants, every movement aggressive, jerky.

  There was a heaviness in her chest as she watched him, something entirely separate from her desire for him.

  Regret.

  She wasn’t giving him what he’d come to her for. Wasn’t doing her job.

  She could barely think, still. She would have to figure it out later, talk to him once she’d calmed down.

  Hell!

  He was fully dressed now, watching her warily from across the room. His shoulders were still heaving a bit with his shuddering breath. His face was completely shut down, except for the glittering eyes. They were all pupils, black as night.