by Ava Claire
Table of Contents
Waiting For Us (Beautiful Surrender, #3)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
Waiting For Us (Beautiful Surrender: Part Three)
Ava Claire
Copyright © 2014 Ava Claire
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The Beautiful Surrender Series
Waiting For You (Beautiful Surrender: Part One)—April 2014
Waiting For Me (Beautiful Surrender: Part Two)—May 2014
Waiting For Us ( Beautiful Surrender: Part Three)—July 2014
Waiting For Forever (Beautiful Surrender: Part Four)—August 2014
E-book License Edition Notes
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CHAPTER ONE
The music is in my blood. It pours from the stage, an orchestra whispering sweet nothings all around me. The room is dark, the couples around us swaying in beautiful silence. Diamonds glitter at throats. Cuff links twinkle like stars. I'm wrapped in something lush and silk, and when the violinist plays a long, mournful note, I'm wrapped in muscle.
Him.
Face cloaked in shadow, his smell everything and nothing at all. I hold my breath as he spins me, and I do a perfect pirouette that should have been impossible. There's a whisper in the back of my mind that this isn't real. The word ‘dream’ races across my skin like goosebumps, but it disappears just as quickly. There's nothing but our dance. Bodies moving slow, feeling every last note, every flutter of the butterfly wings that turn my stomach inside out. I peer into the darkness, seeking out this stranger; this man whose hands know just where to roam. Where to linger. He's playing me as expertly as any musician on the stage. Stroking and pressing, listening to the way my body responds to him. My body was made for his touch.
And then the music changes.
A page rips and the sensual notes become sinister. Low and foreboding. The violin that crooned is screeching as my lover's grip tightens. I can't breathe. The things that sparkled are now like lightning.
I’m cloaked in pitch darkness.
I'm sinking.
Fading.
My mouth is open as I stare into nothing. The silence comes—and is split in half as I shatter into pieces.
My eyes pop open. The sound from my dream followed me into reality. It’s like cymbals crashing; a metallic crunch that set my teeth on edge.
I'm tangled up in white sheets, officially awake. My heart froze in my chest, seizing when I realize that I'm alone—which meant that Logan was behind that sound. A sound that was alarmingly similar to glass breaking.
Okay, I'm up.
“Logan?” My feet creaked on the hardwood floor as I launched myself from the bed. The source of the sound was the bathroom, a soft amber glow kissing the mostly dimmed master bedroom. It contradicted the loud echo that hung in the silence. I took two more steps, dread rising in my throat. Why wasn't he answering?
I nervously fumbled through my wild blonde locks, pushing them out of my tired eyes. “Logan, is everything okay?”
A sharp hiss of pain was my answer and I rushed forward, my feet barely touching the floor—until I skidded to a stop in the doorway of the bathroom.
There he was, just as muscled and gorgeous as I remembered. Golden skin and perfectly cut abs. Black boxer briefs slung low, hugging a cock I was intimately familiar with.
And then I saw it.
Bright red streaked across his thigh. He was cradling his right fist, more of the red stuff on his hands. I looked past him to the sink. Tiny pieces of pink glass made a brutal mosaic, but it wasn’t nearly as brutal as the look on Logan's face. Even when he was in Dom mode, or hurt like when I rushed out, refusing him when he first called me a submissive, it wasn't in the same vein of the darkness that now invaded his handsome features. The snarl was no longer on his lips but I saw the remains of it, snapping and biting. Keeping me at a distance. His jaw was tight and I swallowed hard, worried if that alone would be enough to make him snap. But the worst thing of all was his eyes. Eyes so green—usually filled with playfulness and a deep, poignant need that spoke to me—were so cold that I trembled. Those were the eyes of someone that had dark, terrible plans for some unfortunate soul. Combined with the bloody fist and broken mirror, I was starting to wonder if I should try and make a break for it.
The thought was quickly silenced, the moment of insanity fading as his eyes softened, bringing back memories of us. Of what I was sure were some of the best days of my life. Stumbling on him using the outdoor shower, in all his glory. The amused smirk as he introduced himself and I nearly stopped breathing on the spot.
I was in Pleasure Point, a couples beach trip that turned solo when my ex dumped me without warning. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because I never would have met Logan Mason—and now that he was in my life, I couldn't even remember what life was like before him.
Pain flitted across his face, and I pulled my eyes back to his fist.
Well, one thing’s for sure. Never a dull moment.
I reached for him. “Are you okay?”
He arched a 'obviously not' eyebrow. Even I rolled my eyes inwardly. He'd punched a mirror and was bleeding all over the place. It was clear that he was far from okay. “Let me see.”
He pulled his hand back defensively, and too quickly for its current state of health because he let out a rumbling, suppressed groan.
It was my turn to arch my eyebrow. “Serves you right.” I slowly maneuvered around him, letting him nurse his hand and ego as I rummaged through the set of drawers beside his sink. I was going to just grab a wet washcloth and clean it with H20, but I saw a small jar of witch hazel pads. I screwed open the top and bit my lip when I saw it was nearly empty. I tried not to think about what he used them for regularly. Lovers who bore the marks from intense play sessions? Or was this far from the first time he drove his fist into something out of anger?
I put the questions aside, glaring at him until he surrendered his injured hand. His muscles were tense and unyielding as I reached for the battered knuckles. He relaxed when the sting was something tolerable, instead of the unbearable pain he was expecting. Something inside me unwound too. If this was a regular occurrence, he'd know that it was alcohol that brought the strongest man to his knees, not a little dab of witch hazel.
I inspected the wound, but it appeared that most of the glass was on the counter and sink. “Doesn't look like you'll need stitches.”
A smile pricked his lips. “Are you a doctor?”
I couldn't find mine. “Are you a boxer?”
His smile disappeared and he sighed, the slightest of tints invading his cheeks. “About all of this—” He stopped, pulling his hand free. Close to giving me an explanation, but deciding better of it. “I'm sorry I woke you up.”
If he expected me to just let it go, he was sorel
y mistaken. I hurled daggers up at him, not caring that he had a couple of feet on me and was giving me a look that said 'drop it'. “What's going on, Logan?”
He turned his back to me, attempting to close the subject. “I'll grab something for the glass. Are you hungry—”
“Nu uh.”
He glanced back at me, surprise clouding his bright green gaze. “What?”
“You're not gonna sweep this subject away like you're planning to sweep up the glass and pretend it didn't happen.”
He left the bathroom with a heavy sigh. “It's nothing, Melissa.”
I peered to my left, my reflection split into a million pieces. Fractured. But there was one thing that was clear. Something that forced me to follow him and demand the truth. “I'm not going to do this again.”
He stopped, two steps away from leaving the bedroom.
“There were so many things that I should have said to Jason. That he should have said to me. We didn't talk,” I said, willing my voice not to break. It didn't, even though just saying my ex's name was enough to bring a barrage of pain and loss crashing into me. Threatening to pull me under. Even though it hurt, I thrust my head above water, air screaming in my lungs. “I don't want to run from the difficult stuff because it's easy. I don't want secrets.” I stood tall before him, knowing that I was about to make an ultimatum of sorts. It had to be said, had to be done before I fell for Logan any harder. “If you want to be with me, then you have to let me in. I let you in—”
“You fought me tooth and nail,” he added, turning back to me slowly.
“True,” I confirmed, giving him an inch. “But I let you in. I admitted something that terrified me.” Emotion clutched my throat. “I was honest with myself, and you. I'm just asking for the same consideration.”
Those eyes of his, eyes that seemed to plow right through my defenses and see the me beneath it all, were so troubled. When he rushed a hand over his dark hair and gave me a crisp nod, I saw just how afraid he was...and it made me want to hear it, and be there for him, even more.
He gave me a look like he was a man staring down the barrel of a .45 and said the last thing I ever would have expected.
“I'm going to be a father.”
CHAPTER TWO
He waited for the blow to land. Waited for me to snap, 'Fuck this!' and abandon ship. It was shameful, but that thought had buzzed through my mind. After all, what did I really know about this man? Logan Mason—hot as hell, fingers that felt like heaven, and a cock that made me wonder how I ever came without it inside me. Worth more money than I could wrap my mind around. And he had a celebrity girlfriend who apparently thought it was no biggie just to show up at his house.
A celebrity girlfriend that was pregnant, and Logan was the father.
That alone should have made me get the eff out of dodge, but my heart never did have much sense. Or maybe I was in shock. My mind seemed to be moving at lightning speed, but my body was stuck on pause.
Father.
Logan's gonna be a father.
I knew it was selfish, but what did that mean for us? We weren't even together, were we? I was going to go from lover, to girlfriend, to some sort of stepmom, in less than a week.
A throbbing pain filled my chest. I wanted kids of course. Some day. If Logan's reaction was any indication, he was not on the procreation bandwagon.
“Are you okay?”
He grimaced as he cut a hand through his dark , wavy hair. “I've been better.” His eyes twitched with something that looked a lot like annoyance. He caught on to my attempt at deflecting almost immediately. “Are you okay, Melissa?”
I fidgeted, switching from one foot to the other like that would alleviate the knots in my chest. I refused to look him in the eye, even though I felt his gaze pulling me in. Commanding me even though I was locked onto his chest. “I'm fine.” It was a lie, one that sounded phony to my own ears. From the grunt in the back of his throat, he didn't believe it either.
“Melissa—”
His fingertips grazed my cheek...and I lurched backward, my body instantly on alert. A cold sweat exploded all over me, my pulse raced, my heart galloped in my chest. I couldn't help but look up at him as warmth clutched my face.
His expression was dark and pained as he raked over my beet red face. “You're terrified of me, but you're fine?”
“I'm not terrified of you,” I rebutted weakly. I knew my actions spoke louder than any words and in this case, every movement screamed that I was afraid of him. Deep down I knew it wasn't quite so cut and dry. From the hurt that deepened his green eyes to emerald, I knew I needed to explain myself, and do it quick.
“I'm just overwhelmed,” I insisted. To stress the point, I took a step toward him and flashed a uncomfortable smile. “Would I do this if I was afraid of you?” I leaned forward and brushed my lips against his.
He didn't return the kiss, breaking away. He gave me a look that didn't hold a single note of joviality or humor. “This is about the mirror.” He flexed his hand. “I'm not—I don't do that. I'm not someone that lets my emotions get the better of me. And the idea that I did something that frightened you, that made you feel like I would cause you harm...” He didn't finish the sentence, but the words were seared into his eyes. Anguish. Shame.
Forgetting my brief moment of fear I drew to him, both hands cradling his face. I went on my tiptoes, staring deep into those eyes filled with pain. I said the words that I knew were true, to my very core. Words I hadn't been sure of a few minutes ago when everything seemed so blurry and confusing. I ignored the shatter of glass and listened instead to the thundering in my chest.
“I know you'd never hurt me, Logan. Well,” I added, injecting humor in my voice, “Not unless I asked to be hurt.”
He didn't relax or even crack a grin. He still looked troubled, gently bringing my hands from his face and stepping backward. He glanced down at his battered fist, the knuckles still an angry red. He didn't look at the wound like it brought him pain. His eyes bore into the broken flesh like one would gaze at an old friend that you hadn't seen in years.
“When I was a kid,” he began, his voice a deep, relaxing river that rippled over my skin. “My knuckles looked like this more often than not.” He clenched his fist. “I wore it like a badge of honor. I was smaller than the other kids. My clothes weren't name brand. Hell, for all I know they were the throw away clothes that my classmates sent to Goodwill. Recycled hand me downs so they could have the latest, coolest whatever. But these?” He brought his other fist to join the first, practically in a fighting stance. “This set me apart. It made me special. Feared.”
I swallowed, stomach knotting and twisting. I wasn't sure what emotion I should turn to first. Guilt wasted no time stepping to the front. I wasn't one of the kids that picked on the smaller kids with the hand me downs and dirty sneakers, but I didn't stand up for them, or go out of my way to befriend them either. I'd rationalized it somehow, cleared my conscience by elbowing or chastising friends that went too far, or shook my head at their cruel jokes. But face to face with someone whose childhood was filled with hurt, who obviously needed someone to be his friend and an ally in some way other than just in spirit and silence, my conscience didn't feel so clear. Being silent seemed like as great a sin as the ones committed by the tormentors.
His eyes flickered to me and he flashed a pained smile. “I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty or to garner your sympathy. I want you to understand where I came from, and who I'm not. I want you to know me, Melissa.”
My heart hopped in my chest, my face on fire as I stole away from his intense gaze.
“I never said this out loud, but I fought because I was afraid,” he pressed on. “I didn't have much besides my dignity, so I held on to it the only way I knew how. With my fists.”
I nodded slowly, understanding. “You snapped because you thought she was disrespecting you.”
“Delilah has been disrespecting me since the day I ended things with her. That's n
othing new,” he said bitterly. “The thing that hit me like a cinderblock to the chest, was fear.”
Of course.
He was afraid of being a father.
He walked to the landing, bracing himself on the wooden bannister. He looked down at the first floor, but I knew he wasn't seeing the travertine tile and high end furnishings. He was pulled back to the past. A time when the life he now lived probably seemed as likely as pigs flying.
“I didn't know my father. But from the things my mother said about him—” His grip tightened, his whole body taut and ready to fight.
“Logan,” I said softly. Just a single word. Trying to bring him out of the darkness and back to me.
He relaxed, casting his eyes over his shoulder at me, then tearing them away again. He was trying to unload the weight of his past and what drove him to his actions—and he wasn't done.
“The role models I had for fatherhood weren't the best. Men who hit my mother. A couple who raised their hand to me. I learned early on that you're either the one being hit, or you could do the hitting. Feel pain, or dish it out.”
I nibbled on my bottom lip, doing my own walk down Memory Lane, but I just breezed back to a few days ago. Hearing him talk about submission and dominance. I thought it was just sexual, but now I wasn't so sure. Was his need to dominate born out of childhood trauma?
“Before you even ask, I didn't become a Dom because I was smacked around as a kid,” he said, reading my mind. “I wondered the same thing, but I made peace with those demons long ago.” He turned back to me, his face shadowed. “I just have my moments.”
I wrapped my arms around his waist, leaning into his warmth. I felt as close to him as I had when he was deep inside me. Like he was giving me a piece of himself. How many times had I tried to pull something out of Jason, wanting more than the surface? I talked about my mother, my father, my worries about a future that wasn't my own. And he listened, but he never talked. He never really let me in. But this man, this enigma, was allowing me to see his scars. To see the good and the bad. It felt good. Right. As close to home as I'd ever felt with anyone.
