Pride & Surrender
Jennifer Dawson
Contents
Praise for Jennifer Dawson
Pride & Surrender
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Thanks for reading
Internet Stalking Made Easy
Also by Jennifer Dawson
Step into Crave
Step into Walk of Shame
About the Author
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author has asserted their rights under the Copyright Designs and Patent Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book.
Copyright © 2017 Jennifer Dawson
Edited by Mary Moran
Cover Design by Kristin Clifton, Sweet Bird Designs
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Created with Vellum
Praise for Jennifer Dawson
USA TODAY calls Crave and Taken a must-read romance
“Crave gets the balance between lust filled scenes and a meaningful plot just right. Neither takes from the other and together they just add up to a very satisfying and emotional read.” —Between My Lines
“If you love Foster, Kaye and Dawson’s Something New series you’ll love Crave and the Undone series.” —Caffeinated Book Reviewer.
“Every character in this book (Sinful) is amazingly written. ” —Bookish Bevil
“You know why I love this author? She takes something absolutely mundane like a “Best Friend’s Sister” romance and turns it into a masterpiece.” —For the Love of Fictional Worlds
“Crave by Jennifer Dawson is a darkly erotic and deeply moving romance.”-—Romance Novel News
“Jennifer Dawson’s Sinful has amazing scenes that get my heart beating and calls for a cold shower, but the love story that is evolving between Leo and Jillian is amazing.”—Courting Fiction
Pride & Surrender
I want no part of messy emotions, of lust and surrender. But none of that seems to matter to Christos Constantine. No matter how much I resist, no matter how much I fight, he keeps coming after me...and I am powerless.
* * *
My pride and strength of will have always kept me safe. The armor I’ve built around me is impenetrable and no one is allowed to see beneath. I’ve kept Christos and the attraction that simmers between us at bay for two long years, but he’s done taking no for an answer.
* * *
I don’t think I have the strength of will to resist, but I will not go down without a fight.
* * *
**Please note: This book has been previously published under my original pen name, Julia Devlin. It has been edited and updated, but the general story has remained unchanged.**
1
“That’s me, a constant disappointment.” My words are laced with sarcasm and just the right amount of bite to annoy him.
“Why are you determined to fight me, Juliet?” Christos looms over me, a smirk on his cruel lips, amusement in his brilliant green eyes.
Smug with his latest victory over me.
Christos Constantine showed up on the Chicago scene a year and a half ago and has been a constant thorn in my side ever since. He’d opened up his management consulting shop, and in less than three months he’d stolen the Pennington bid from me, and everyone knew his name.
He was the kind of person people noticed. He commanded attention. Around forty, power poured off him. When he was in the room, men stood straighter and women, well, they practically melted into a puddle at his feet.
Once, I’d had the unfortunate experience of being stuck in a reception area with him for over an hour. The sweet, little grandmother receptionist blushed and stammered over him like a schoolgirl.
I’m not immune, but hell will freeze over before I give him the satisfaction of seeing me sweat. They don’t call me the ice queen for nothing.
As we stand in the lobby of the downtown Chicago office building, the sun backlit behind him, his six-foot-two-inch frame casts a dangerous shadow, blocking out everything but his face. Which is, of course, unbelievably gorgeous in a hard, commanding way that makes women question the point of moral purity.
I hate him.
Even as I think the words, my heart pounds against my ribs, desire pulling at me. I hate that I want him. Hate that he knows it. Hate that in some twisted way, every time he wins, he becomes more irresistible to me.
But I will resist him. In this, he will not beat me.
His penetrating gaze meets mine. “Why fight when you know I’ll win?”
At the rich rumble of his voice, my knees weaken.
Maybe I could let it pass if he were only talking about the client contract he’ll surely be signing by the end of the week. But he’s not. He knows his physical effect on me. Lords it over me, calling to my attention that he could break me if he chooses with hardly an effort.
Despite myself, I pathetically react to the arrogance. It’s as if I’m genetically hardwired to respond to his dominance over me. The more he bests me, the more I salivate.
Like Pavlov’s dog.
Standing tall in my white blouse and black pencil skirt, I put my hands on my hips, tapping the toe of my three-inch-high slingbacks. “You might win the business, but you’ll never win me.”
He laughs. The sound travels through my body like the most intimate touch. But I stand firm, not giving in to the shudder that wants to overtake me.
He raises one dark brow. “Who are you trying to convince? You or me?”
His broad shoulders block out the ray of sun from the lobby windows as he steps closer. The urge to retreat has my foot twitching, but I fight the desire. My shoulders square.
He will not win.
I dig in my heels both figuratively and literally.
He crowds in on me, mere inches away.
I hold my breath. Afraid to move, to swallow—he’s never gotten this close to me—and my heart pounds.
The heat of his body slides over my skin.
My lungs burn.
I suck in a fast burst of air, my head swimming at the intoxicating scent of him, spice and man.
Jesus. I want no part in this kind of lust. This kind of hunger.
I don’t know how, but I stand my ground even though a desperate desire to flee beats at me. This isn’t our first run-in, the first acknowledgment of our chemistry, although it escalates each time we’re alone.
But I can survive this. I’ve resisted before, and I will again.
His long fingers touch the side of my neck.
I jump, flinching under him.
What can only be pleasure sparks in his gaze.
His palm skims over the slender cords as he curls his hand around my neck, his thumb stroking where my pulse thumps wildly. “It’s a matter of time, Juliet Russo.”
I manage to repress a gasp. I shake my head. “Never.”
He leans in close. “Yes. You know it and I know it.”
“You’re wrong,” I manage in a strangled whisper. I need to escape, but I don’t budge. I refuse to let him see my fear, my almost unbearable excitement.
And I’m excited.
His thumb presses against the hollow of my neck. “I do
n’t think so.”
Primal need pounds through me like a stampede. Slick, wet heat warms my inner thighs even as I manage to say, “You’re delusional.”
God, help me. I’m powerless. I’d made a grave error. I should have retreated. With him, retreat is always the smarter option.
His lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. “How wet are you?” A shift of his hips and his erection nudges my belly. “How hot?”
“Stop it.” The words are stilted with no force behind them. A plea when I want a curse.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Stop fighting it. Stop fighting me.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re going to lose.”
At his words, I shudder, lost in the ache.
He leans down and his lips brush the soft skin at the curve of my neck. I long to lean into him. Let him take me. The way I feel right now, I’d do anything to have his mouth on me.
Thank god I have more pride than I know what to do with. It’s kept me safe more than once in my life, and this is no exception.
It’s the only thing that stops me from begging.
His tongue flicks against my pulse.
Our first real touch.
I can’t stop the groan from slipping past my lips. I clench my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms. Force my lids to remain open when they want to drift closed. His teeth scrape my flesh and my entire body hums with sensation.
He raises his lips to the shell of my ear. “You want me to win, Juliet.”
He’s right. I do.
By my own design, no man has ever bested me. Not my ex-husband, not the lovers I’ve had since. For thirty-five years my relationships with men have been coolly confident and distant. I have the control. I respond if I want to, choose to. There’s never been any question that it’s been my choice. And I never let anyone get too close.
That was for weak women. Not me.
On some primitive level I understand distance isn’t possible with Christos. Under the all-consuming jumble of emotions, of lust and fear, is the certain knowledge that he’ll change me irrevocably. That when I lost, I’d be stripped of everything.
That alone is worth every ounce of fight I have.
“No.” My tone surprises me with its steadiness.
He raises his head, his green eyes piercing. “Stubborn.”
“I’ll never give in.” Confidence growing as I regain my equilibrium.
Once again his fingers tighten around my throat. The power in his grasp is not lost on me. An assertion of his dominance, and though my body responds, I stand strong.
“I’m a patient man, and if you insist, we’ll do it the hard way.”
“There will be no way, Christos.” My chin tilts. “Now let me go.”
“Very well.” His hand falls away, leaving behind the imprint of his touch like a brand.
A cold chill of loss blows through me like the most frigid of Chicago winter winds. All it had taken was one touch to miss it. I square my shoulders. “Don’t touch me again.”
“I’m coming for you, Juliet.” He steps back and smiles. “Consider yourself warned.”
2
I pick up my dirty martini and swipe the glass with my tongue, savoring the salt of the olive brine. My best friend and business partner, Katherine Ames, had just left the corner bar we frequent on Friday evenings to recap our week over well-deserved cocktails.
Normally, I leave with her, but I can’t bear to go home to my empty townhouse yet. If I go home now, I’ll end up doing the same thing I’ve been doing since I last saw him four days ago, pacing the floors with all my pent-up energy, obsessing.
Now that he’s touched me it’s like a dam has broken and I can’t get back in control. With that one touch, I’ve managed to work myself up into a kind of sexual heat. The more I think about him, the more he distracts me. Plagued by a lack of focus my days have been endless, my mind circling around thoughts of him like a caged tiger. Contemplating over and over again about what would have happened if I’d leaned into him instead of away.
I’m in a constant state of agitation and no matter how manically I give myself orgasms the ache between my thighs is never satisfied.
Nothing will satisfy me. Except him.
I hate that I’m this needy, desperate girl. That I can’t scrub him from my mind and purge him from my body. Maybe, if I drink enough, I can be free of him.
I take a sip of the martini, the alcohol stinging the back of my throat.
“Ms. Russo.”
The sound of my name slides up my spine and every muscle stiffens in response.
That voice. I’d know it anywhere.
My heart begins a rapid, staccato beat.
It’s as though I conjured him out of thin air by the intensity of my thoughts.
In the mirror behind the bar, my gaze rests on the man that’s been haunting my every waking moment.
Dressed in all black, he looks strong, capable, and so masculine my thighs clench.
The devil himself couldn’t devise a more effective temptation.
I carefully put my glass on the polished mahogany, hoping he doesn’t notice how my fingers tremble.
My chin tilts and I want to be cool and unaffected, but when I speak I sound snappish and bratty. “What are you doing here?”
In the mirror, I watch his lips quirk as though trying to contain the smile hidden there. He leans close enough so I feel his heat against my back. I barely breathe as he places one hand on the bar, next to my arm, surrounding me.
His lips drop to the shell of my ear. “I’m here for you.”
Every nerve sizzles and snaps to attention, fissioning across my skin like static electricity. I square my shoulders and feign boredom.
One glance in the mirror tells me my act isn’t working.
Even from a distance I can see the excited glassiness in my brown eyes.
He shifts away, sliding onto Katherine’s vacated seat.
I give him a dismissive once-over, but before I can object, a pretty twenty-something bartender practically runs over.
Ignoring me completely, the bartender gives Christos one of those hooded glances girls seem to think are sexy. “Hey, what can I do for you?” She purrs the words, the underlying meaning painfully clear. Anything you want.
I roll my eyes. This is exactly why he would be impossible to be around. I frown at the thought. I will not harbor fantasies about being with him. Desiring his body is bad enough; I refuse to desire his heart. I push the idea right out of my mind.
“I’ll have what she’s having.” He points to my drink.
The bartender gives him a blinding come-fuck-me smile, tosses her mane of blonde hair and scurries away to do his bidding.
Irritation pricks at my skin, but I assure myself it’s not jealousy. Only annoyance because girls that age assume a woman of mine isn’t a viable threat. I look at Christos, expecting to see his gaze trained on her tight ass, but find him watching me with an intent expression.
Irrationally sure he reads my every thought, I repress the urge to squirm in my seat.
I raise a brow. “Taking to stalking, I see.”
He laughs. The low rumble rolls over me, making me ache in places I don’t want to name. “Don’t pretend you’re not happy to see me.”
I sigh as though I’m completely exasperated. After all, he is wrong. He’s the last person I want to see. Especially on a Friday night when I’ve had a few drinks and the whole weekend stretches out lonely and empty in front of me. I can’t risk him taking advantage of my weakness.
I shake my head a little. “Does your ego know no bounds?”
“Tell me, Juliet, why are you so determined to dislike me?” He slides his hand over the bar rail, twisting on the stool to face me, shifting so one foot rests on my chair.
The movement pushes his knee dangerously close to my thigh.
I wave a hand, like he’s a pesky fly I’m swatting away. “Do you really want to hear my long, endless lis
t?”
The bartender chooses that moment to return, but he doesn’t even glance at her. “Start a tab,” he says in a tone that indicates he’s not open to conversation.
I turn my attention toward her in time to witness her lower lip puff out. She gives me a what-makes-you-so-special once-over before she takes her leave.
I frown. It’s a good question actually. One I’ve turned over in my mind and come up with no answer. Why me?
He can have any woman he wants. There are certainly women that are sweeter, far less prickly, and a lot less challenging. Women who want his attention and aren’t afraid of it. Women who want nothing more than to give him their hearts, minds and bodies.
He doesn’t need to pursue me.
His finger brushes over the bare skin of my forearm, pulling me forcibly from my thoughts.
I jerk as if I’ve been scorched.
“What are you thinking about?” His voice is low and intimate.
I meet his gaze, expecting to see his customary arrogance, but I see none of that. Instead, he appears thoughtful, curious. It softens the harsh lines of his strong face and makes him look almost human.
It disarms me and the question pops from my lips before I can stop it. “Why me?”
I clench my teeth to keep from cringing.
One dark brow quirks. “Why not you?”
I shrug, turning to stare into my murky drink. I hate that I asked the question. It’s far too revealing.
Pride & Surrender Page 1
