Page 30 of Surrender to Me

Chapter 18

Hot breaths clouded in front of me as I walked up to the entrance of Surrender. The hem of the lace and mesh babydoll kept bunching up under my jeans and sweatshirt. There was no use straightening it. I scoffed. Damn it, Owen. He had the lingerie delivered to my house with a white card and black ink that read:

when grace surrenders

we vanquish all

I had looked at the outfit lying in the box like it was a game of chess that I couldn’t figure out. The dark red mesh filling in the space between black lace, the white trim circling it, the low cut between the breasts, the high hem. It was sexy, I could admit that, but it felt like a trap. I wondered if he wanted me to feel out of place, or if he wanted to see me in lingerie, to objectify me. I put it on and put the plainest clothes over it, to counter his request.

Inside Surrender, the entrance lobby was empty. Even the security guard was gone.

“Hello?” I called.

A long line of rose petals led to the back of the club. I smirked. First the poetry, now the flowers? I followed them down to the dungeon. The petals started to glimmer. The farther I went into the dungeon, there were fewer petals and more shining flecks. On a closer look, I realized they were shards of glass. I walked slowly, hesitantly, following their path. They ended in front of a Saint Andrew’s Cross: an X shaped piece of equipment, padded with leather, handcuffs dangling from the top points of the X.

“Take off your clothes,” Owen said. I jumped, not seeing or hearing him approach. Even if the entire dungeon was lit in red lighting, his eyes were cast in shadows. I locked eyes with him as I took off my sneakers, my socks, my jeans, slipping the sweatshirt over my head, almost taking the babydoll with it. He didn’t smile at the sight of me, but he sucked in his breath like he couldn’t contain himself. He wanted me, even if he was pretending like he didn’t.

“Kneel.”

“On the glass?” I questioned.

He shoved my shoulders down and forced me to kneel. The shards dug into my knees, reminding me of gravel. I looked at him. A smile crept across my lips. He slapped me and my jaw dropped.

“This isn’t a game,” he said quietly. I wanted to shoot back with Obviously not, asshole! But I didn’t. The shock, and the sensation tingling, trickling downward, finding my core, stopped me.

“Do you think you deserve to look me in the eyes?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said without hesitation, still staring him down.

“Why?”

“Because we’re equals.” He chuckled, and I flushed. Why was that funny? “I’m a successful artist,” I added.

“Just because you can slap some materials together doesn’t make you an artist,” he said, his voice low. The emotional jab stung worse than the glass on my knees. “What art?” he chuckled. He walked around me, his boots crunching the glass and thudding on the cement. As he circled, my eyes were glued to his feet, watching the lights from above us dance on the shiny leather. I realized that I was doing it; I had looked away. As soon as I looked up at him, he grabbed a fist of my hair and pushed me to the ground, my face against his shoes.

“Clean it.”

I turned my head as much as I could to face him, but I couldn’t turn enough to look at him. He tightened his grip in my hair. “Excuse me?” I asked.

“Lick my boot clean,” he said, punctuating each word like I was stupid.

My tongue peeked out of my mouth, hesitant to touch that leather. But I did as I was told. The leather was smooth against my tongue and slightly salty. My core burned more than I was willing to admit. This is humiliating, I argued with myself, Slow the hell down, libido. But for some godforsaken reason, I reveled in it. It was worshipping him in the way that other women fawned over him, but in a physical form. And he had to force me to do it. He wanted me to do it. And I wanted to do it too. Fuck it, I thought, and I stuck my tongue out as far as it would go, licking his boot like I was an animal who couldn’t get enough.

“Do you still think you’re successful?” he asked. I nodded and a deep laugh bellowed out of him, echoing in the dungeon. I ignored it as best as I could and went for the other shoe. The silence in the room was deafening, reminding me of the empty space between the walls. The only sound that broke it was the sliding of my tongue on his boot and my breath. Owen shifted his weight and put his other boot on my back. My eyes fell down again, finding it easier to look at his shoes than to look him in the eyes.

He hoisted me up and strapped me to the Saint Andrew’s Cross with such quickness that I could hardly process what was happening. He tightened the straps, then took a step back and looked at me, like I was his prized possession.

“A perfect outfit for a whore,” he said.

“You bought me this,” I shot back.

“I didn’t make you wear it,” he paused, “did I?”

I guessed he was right; his note hadn’t said to put it on. And even if it had, it was still my choice to obey. He pulled a knife from his pocket, holding it low.

“You’re nothing but a bitch for me to use,” he said.

He stepped closer, raising the knife, and I turned my head away, afraid. This was Owen, my Owen, but he was degrading me more than he ever had. But all of his attention was on me, wanting me to experience this, to feel afraid and wanted and hated and needed. His eyes stayed glued to my mouth, and I licked my lips. He breathed on my neck as his knife danced on my collarbone, dragging white lines into my skin, reminding me that I was his to use. The knife tickled down, digging into the fabric of the babydoll. He pulled the matching thong away from my body as far as he could, making the straps dig into my hips, and he sliced it off, the knife easily cutting through the fabric. Then he pressed his body against mine. His breath was hot on my lips; his dark green eyes looked down at me. His hand felt my wet slit, and he moaned loudly, unable to contain himself.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

He stuck a single finger barely inside, and I pulled at the straps around my wrists, thrusting my hips forward, desperate to feel him. I clenched as hard as I could around his finger as if I could break him too. Seeing Owen like this, someone as respected and prestigious, a man who could have any woman he wanted, I was sure of it, and he wanted me—it was enough to make me break, to admit that I wanted to experience every dark corner of his mind, to know what he was truly like. He was willing to take me to this hidden place inside of himself, and it was terrifying, but I knew deep down that I liked it too, that I searched inside of his darkness and found myself.

He pulled me out of the restraints quicker than he had strapped me in and shoved me over to the cushioned bench to the side of us. Before I could even bend over it, he was inside of me, pressing deep. Each thrust jammed inside of me, hitting my cervix, and the pain of each thrust and the pleasure that returned with it was like the waves crashing on a beach, and I was slipping away. I relished in it, knowing that he chose me, that he wanted me, that even if I was the glass crunching beneath his boots, I was still his. For the briefest second, I wondered if he truly didn’t think I was successful. But then he thrust harder, and his breath and his body were like fire against me as I came, writhing in primal bliss, unable to hold back any longer.

“You’re nothing, Riley,” he hissed as he climaxed too, “and you’re everything to me.”