Page 5 of Surrender to Me

“You could have a lot of fun with someone like that,” I said, trying to lighten the conversation. What did I even mean? A lot of fun? But I knew what I meant! I meant that I wanted him to take advantage of me and make me beg for more. I wanted to feel the grime of dirt smothering my skin while he pressed my body against the wall, fucking me from behind, and I wanted to feel him come inside of me like that.

“Your mind goes where it wants to, Miss Glass,” he said. “Your soul lies in darkness, like mine.”

“Make your assumptions,” I said flirtatiously in a sing-song voice. “You know where that will get you.”

“It’s not an assumption,” he said.

That low voice was enough to make me shudder with anticipation. His words hinted at what he knew about me. I could feel myself filling with anxiety because I knew I liked it too much. I liked Owen too much. I wanted to flirt with him, to see what he’d do when I teased him, and because I kept giving in to my desires, the one thing I’d been working on for years was on the line. Because of a man. A gorgeous, wealthy, stubborn, cold and closed off one minute and warm the next, man. And yet I still I lowered myself into the pit, begging to be drowned.

An hour later, I called him as we passed a fifteen story hotel with marble columns and a Romanesque fountain spraying water in the front. It had to be a five-star hotel. “What about a place like that?” I asked. “What would you do there?”

“Make you model this time,” he said.

I blushed, imagining what he meant. I pictured myself in lingerie, silky babydolls, and lined stockings. I would lie on plush pillows and blankets while Owen stood behind a camera, capturing how beautiful he made me feel. And then we would both get so turned on that we’d have to stop and...take a break. Make sure our energies were put to good use.

“But you’ve never modeled for me before,” I said. “It’s not fair. Tit for tat, Mr. Lowell.” He chuckled. “I know you think I’m joking, but I’m serious. Let me use you.”

“Only if you’ll let me use you,” he said. “Tit for tat.”

And I was blushing all over again. Touché, Owen, touché. “Sure,” I said. “Sure. Modeling...”

“I’m not a sculptor,” he said. “What you do takes organic talent, feeling with the soul, not just your hands. But I’ve been known to paint before.”

That was intriguing. I figured he must’ve dabbled in some kind of art before, but I wouldn’t have guessed painting. “Have I seen any of your work?” I asked. “Like around your house or at Surrender?”

“One,” he said.

I paused, waiting for the explanation. When there was none, I asked, “Are you going to tell me which one?”

“You’ll have to figure it out yourself.”

“So it’s a game then?” And with that, I knew we were trickling down over the edge, giving into what we wanted to do. It was dangerous.

“One we’re both playing,” he said.

I sucked in my breath. Yes, we were dancing on thin ice. Why did I like it so much?

When I parked in front of Clay’s rental house, Owen pulled up beside me.

“I called the Foundation,” I said. “The review is on Monday.”

“I’ll see you on Monday then,” he said.

As he drove away, I let the simmering disappointment of saying goodbye to Owen dissipate. I wasn’t supposed to like him, I reminded myself. I wasn’t supposed to want him. He was the reason I was here so soon in the first place. And if I was honest with myself, he was the reason why I left.

I grabbed the largest duffel bag, a pink and teal leopard printed monstrosity I had had since childhood, heaving it over my shoulder, and walked through the gate in the chain link fence. The landlord, Clay’s uncle, still hadn’t replaced the screen door or fixed the porch light yet, but we were lucky to have such an affordable space in the Bay Area. Most people weren’t that fortunate.

The door creaked open. A young woman with bouncy red curls barreled out.

“Hi,” she squealed, “You must be Riley! Nice to meet you!” She attacked me with a hug so squishy that she knocked the duffel bag out of my grip.

“Hi there,” I said, muffled in her embrace. “Nice to meet you too. And you must be—”

“Misty,” she said. She stood back, taking me in. She had to look up to me, which meant she was almost a foot shorter than Clay. But her wide smile and coily hair was perfect, and made Clay’s hair seem wavy in comparison. When he poked his head out of the door, that familiar sheepish grin turned wider than I’d ever seen it, and all towards Misty.

“He’s said so much about you,” Misty added. “You’re like the sister he never had.”

“He was protective like a big brother,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Even though I’m older.”