Page 10 of The Surrender
Fucking hell.
In my Lululemon leggings, cropped sweater, and flip-flops—hair piled up, fuck you very much, Jude Harrison—I plonk myself in an armchair in the corner of Café Royal’s vast reception area and relax back, happy to take the opportunity to be alone somewhere no one can find me. I reach for the paper on the table in front of me. TheFinancial Times. Perfect. It makes a change from reading it digitally.
Flipping it open, I start scanning the articles for ones of interest, settling on the hostile takeover of the international freight company XYZ. It doesn’t feature in my portfolio, but I know it does Gary’s. I check the date on the paper. Yesterday. Gary would have seen it, right? Just the mere fact I ask myself has me pulling my phone out and calling him. He’s at Windermere this weekend, so chances are he hasn’t.
It rings and rings before sending me to his voicemail. “Hey,” I say, leaning forward and slipping the paper onto the rich wooden table. “I just read about the XYZ takeover and wanted to make sure you’d seen the article in theFinancial Timesyesterday. Call me.” I hang up and stand when I see Rachel and Clark’s wedding planner, Martina, appear across the lobby.
She spots me and smiles, floating towards me, only her legs seeming to move as she walks. “Amelia, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting. We found the stand!”
“Oh, that’s great.”
She motions for me to follow. “Chef put it in the pantry cupboard out of the way and neglected to tell me before he went off shift. I feel awful. The sous-chef stacked the tiers directly on top of each other and they sank under the weight!”
“I’m sure they’ll get over it,” I assure her. “It’s already been eaten anyway.”
She laughs, loud and over the top. “Sure, sure.”
We pass through the lobby, and Martina leads me up the first flight of marble steps. “It’s this way.”
“To the kitchen?” I ask.
“Yes.” She flashes me a toothy smile and leads me down a corridor, stopping at a door. “Here.” She opens it, and the very second I step inside and figure out we’re in no kitchen, the door closes behind me, making me jump. And the wedding planner isn’t in the room with me.
Jude is.
“I told you I dared,” he says, relaxed in the leather club chair by the window that looks out over Piccadilly Circus. Waiting for me. His expression is cool. The giant illuminated billboard glows behind him.
I become a statue, my mind failing me. I don’t leave, I don’t speak. But I shake like a fucking leaf. He’s in the same clothes, looks even more tired, but tranquil at the same time. As if he’s at peace with where we’re at.
“What are you doing here?” I ask like a fool, unlocking my eyes from his and scanning the room. It’s a suite, a beautiful suite. Did he stay here last night?
“We need to talk.” He slowly rises, cautiously, as if he’s preparing for me to walk out.
“I’ve nothing to say to you.”
“Your body did a lot of talking last night when you fucked me on the back seat of the Rolls-Royce.”
My jaw clenches. “Fuck off, Jude.”
Growling under his breath, he advances towards me. “Would love to.” He slips a hand around my waist, his palm sliding across my bare midriff onto my lower back, and he hauls my body into his. Sheer contact makes my insides furl. Then his breath is on my face, his lashes tickling mine when he blinks. “But I can’t.”
“Try harder,” I whisper.
He shakes his head mildly. “How sore are you after yesterday?”
My hands twitch by my sides, lifting and lowering, wanting to reach for his shoulders but not. “I’m not doing this.”
“You said that last night too. Then you climbed onto my lap”—he moves his mouth to my ear—“sank onto my big, begging cock, and fucked me hard.”
What the hell is he saying? I told him only days ago that I was falling for him, and now he’s treating me like a bit of arse? And he expects my compliance? I wince at my thoughts. I’ve always found it hard to say no to him. Even now, when I hate him, I’m shaking with the effort to not kiss him. My move last night in the Rolls-Royce was pure frustration. Anger.
A revenge fuck.
“No.” I push the word past my lips and pull away, fighting the magnet.
“Yes,” he retorts, dragging me back.
“No.” I shove his hands away from my body.
