Page 3 of Surrender
I shove my hand through my hair and grimace when I remember the hair stylist gelled it already. “It’s difficult to explain,” I murmur, wishing I was anywhere but here.
Sensing my discomfort, Sloan’s expression instantly softens and her entire approach changes. She sets the iPad down on the chair behind her and walks toward me with a gentleness to her gaze. Her black lashes fan her creamy cheeks as she looks down my body. “Are these your clothes from home?”
I nod, my jaw tight from her close proximity. She reaches out, and I wince as she places her palm firmly on my chest. Her touch is hard and pressurised, which allows me to exhale with some relief. If it was soft and feathery, I’d probably start trembling. I hate soft touches. They leave a tingling wake of sensation that’s like nails on a chalkboard. The truth is, it’s made it difficult for me to enjoy any sort of intimacy with women as a result. I’m the only footballer known to mankind who doesn’t shag everything that walks.
But with Sloan, it’s like she knows something. Something I don’t fully understand myself. Her brows lift as she strokes her hand over my pec and onto my side, continuing the strong, pressured exploration across my abs like she’s a sculptor moulding clay. It’s an odd act to experience with a stranger, but the way she touches me is soothing. My busy mind relaxes. My clenched jaw falls open as she walks around me, firmly dragging her hand along my ribs as she moves. She releases me to pull the neck of my shirt open.
“You removed the label,” she states, her breath warm on the back of my neck.
I clear my throat. “They irritate my neck…This one is still on.” I lift the hem of my shirt to reveal the silky tab sewn inside the seam.
She moves around me, her scent wafting over me as she angles her head to read. I force myself to stay in the moment and not fall back into a memory. I notice her eyes pausing on my abs before zeroing in on the label.
She looks up and half smiles. “This is a nice shirt.”
I shrug halfheartedly. “It’s just a shirt.”
She shakes her head and murmurs, “Imported from Italy and custom orders only.”
Before I have a chance to realise what she’s going to do next, her head dips down as she begins fingering the back of my waistband. She pulls on my jeans and air suddenly hits my arse cheeks. A noise reverberates from the back of her throat as she gets more than a view of my bare abs this time.
Unwilling to be scared away, she fiddles with the tab on the denim. When she releases it, her flushed face returns to mine. “I think I know exactly what you need.”
I can’t help but smile at her wavering tone of voice. “You mean besides underwear?”
Her returning smile is genuine and maybe even a bit life-changing. “Yes, Mr. Harris. I can think of a few things you need.”
I chuckle. “Then I hope I can hire you year-round because it’s kind of nice having someone tell me what to do for a change.”
IPULL INTO THE DRIVEWAYon Rossmill Lane and roll my car window down to type in the code on the gate keypad. Before my fingers touch the buttons, the large wrought iron fence begins to open on its own. I look up to see our groundskeeper, Xavier, approaching.
I smile brightly and give a jovial wave as he makes his way past me in his white utility truck. He doesn’t wave back. I lean my head out to say hello to him, check in on the family, the usual, but he doesn’t stop. In fact, he looks like he’s trying to avoid eye contact with me completely.That’s weird,I think to myself with a sense of unease overcoming me. Xavier is usually so friendly. I wonder what’s wrong?
Granted, he wasn’t always so kind in the beginning. He and the rest of the staff all thought I was crazy. I can’t say I blame them. A bright, bubbly American moves into a Manchester, England mansion with her rich British husband and asks ridiculous questions about how they like their coffee and the kind of pastries they prefer for breakfast. It’s definitely not the way most wives in this neighbourhood behave, so it’s understandable that I was a little off-putting at first. Not to mention the British are a bit less open. They don’t dig the sharing. The connecting. The peopling.
I, on the other hand, feed off of it.
But I thought Xavier and I had gotten way past the whole British coldness. Just last week we were talking about his baby’s colic and how he can be more supportive to his wife. He never avoids saying hello to me now, no matter how bad of a day he’s having.
My thoughts are distracted when I spot an unfamiliar car parked in front of the house. The staff usually park on the east side of the estate, and I know this little silver Audi doesn’t belong to any of them.
I park alongside it and slide out of my car to make my way inside, ignoring the chill running up my spine. My eyes are cast downward as I dig for my keys in my bag, so I don’t see the person standing before me right away. I don’t see them when I reach the first step. I don’t see them when I reach the second step. The third. The fourth. The fifth. It isn’t until the eighth step that I realise another human is watching me.
A human who just came out of my house.
A woman.
My eyes land on her feet first—platform, red-soled, Louboutin ankle boots. They are covered in crystals, and I know instantly I’m staring at a six thousand dollar pair of shoes. As a clothing and accessory stylist, it’s my job to recognise expensive things. I dress some of the wealthiest soccer players in Manchester, as well as their partners. I style for executive wives, plastic surgeons’ mistresses, even some London movie stars. I buy expensive clothes for people. It has been my career since moving to England three years ago, and I’ve embraced all that the job entails.
However, in all three of those years of working with the most affluent residents of Manchester, I have never, not once, had a desire to style people in crystal-encrusted footwear.
This is definitely not a client of mine.
My gaze passes the shoes and slides up a pair of bare, feminine legs. I wonder briefly if she’s naked on my doorstep in six thousand dollar boots, but I see a hint of a leather skirt at the very top of her thighs. Just enough to cover her pussy lips. Good for her.
Her appearance doesn’t get any more modest as I raise my eyes up her torso and take in her ten inch line of cleavage. Is that dark spot an areola peeking out? Wow, what a brave soldier we have here. A modern-day Lady Godiva on my doorstep!
When I steel myself to glance up at her face, I know exactly what I’m about to see before I even see it. The shocked expression of a blonde, barely twenty-something-year-old with smeared makeup and freshly fucked hair, wearing six thousand dollar shoes. Blondie here is not from these parts.
